« 前へ次へ »
Hink not, the fair deceiv'd by poet's lays,
Cupid in Noth in glorious melts his days; Think not enchain'd on Chloe's breast he lies, Or bathes himself in Delia's languid eyes ; Now here, now there, the wanton wanderer roves, O’er Belgia's waters, or Italia's groves; Now soothes the hearts of Gallia's filken swains, Now fires the tawny youth on Java's plains. As o'er luxurious China's fields he fails, Upborn by lovers fighs, and balmy gales, Deep in the bosom of a fragrant glade, Where pines flow-moving form'd a dancing shade, Where Zephyr stole the rose's rich perfume, And wakeful almonds shook their snowy bloom, Crown'd with rough thickets rose a moss-grown cave, Whose tinkling fides pour down a sparkling wave Unwilling to desert its native groves, The ling'ring stream in flow'ry lab'rinths roves ; The god of love feeds his insatiate fight, Slow wave his loose wings, and retard his flight.
But say, what soft confusion seiz'd thy brealt, What heaving fighs thy instant flame confeft, When Thea broke from Morpheus' dewey arms, Rose from the grot, and blaz’d in all her charms? Its swelling orb no hoop enormous spread, Like magic sphere to guard the tim'rous maid; No torturing stays the yielding waist confind, A bliss for lovers arms alone design'd; Her hair, by no malicious art repressid, Play'd in the wind, and wanton'd o'er her breast. Jove grew a swan to press the Spartan fair, What form to taste those charms would Cupid wear ?
Quick thro' the founding grove the god descends, Quick at her feet a fighing fappliant bends. Can youth be deaf when Syren passion sues ? Or how can beauty fly, when love pursues ?
No more he seeks the Cyprian's smoaking fanes,
impetuous through the realms of day : Thus doft thou guard thy once lov'd parent's throne ? Shall then the rebel-power my power disown? See ! where the fatal cause of my disgraced (Each hateful beauty glowing in her face) Însulting stands! There let her fixt remain, Nor be the anger of a goddess vain.
To kneel to fue lhe itrove, unhappy maid !
Then fighing o'er the vegetable fair,
and W Thy votarists the British isle adorn.de
150 With joy I see enamour'd youths despise The goblet's lustre for the
fair one's eyes : Till rofy Bacchus shall his wreaths resign, And Love and Thea triumph o'er the vine.
12L 1.630 yrs burtus
On a report of the king of Spain's marrying Madame Victoire, a princess of
HO'Frenchmen may promise him Madame Victoire,
He'll find it a trick and a cheat,
Will wed him to Madame Defeas.
The following epigram was made by a Heffan officer upon Marshal Broglio's
being so near taken on the 10th of July, 1761, recomoitring, and losing bis fpiyng-glass, which Prince Ferdinand immediately returned. The affair of the 16th of the fame month at Fellinghausen is well knotun
Ce fameux héros, favori des cieux,
95% 91 9. & 109
That Broglio the bold,
But when to our cofio 10!
Fellinghausen was lofty
Advice from a Marron to a young Lady concerning wedlock.
That some new lifted lover,
His passion to discover.'
Whom time and care hath wasted, 1
Which I in wedlock* tasted.
Thy temper fo alluring,
Givęs torments past enduring
Whilst yet, regardless of thy cares,
Thy moments pass on gayly,
A maiden whilft you tarry ;
The moment that you marry.
And artfully men woo us.
Which ignorance has given ;
Muft we resign our heav'n?
Then cease they to adore us :
And they reign tyrants o'er us.
Upon thy heart so tender,
Thy quiet to surrender.
Thole tales are made to fool us,
Than here let monkies rule us.
The appla se befoued on the Rofciad, will, we imagine, render the follorca
ing extracts from it agreeable. They are fuch, we presume, as Iberw that the author unites the judgment of a critic with the fire and fancy of a poct,
Charafier of Mrs. Cibber.
ORM'D for the tragic scene, ta grace
When poor Alicia's madding brains are rack'd,
Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too!
Nobly disdainful of each slavish art,
But when, by fond ambition drawn afide,
Mrs. Pritchard from the same.
In person graceful, and in sense refin'd;
When Congreve's favour'd pantomime to grace,
When she to murther whets the tim'rous thane,
In comedy—“Nay, there," cries critic, hold,
Are foibles then, and graces of the mind,
these things appear,