Nor boast the virtuous conflict of thy heart
When gen'rous pity took Geminius' part;
'Tis all heroic fraud, and Roman art.

Such flights of honour might amuse the crowd,
But by a mistress ne'er can be allow'd;

Keep for the fenate, and the grave debate,
That infamous hypocrify of ftate,

There words are virtue, and your trade deceit.
No riddle is thy change, nor hard t' explain,
Flora was fond, and Pompey was a man:
No longer then a fpecious tale pretend,
Nor plead fictitious merit to your
friend:
By nature falfe, you follow'd her decree,
Nor gen'rous are to him, but falfe to me.

You fay you melted at Geminius' tears,
You fay you felt his agonizing cares:
Grofs artifice! that this from him could move,
And not from Flora, whom you fay you love:
You could not bear to hear your rival figh,
Yet bear unmov'd to fee your mistress die.
Inhuman hypocrite! not thus can he
My wrongs, and my diftrefs, obdurate, fee.
He, who receiv'd, condemns the gift you made,
And joins with me the giver to upbraid,

Forgetting he's oblig'd, and mourning I'm betray'd.

He

He loves too well that cruel gift to use,
Which Pompey lov'd too little to refuse:
Fain would he call my vagrant lord again,
But I the kind ambaffador restrain;
I fcorn to let another take my part,
And to myself will owe or lose thy heart.
Can nothing e'er rekindle love in thee?
Can nothing e'er extinguish it in me?
That I could tear thee from this injur'd breast!
And where you gave my perfon, give the reft,
At once to grant and punish thy request.
That I could place thy worthy rival there!
No fecond infult need my fondnefs fear :
He views not Flora with her Pompey's eyes,
He loves like me, he doats, defpairs, and dies.
Come to my arms, thou dear deferving youth!
Thou prodigy of man! thou man with truth!
For him, I will redouble every care,

To please, for him, these faded charms repair;
To crown his vows, and fharpen thy despair.

Oh! 'tis illufion all! and idle rage!

No fecond paffion can this heart engage;
And shortly, Pompey, fhall thy Flora prove,

Death may diffolve, but nothing change her love.

ARISBE to MARIUS Junior.

From FONTENELLE. By the Same.

When Marius was expelled from Rome by Sylla's faction, and retired into Africa, his fon (who accompanied him) fell into the hands of Hiempfal king of Numidia, who kept him prifoner. One of the mistresses of that king fell in love with Marius junior, and was fo generous to contrive and give him his liberty, though by that means fhe facrificed her love for ever. 'Twas after he kad rejoin'd his father, that fhe writ him the following letter.

Ο

I.

F all I valued, all I lov'd, bereft,

Say, has my heart this little comfort left?

That you the mem'ry of its truth retain,

And think with grateful pity on my pain?

II.

Though but with life my forrows can have end,
(For death alone can join me to my friend)
Yet think not I repent I fet you free,

I mourn your absence, not your liberty.

III. Before

III.

Before my Marius left Numidia's coaft,

Each day I faw him; fcarce an hour was loft:
Now months and years must pass, nay life fhall prove

But one long abfence from the man I love.

IV.

Painful reflection! poyfon to my mind!
Was it but mortal too, it would be kind:
But mad with grief I fearch the palace round,
And in that madness dream you're to be found.

V.

Would'st thou believe it? to those walls I fly
Where thou wert captive held; there frantic cry,
These fetters fure my vagrant's flight restrain'd;
Alas! these fetters I myself unchain'd.

VI.

The live-long day I mourn, I loath the light,
And wait impatient each returning night:

What, though the horrid gloom augment my grief? 'Tis grateful ftill, for I disclaim relief.

VII.

That coz'ner hope intrudes not on my woe;

One only interval my forrows know;

When dreams, the kind reverfers of my pain,

Bring back my charming fugitive again.

G 4

VIII. Yet

VIII.

Yet there's a grief furpaffing all the reft;
A jealous dæmon whispers in my breast,
Marius was falfe, for liberty alone

The show of love the hypocrite put on.

IX.

Then I reflect (ah! would I could forget!)

How much your thoughts on war and Rome were fet. How little paffion did that conduct prove!

Too ftrong thy reafon, but too weak thy love.

X.

Thy fword, 'tis true, a father's cause demands;
But 'twas a mistress gave it to thy hands:

To love, and duty juft, give each their part,
His be the arm, and mine be all thy heart.

XI.

But what avail thefe thoughts? fond wretch, give o'er!

Marius, or falfe, or true, is thine no more:
Since Fate has caft the lot, and we must part,

Why should I wish to think I had his heart?

XII.

Yes: let me cherish that remembrance ftill;
That thought alone fhall foften every ill;
To tell my foul, his love, his truth was fuch,
All was his due, nor have I done too much,

XIII. De