But wifely chufe who best deserves thy flame,
So fhall the choice itself become thy fame;
Nor yet defpife, though void of winning art,
The plain and honeft courtship of the heart:
The skilful tongue in love's perfuafive lore,
Though less it feels, will please and flatter more,
And meanly learned in that guilty trade
Can long abuse a fond, unthinking maid.
And fince their lips, so knowing to deceive,
Thy unexperienc'd youth might foon believe,
And since their tears in falfe fubmiffion dreft
Might thaw the icy coldness of thy breast,
O! shut thine eyes to fuch deceitful woe;
Caught by the beauty of thy outward fhow,
Like me they do not love, whate'er they seem,
Like me with paffion founded on esteem.

Answer

KKKKF

T

Answer to the foregoing Lines.

By the late Lord HERVEY.

AOO well thefe lines that fatal truth declare,

Which long I've known, yet now I blush to hear. But fay, what hopes thy fond ill-fated love,

What can it hope, though mutual it should prove?
This little form is fair in vain for you,

In vain for me thy honest heart is true;
For would'st thou fix difhonour on my name,
And give me up to penitence and shame;
Or gild my ruin with the name of wife,

And make me a poor virtuous wretch for life:
Could'ft thou fubmit to wear the marriage chain,
(Too fure a cure for all thy present pain)
No faffron robe for us the godhead wears,

His torch inverted, and his face in tears.

Though every softer wish were amply crown'd,

Love foon would cease to smile where Fortune frown'd:

Then would thy foul my fond confent deplore,
And blame what it follicited before;

Thy own exhausted would reproach my truth,
And fay I had undone thy blinded youth;
That I had damp'd Ambition's nobler flame,
Eclips'd thy talents, and obfcur'd thy fame
To madrigals and odes that wit confin'd,
That would in fenates or in courts have shin'd,
Gloriously active in thy country's cause,
Afferting freedom, and enacting laws.
Or fay, at best, that negatively kind
You only mourn'd, and filently repin'd;
The jealous dæmons in my own fond breast
Would all these thoughts inceffantly fuggeft,

And all that sense must feel, tho' pity had fuppreft. Yet added grief my apprehenfion fills

(If there can be addition to those ills)

When they fhall cry, whofe harfh reproof I dread,
"Twas thy own deed, thy folly on thy head!"
Age knows not to allow for thoughtless youth,
Nor pities tendernefs, nor honours truth;
Holds it romantic to confess a heart,
And fays thofe virgins act a wifer part
Who hospitals and bedlams would explore
To find the rich, and only dread the poor;

Who

Who legal prostitutes, for int'reft fake,
Clodios and Timons to their bofoms take,
And, if avenging heav'n permit increase,
People the world with folly and disease.

Those titles, deeds, and rent-rolls only wed,
Whilft the best bidder mounts the venal bed,
And the grave aunt and formal fire approve
This nuptial fale, this auction of their love.
But if. regard to worth or sense be shown,
That poor degenerate child her friends difown,
Who dares to deviate by a virtuous choice
From her great name's hereditary vice.

These scenes my prudence ufhers to my mind,
Of all the storms and quickfands I muft find,
If I embark upon this fummer fea,

Where Flatt'ry smooths, and Pleasure gilds the way.
Had our ill fate ne'er blown thy dang❜rous flame
Beyond the limits of a friend's cold name,

I might upon that score thy heart receive,
And with that guiltless name my own deceive;
That commerce now in vain you recommend,
I dread the latent lover in the friend;

Of ignorance I want the poor excufe,
And know, I both must take, or both refuse.

Hear then the safe, the firm resolve I make,
Ne'er to encourage one I must forfake.

Whilft other maids a fhameless path pursue,
Neither to int'reft, nor to honour true,

And proud to fwell the triumph of their eyes,
Exult in love from lovers they defpife;
Their maxims all revers'd I mean to, prove,
And though I like the lover, quit the love.

ttt

EPISTLES in the Manner of OviD.

MONIMIA to PHILOCLES.

By the Same.

INCE language never can describe my pain,

SINC

How can I hope to move when I complain?

But fuch is woman's frenzy in distress,

We love to plead, though hopeless of redress.

Perhaps, affecting ignorance, thou❜lt say, From whence thefe lines? whofe meffage to convey? Mock not my grief with that feign'd cold demand, Too well you know the hapless writer's hand :

But