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In vain you tell your parting lover,
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose:
I may once more repeat my pain;
TO A LADY: she refusing to continue a dispute with me, and
leaving me in the argument.
Spare, generous Victor, spare the slave,
In the dispute whate'er I said,
My heart was by my tongue belied;
You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustained an open fight:
Your eyes are always in the right.
Why, fair one, would you not rely
On Reason's force with Beauty's joined? Could I their prevalence deny,
I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,
I only to the fight aspired:
But she, howe'er of victory sure,
Contemns the wreath too long delayed; And, armed with more immediate power, Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight:
She drops her arms, to gain the field: Secures her conquest by her flight;
And triumphs, when she seems to yield. So when the Parthian turned his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew; With cruel skill the backward reed He sent; and as he fled, he slew.
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
My softest verse, my darling lyre
When Chloe noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
Fair Chloe blushed: Euphelia frowned:
I sung and gazed: I played and trembled:
Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.
As after noon, one summer's day,
New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart :
I faint! I die! the goddess cried;
O cruel, could'st thou find none other
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.
I took you for your likeness, Chloe.
A BETTER ANSWER1.
Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face!
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled : Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says) Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How can'st thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy:
More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.
ie than the Answer to Chloe jealous,' which usually precedes it.
To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song? What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shews The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose:
And they have my whimsies; but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know Child) the sun,
So when I am wearied with wandering all day;
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war;
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree: For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, As he was a poet sublimer than me.
Dear Thomas, did'st thou never pop
A squirrel spend his little rage,
Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
So fares it with those merry blades,
They tread on stars, and talk with Gods;
Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low.
To John I owed great obligation;
Yes, every poet is a fool:
By demonstration Ned can show it:
FOR MY OWN TOMB-STONE.
To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given To live alas! one moment sets us even. Mark! how impartial is the will of Heaven !