This double marriage for her country's good,
I told him never would be understood,

And that ye all would fay, 'twas flesh and blood.
Had Carthage only been in madam's head,
Her champion never had been in her- bed:

For could the ideot think a husband's name
Would make him quit his intereft, friends and fame
That he would risque a kingdom for a wife,
And act dependent in a place for life?

Yet what ftern Cato fhall condemn the fair,
Whilst public good she thunder'd in your ear,
If private interest had a little fhare?

You know, she acted not against the laws
Of thofe old-fashion'd times; that in her caufe
Old Syphax could no longer make a stand,
And Maffiniffa woo'd her fword in hand.
But did she take the way to whet that sword?
Heroes fight coldly when wives give the word.

She should have kept him keen, employ'd her charms
Not as a bribe, but to reward his arms;

Have told him when Rome yielded fhe would yield,

And sent him fresh, not yawning, to the field.
She talk'd it well to rouse him to the fight,

But like Penelope, when out of fight,
All she had done by day, undid by night.

Is this your wily Carthaginian kind?
No English woman had been half fo kind.
What from a husband's hand could she expect
But ratfbane, or that common fate, neglect?
Perhaps fome languishing soft fair may say,
Poyfon's fo fhocking-but confider pray,
She fear'd the Roman, he the marriage chain;
All other means to free them both were vain.
Let none then Maffiniffa's conduct blame,
He first his love confulted, then his fame.
And if the fair one with too little art,
Whilft feemingly fhe play'd a patriot-part,
Was fecretly the dupe of her own heart;
Forgive a fault she strove fo well to hide,
Nor be compaffion to her fate deny'd,
Who liv'd unhappily, and greatly dy'd.

An

FORBEAR, my dear Stephen, with a fruitless defire,

Into truths which are better conceal'd to enquire;

Perhaps many years are allow'd us by Fate,
Or next winter perhaps is the last of their date :
Let the credulous fools whom aftrologers cheat,
Exult or defpond, as they vary deceit ;
Who anticipate care, their own pleasure destroy,
And invite disappointment who build upon joy;
All ills unforeseen we the easiest endure,

What avails to foresee, unless forefight could cure?
And from ills by their art how can wretches be freed,
When that art must be falfe, or thofe ills be decreed?
From reflection and hope little comfort we find,
To poffeffion alone let thy thoughts be confin'd;
To-day's all the treasure poor mortals can boast,
For to-morrow's not gained, and yesterday's loft;

Even now whilft I write, time fteals on our youth,
And a moment's cut off from thy friendship and truth.
Then seize the swift bleffing, enjoy the dear now,
And take, not expect, what hereafter 'll bestow.

HAT fhall I fay to fix thy wav'ring mind,

To chafe thy doubts, and force thee to be kind? What weight of argument can turn the scale, If interceffion from a lover fail?

By what fhall I conjure thee to obey

This tender fummons, nor prolong thy ftay?
If unabated in this conftant breaft

That paffion burns which once thy vows profefs'd;
If abfence has not chill'd the languid flame,
Its ardour and its purity the fame;

Indulge those transports, and no more controul
The dictates of thy fond confenting foul;
By no vain fcruple be thy purpose fway'd,

And only Love implicitly obey'd:

Let

Let inclination this debate decide,

Nor be thy prudence, but thy heart thy guide:
But real prudence never can oppose

What Love fuggefts, and Gratitude avows :
The warm dear raptures which thy bofom move,
'Tis virtue to indulge, and wisdom to improve:
For think how few the joys allow'd by Fate,
How mix'd the cup, how fhort their longest date!
How onward still the stream of pleasure flows!
That no reflux the rapid current knows!
Not ev❜n thy charms can bribe the ruthless hand
Of rigid Time, to ftay his ebbing fand;
Fair as thou art, that beauty muft decay;
The night of age fucceeds the brightest day:
That cheek where Nature's fweetest garden blows,
Her whiteft lily, and her warmest rofe;
Thofe eyes, thofe meaning minifters of Love,
Who, what thy lips can only utter, prove;
These must resign their luftre, those their bloom,
And find with meaner charms one common doom:
Pass but a few short years, this change muft be;
Nor one lefs dreadful fhalt thou mourn in me:
For though no chance can alienate my flame,
While thine to feed the lamp, fhall burn the fame,