Answer to the foregoing Lines.

By the late Lord HERVEY.

OO well thefe lines that fatal truth declare,

Which long I've known, yet now I blush to hear.

But fay, what hopes thy fond ill-fated love,

What can it hope, though mutual it should prove?
This little form is fair in vain for

you,

In vain for me thy honeft heart is true;

For would'st thou fix difhonour on my name,
And give me up to penitence and shame;
Or gild my ruin with the name of wife,

And make me a poor virtuous wretch for life:
Could'st thou fubmit to wear the marriage chain,
(Too fure a cure for all thy prefent pain)
No faffron robe for us the godhead wears,

His torch inverted, and his face in tears.
Though every fofter with were amply crown'd,

Love foon would ceafe to fmile where Fortune frown'd:

1

Then would thy foul my fond confent deplore,
And blame what it follicited before;

Thy own exhausted would reproach my truth,
And fay I had undone thy blinded youth;
That I had damp'd Ambition's nobler flame,
Eclips'd thy talents, and obfcur'd thy fame;
To madrigals and odes that wit confin'd,
That would in fenates or in courts have shin'd,
Gloriously active in thy country's cause,
Afferting freedom, and enacting laws.
Or fay, at beft, that negatively kind
You only mourn'd, and filently repin'd;
The jealous dæmons in my own fond breaft
Would all these thoughts inceffantly fuggeft,
And all that fenfe muft feel, tho' pity had fuppreft.
Yet added grief my apprehenfion fills

(If there can be addition to thofe ills)

When they fhall cry, whofe harsh reproof I dread,
"Twas thy own deed, thy folly on thy head!"
Age knows not to allow for thoughtless youth,
Nor pities tenderness, nor honours truth;
Holds it romantic to confefs a heart,

And fays thofe virgins act a wifer part
Who hofpitals and bedlams would explore
To find the rich, and only dread the poor;

Who

Who legal prostitutes, for int'reft fake,
Clodios and Timons to their bofoms take,
And, if avenging heav'n permit increase,
People the world with folly and disease.

Those titles, deeds, and rent-rolls only wed,
Whilst the best bidder mounts the venal bed,
And the grave aunt and formal fire approve
This nuptial fale, this auction of their love.
But if regard to worth or sense be shown,
That poor degenerate child her friends difown,
Who dares to deviate by a virtuous choice
From her great name's hereditary vice.

These scenes my prudence ushers to my mind,
Of all the ftorms and quickfands I must find,
If I embark upon this summer sea,

Where Flatt'ry smooths, and Pleasure gilds the way.
Had our ill fate ne'er blown thy dangʼrous flame
Beyond the limits of a friend's cold name,

I might upon that score thy heart receive,
And with that guiltless name my own deceive;
That commerce now in vain you recommend,
I dread the latent lover in the friend;

Of ignorance I want the

poor excufe,

And know, I both must take, or both refuse.

Hear then the fafe, the firm refolve I make,
Ne'er to encourage one I must forfake.
Whilft other maids a fhameless path pursue,
Neither to int'reft, nor to honour true,

And proud to fwell the triumph of their eyes,
Exult in love from lovers they despise;

Their maxims all revers'd I mean to prove,
And though I like the lover, quit the love.

SING

How can I hope to move when I complain?

But fuch is woman's frenzy in diftrefs,

We love to plead, though hopeless of redress.

Perhaps, affecting ignorance, thou'lt say,

From whence thefe lines? whofe meffage to convey Mock not my grief with that feign'd cold demand, Too well you know the hapless writer's hand:

?

But

But if you force me to avow my shame,
Behold it prefac'd with Monimia's name.

Loft to the world, abandon'd and forlorn,
Expos'd to infamy, reproach, and scorn,
To mirth and comfort loft, and all for you,
Yet loft, perhaps, to your remembrance too,
How hard my lot! what refuge can I try,
Weary of life, and yet afraid to die!
Of hope, the wretch's last resort, bereft,
By friends, by kindred, by my lover, left.
Oh! frail dependence of confiding fools!
On lovers oaths, or friendship's facred rules,
How weak in modern hearts, too late I find,
Monimia's fall'n, and Philocles unkind!
To these reflections, each flow wearing day,
And each revolving night a constant prey,
Think what I fuffer, nor ungentle hear
What madness dictates in my fond despair;
Grudge not this fhort relief, (too fast it flies)
Nor chide that weakness I myself despise.
One moment fure may be at least her due,
Who facrific'd her all of life for you.
Without a frown this farewel then receive,
For 'tis the laft my hapless love fhall give;

Nor