When now repeated (for thy theft was vain,
Each treafur'd fyllable my thoughts retain)
Far other paffions rule, and diff'rent care,
My joys and grief, my tranfports and despair.
Why doft thou mock the ties of constant love?
But half its joys the faithless ever prove,
They only taste the pleasures they receive,
When fure the nobleft is in thofe we give.
Acceptance is the heav'n which mortals know,
But 'tis the blifs of angels to bestow.
Oh! emulate, my love, that task divine,
Be thou that angel, and that heav'n be mine.
Yet, yet relent, yet intercept my fate:
Alas! I rave, and fue for new deceit.
As foon the dead fhall from the grave return,
As love extinguifh'd with new ardor burn.
Oh! that I dar'd to act a Roman part,
And ftab thy image in this faithful heart,
Where riveted for life fecure you reign,
A cruel inmate, author of my pain:
But coward-like irrefolute I wait
Time's tardy aid, nor dare to rush on fate
Perhaps may linger on life's latest stage,
Survive thy cruelties, and fall by age:
No-grief fhall fwell my fails, and speed me o'er (Despair my pilot) to that quiet fhore
Where I can trust, and thou betray no more.
Might I but once again behold thy charms,
Might I but breathe my laft in those dear arms,
On that lov'd face but fix my closing eye,
Permitted where I might not live to die,
My foften'd fate I would accuse no more;
But fate has no fuch happiness in store.
'Tis past, 'tis done-what gleam of hope behind,
When I can ne'er be false, nor thou be kind?
Why then this care?-'tis weak-'tis vain-farewel
At that last word what agonies I feel!
I faint- I die-remember I was true
'Tis all I ask-eternally - adieu! —
Pompey, when he was very young, fell in love with Flora, a Roman courtezan, who was so very beautiful that the Romans had her painted to adorn the temple of Caftor and Pollux. Geminius (Pompey's friend) afterwards fell in love with her too; but she, prepoffelfed with a paffion for Pompey, would not liften to Geminius. Pompey, in compaffion to his friend, yielded bim his mistress, which Flora took fo much to heart, that she fell dangerously ill upon it; and in that fickness is fuppofed to write the following letter to Pompey.
RE death these clofing eyes for ever shade,
(That death thy cruelties have welcome made)
Receive, thou yet lov'd man! this one adieu,
This last farewel to happiness and you.
My eyes o'erflow with tears, my trembling hand
Can scarce the letters form, or pen command:
The dancing paper fwims before my fight,
And scarce myself can read the words I write.
Think you behold me in this loft eftate,
And think yourself the author of my fate:
How vaft the change! your Flora's now become
The gen'ral pity, not the boaft of Rome.
This form, a pattern to the sculptor's art,
This face, the idol once of Pompey's heart,
(Whofe pictur'd beauties Rome thought fit to place
The facred temples of her gods to grace)
Are charming now no more; the bloom is fled,
The lillies languid, and the rofes dead.
Soon shall some hand the glorious work deface,
Where Grecian pencils tell what Flora was:
No longer my resemblance they impart,
They loft their likeness, when I lost thy heart.
Oh! that thofe hours could take their turn again,
When Pompey, lab'ring with a jealous pain,
His Flora thus bespoke: " Say, my dear love!
"Shall all these rivals unfuccessful prove ?
"In vain, for ever, fhall the Roman youth
Envy my happiness, and tempt thy truth?
"Shall neither tears nor pray'rs thy pity move?
"Ah! give not pity, 'tis akin to love.
"Would Flora were not fair in fuch excess,
"That I might fear, though not adore her less."
Fool that I was, I fought to eafe that grief, Nor knew indiff'rence follow'd the relief:
Experience taught the cruel truth too late,
I never dreaded, 'till I found my fate.
'Twas mine to ask if Pompey's felf could hear,
Unmov'd, his rival's unfuccefsful pray'r;
To make thee swear he'd not thy pity move;
Alàs! fuch pity is no kin to love.
'Twas thou thyself, (ungrateful as thou art)
Bade me unbend the rigour of my heart :
You chid my faith, reproach'd my being true,
(Unnat❜ral thought!) and labour'd to fubdue
The conftancy my foul maintain'd for you;
To other arms your mistress you condemn'd,
Too cool a lover, and too warm a friend.
How could'st thou thus my lavish heart abuse,
To ask the only thing it could refuse?
yet upbraid me, Pompey, what I fay,
For 'tis my merit that I can't obey;
Yet this alledg'd against me as a fault,
Thy rage fomented, and my ruin wrought.
Juft gods! what tie, what conduct can prevail
O'er fickle man, when truth like mine can fail?
Urge not, to glofs thy crime, the name of friend,
We know how far thofe facred laws extend;
Since ather heroes have not blush'd to prove
How weak all paffions when oppos'd to love:
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