Old Time and all the laughing hours,
Watch o'er my gifts and nurse my powers;
Mirth, Joy, and all th' inspired throng
Of Muses, tune for me their song;
And if they fan my fires, I bring
Sweetness and force to all they sing.
Men's talents raised by me improve,
For wisdom springs and grows with Love; By me adorn'd, the human mind
Is soften'd, polish'd, and refin'd.
I melt and mould mankind with ease,
To gentle manners form'd to please;
A love of honour, truth, and fame,
Are kindled by my generous flame;
Sublim'd by me, the soul pursues
Exalted thoughts and noble views.
Life lies as in a lethargy,
Till, rous'd and rais'd, it turns to me;
Till Love enliv'ning thoughts inspires,
Has neither business nor desires,
Or such as only torment give,
Men when they love begin to live.
Life's a dull blank, and useless quite,
As dials in the gloom of night,
Till Love's gay sun its splendour pours,
And marks and gilds the brighten'd hours.
These gifts, ye powers, from you I hold,
By your decree assign'd of old:
'Tis your behests I strive to do,
Then why must I for mercy sue,
At this high court impeach'd, and brought
To answer for each lover's fault?
If maids to men inconstant prove,
And scorn the sacred laws of Love,
Charge not their broken vows to me,
But their own horrid perfidy.
Must I be doom'd, if human kind
In love disclose an impious mind?
With oaths, and death, and falsehood play,
Whilst perjur'd vows the heart betray.
If Heav'n's despis'd-if all their aim
Be wealth or lust-am I to blame?
No, mighty powers! you know too well,
In spite of heav'n, in spite of hell,
Of slighted love and reason too,
And all that pitying Love can do,
Men, to indulge their passions prone,
Owe to themselves their crimes alone.
Yet, cruel Gods, if you decree
To spare mankind and punish me;
If I must be their victim made,
I am not for myself afraid,
But for the woes my wretched fate
Will soon in either world create:
While heaven and earth my fall o'erturns,
And nature my destruction mourns.
For what can stand, if Love contemn'd
To shades infernal be condemn'd?
Yet since your gloomy frowns declare
My only refuge is despair,
Take this last boon before I go;
Take it, and feeling Love's sweet pain,
Ere you condemn me think again.”
He spoke, and secret cast his darts,
Snatch'd from his quiver, at their hearts.
Upsprung the Gods, with wounds distress'd;
Jove had a dozen in his breast.
Mars lost an eye, and Bacchus two;
Hermes, the God of Eloquence,
Had his tongue sliced, and ever since
All oratory has declin'd
To noise, phrase, figures, words, and wind.
While all with troubled hearts debate,
How the dear rebel they should treat.
Their rage soft pity straight controls,
And wav'ring thoughts distract their souls.
This Venus guess'd, and soon begun
To hope she might retrieve her son.
While tears roll'd down her crimson'd cheeks, And her swell'd heart with anguish breaks.
and spare my beauteous son, Or Venus-nay, the world's undone. Alas! I would not, cannot hide
His weakness, rashness, spleen, or pride.
I see the faults I can't defend,
Which oft I've fondly strove to mend;
And had restor'd his fame and bliss
Long since, but that he keeps a Miss,
On whom, poor boy, he doats to rage,
So much her charms his soul engage.
This nymph, on whom I said he doats,
He lov'd when in his petticoats;
She's call'd Moria, though you know
Folly's her fav'rite name below:
The creature's handsome, and, indeed,
Has beauties which all praise exceed;
And yet this nymph, possess'd of charms
To tempt a Phoebus to her arms,
Is still so giddy, wild, and weak,
Half ideot, half coquet and rake;
Is such a rattle, such a romp,
So fond of cards, tea-tattle, pomp,
Of feasts, balls, visits, drums, and park,
And little frolics in the dark,
That as with willing dotage sway'd,
Love's rul'd by this deluding maid;
'Tis plain by her, and her alone,
The glory of my son's o'erthrown.
She sets him on a world of freaks,
She makes him herd with cheats and rakes;
She brings him into brawls and scrapes,
And mischief in a thousand shapes;
And what's the most perplexing thought,
Keeps him from settling as he ought,
Till he was led by her, my boy
Gave me and every being joy.
Now fool'd by her, he acts a part
That shocks all heav'n, and breaks my heart.
The cause thus shewn of his ill carriage,
Next comes the cure-in short, 'tis marriage.
There is a Goddess sitting there,
That might reclaim him by her care;
And, with her pardon, I must name
Sage Metis, that transcendent dame,
Whose aid the Gods sometimes implore,
And men by Wisdom's name adore.”
Up blush'd good Metis to the eyes,
But shew'd more pleasure than surprise:
Joy, mix'd with wonder, secret stole
Warm to her heart, and fill'd her soul;
Some virgin fears about her hung,
While modest shame tied up her tongue;
Yet silent all her thoughts were seen,
And glad went on the Paphian Queen.
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