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Yet hoped when marry'd he should fix,
And lay aside his rambling tricks.
Thus with false prattle he amus’d
The Goddess, and her faith abus'd.
For Love, like many a senseless elf,
Thought his best counsellor himself.
But all this while a secret fear
Was buzzing Metis in the ear,
ways or measures she should take:
She lov'd the God, but loth'd the rake.
For though his person pleas'd the eye,
his looks the lie: When like a friend she blam'd his pranks, She found she got but little thanks ; For spite of all her wise discourse, The little wretch shew'd no remorse; Would vow her ignorance and zeal Struck fire, when join'd, like flint and steel.
Frequent he'd answer all she said
With, “pray, no chiding till we're wed;
Or, prythee do not think me rude,
To tell you plainly you're a prude:
Directing me looks something odd-
If you're a Goddess, I'm a God.”
The truth is, Metis, though so wise,
Was much addicted to advise ;
No pedant more inclin'd to teach,
No deacon better pleas'd to preach.
This talk of Metis and his mother
Went in at one ear, out at t'other.
Yet though his heart, where'er he went,
Was on his bright Moria bent,
He seldom fail'd his court to pay
To prudent Metis, day by day.
At length the happy morn appears
To crown the long revolving years,
Assign'd to join their plighted hands
For ever in the nuptial bands;
And sums immense were thrown away
To grace the triumph of the day.
Their silk, their lace, their modes of dress,
We leave for courtly dames to guess ;
In robes how Venus gorgeous shone,
And all bedizen'd out her son ;
How his grave bride with gems look'd bright,
As stars adorn a frosty night,
song omits--for it would tire Bright Cowley's wit, great Shakespeare's fire.
Grac'd with bright rays which shone afar,
Seated with Venus in her car,
The heavenly pair, while clarions sound,
With blessings hail'd, with glory crown'd.
In state approach the temple's gates
Where half the Cyprian nation waits,
Till the high priest their hands should tie
In bands which time and death defy.
The gates unfold, they enter in,
And soon the hallow'd rites begin ;
With hallow'd fires the altars blaze,'
The priest the bellowing victim slays ;
The hymn to Juno while he spoke,
The nuptial cake in form was broke:
But oh, amazing! as their hands
Were joining in the nuptial bands,
As Love prepar’d to give the ring,
And the high priest began to sing,
Forth sprung Moria from the crowd,
And, bold, forbade the banns aloud :
“ The God is mine, is mine,” she cries,
“ Both by divine and human ties.
By solemn oaths our hearts are knit,
Two hearts that best each other fit.
Speak, Cupid, art thou mine alone ?
Speak, and thy fond Moria own:
This infant which I go with claims,
You'll vouch it sprung from heavenly flames."
Instant, enchanted with her face,
Rush'd Cupid to her lov'd embrace;
Ravish'd to meet her, and amaz'd,
Upon her witching charms he gaz'd,
And cry'd, “ Bright nymph, I'm wholly thine,
And you, and only you, are mine."
The pontiff stared and dropt his book.
Dismay'd stood Venus—to the skies
She held her hands and rais'd her
Sunk Wisdom to the earth forlorn,
Her soul with struggling passions torn;
And pierc'd with grief, and stung with pride,
The false perfidious God she ey'd;
Then fainting with disdain away,
Clos'd her griev'd eyes and loth'd the day.
Meanwhile, neglectful of their woes,
Love with triumphant Folly goes,
Drawn by his mother's cooing doves,
To sunny Caria's citron groves,
Ravish'd that Metis could not curb
Their dotage, or their peace disturb.
Meantime poor Metis kept her bed,
Much troubled with an aching head;
And as she never was a toast,
Look'd pale and meagre as a ghost:
Though strong, too weak to ward the blow;
Though sage, too fond to slight the woe:
Love proud, like death, to level all,
The wise like fools before him fall.
Venus, who still sat near her, press'd
Her head upon her snowy breast;
away the tears she shed,
With her own hands she dress'd her bed;
She brought her cordials, made her tea
Of the best hyson or bohea;
To drive away each fretful thought,
She told what news the papers brought;
Whate'er in heav'n or earth was done,
She told, but never nam'd her son.
Ambrosia was her daily fare,
With nectar'd drams to doze despair ;
She manag'd her with great address,
Made her play cards, backgammon, chess.
She got her out, and every morn
Around the skies would take a turn,
To try, while in their car they flew,
What air and exercise might do.
Whene'er her pain relax'd, she vow'd
No cure was like a brilliant crowd;
So, in the eve of each good day,
Coax'd her abroad to see the play.
Thus, like fine belles, she idly sought,
By vain delights to banish thought.
Her head she dress'd, her hair she curld,
And made her visit half the world.
In short, she was in perfect pain
The fair to comfort-but in vain.