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In the calm gráve no Ufbecks we deplore,
No tyrant husband, no oppreffive pow'r.

Alas! I faint- Death intercepts the reft.

The venom'd drug is bufy in my

breast:

Each nerve's unftrung: a mist obscures the day :
My fenses, strength, and ev'n my hate decay:
Though rage awhile the ebbing fpirits stay'd,
'Tis paft - they fink beneath the tranfient aid.
Take then, inhuman wretch! my laft farewel;
Pain be thy portion here, hereafter, hell:
And when our prophet fhall my fate decree,
Be any curfe my punishment, but thee.

EPILOGUE defign'd for SOPHONISBA,

And to have been spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD,

By the Same.

EFORE you fign poor Sophonisba's doom,

BEFO

In her behalf petitioner I come;

Not but our author knows, whate'er I say,

That I could find objections to his play.

This

This double marriage for her country's good,
I told him never would be understood,

And that ye all would fay, 'twas flesh and blood.
Had Carthage only been in madam's head,

Her champion never had been in her bed:

For could the ideot think a husband's name

Would make him quit his intereft, friends and fame;

That he would rifque a kingdom for a wife,

And act dependent in a place for life?

Yet what ftern Cato fhall condemn the fair,
Whilst public good she thunder'd in your ear,
If private intereft had a little fhare?

You know, she acted not against the laws
Of those old-fashion'd times; that in her cause
Old Syphax could no longer make a stand,
And Maffiniffa woo'd her fword in hand.
But did she take the way to whet that fword?
Heroes fight coldly when wives give the word.

She should have kept him keen, employ'd her charms
Not as a bribe, but to reward his arms;

Have told him when Rome yielded she would yield,

And sent him fresh, not yawning, to the field.
She talk'd it well to roufe him to the fight,

But like Penelope, when out of fight,

All she had done by day, undid by night.

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Is this your wily Carthaginian kind?

No English woman had been half fo kind.

1

What from a husband's hand could the expect
But ratfbane, or that common fate, neglect?
Perhaps fome languifhing foft fair may say,
Poyfon's fo fhocking-but confider pray,
She fear'd the Roman, he the marriage chain;
All other means to free them both were vain.
Let none then Maffiniffa's conduct blame,
He firft his love confulted, then his fame.
And if the fair one with too little art,
Whilft feemingly she play'd a patriot-part,
Was fecretly the dupe of her own heart;
Forgive a fault she ftrove fo well to hide,
Nor be compaffion to her fate deny'd,
Who liv'd unhappily, and greatly dy❜d.

An

An Imitation of the Eleventh Ode of the First

F

Book of HORACE.

By the Same.

ORBEAR, my dear Stephen, with a fruitless defire,

Into truths which are better conceal'd to enquire;
Perhaps many years are allow'd us by Fate,
Or next winter perhaps is the last of their date :
Let the credulous fools whom aftrologers cheat,
Exult or defpond, as they vary deceit ;
Who anticipate care, their own pleasure destroy,
And invite disappointment who build upon joy;
All ills unforeseen we the eafieft endure,

What avails to forefee, unless forefight could cure?
And from ills by their art how can wretches be freed,
When that art must be falfe, or those ills be decreed?
From reflection and hope little comfort we find,
To poffeffion alone let thy thoughts be confin'd;
To-day's all the treasure poor mortals can boast,
For to-morrow's not gained, and yesterday's loft;

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Even now whilst I write, time steals on our youth,
And a moment's cut off from thy friendship and truth.
Then feize the swift bleffing, enjoy the dear now,

And take, not expect, what hereafter 'll bestow.

A LOVE

LETTER.

By the Same.

HAT fhall I fay to fix thy wav'ring mind,

WE

To chase thy doubts, and force thee to be kind?

What weight of argument can turn the scale,
If interceffion from a lover fail?

By what shall I conjure thee to obey

This tender fummons, nor prolong thy ftay?
If unabated in this conftant breast

That paffion burns which once thy vows profess'd;
If abfence has not chill'd the languid flame,
Its ardour and its purity the fame;

Indulge thofe transports, and no more controul
The dictates of thy fond confenting foul;
By no vain fcruple be thy purpose fway'd,

And only Love implicitly obey'd:

Let

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