Lover Desperate.

Fair Anaxaretè, of Form divine,
High--born, from ancient Teucer's Royal Line,
Poor Iphis saw, a mean--descended Swain,
And, seeing, felt Love glow in every Vein.

Reason long struggled to destroy his Flame,
But when no Reason could his Madness tame,
An humble Suitor to her House he came:
There to her Nurse his wretched Case display'd,
And, for her Mistress' Sake, implor'd her Aid:
Each fav'rite Servant too, with earnest Pray'r,
He begg'd to speed his Passion to the Fair.
Letters indited in the softest Strain,
Frequent he sends, expressive of his Pain.
Oft to the Columns flow'ry Wreaths he ties,
Bedew'd with Tears that trickle from his Eyes:
Oft, at his Length, on the hard Threshold laid,
His Groans th' inexorable Gates upbraid.

The Nymph more deaf than Seas, when Tempests roar,
And foaming Surges dash the sounding Shore:
Harder than burnish'd Steel, or rooted Rocks,
Disdains the Lover, and his Passion mocks:
Of Insolence arraigns th' aspiring Swain,
And proudly tells him, all his Hopes are vain.

Despairing Iphis could endure no more
The Torments of his Grief:--
But utter'd these last Words before her Door.

Thy Conquest is compleat, relentless Maid!
Of my bold Love be never more afraid:
Triumph, O Anaxaretè! unkind!
Sing Poeans, and thy Brows with Lawrel bind:
Thou hast o'ercome, and willingly I die:
Hard--hearted Fair, enjoy thy Cruelty!
Yet even Thou shalt publish my Desert,
And feel soft Pity working in thy Heart:
To think thy Charms have kindled such a Fire,
As could not, but with Life itself, expire.
Nor will I trust Report my Death to spread,
Thyself shall see it, and behold me dead:
My wretched Life I'll end before thy Gate,
To please thy cruel Pride, and glut thy Hate.
But, Oh, You Gods! if Mortals Fates you know,
Remember me, and this one Boon bestow;
Let After--Ages celebrate my Name,
And what You take from Life, make up in Fame.

This said, he upwards to the Door--posts bends
His watry Eyes, and his pale Arms extends:
Then to the Top, so oft with Garlands crown'd,
A fatal Halter, with a Noose, he bound.
Such Wreaths best please thy savage Soul, he said,
Inhuman, cruel, unrelenting Maid!
Fitting the Rope, towards her he turning sprung,
And, by the Neck, th' unhappy Lover hung:
In Death's strong Pangs his Feet kick'd ope the Door,
Which seem'd with groan--like Sounds his Rashness to deplore.
With Shrieks the Servants view the dying Swain,
And lend their Help, but all their Help is vain.
Breathless and pale they to his Mother bore
Her strangled Son, his Father dead before:
The lifeless Corpse she in her Bosom plac'd,
And in her Arms his cold dead Limbs embrac'd:
Lamenting long, as woeful Parents use,
And paying all a woeful Mother's Dues,
The Fun'ral Pomp she thro' the City led,
And to his Pile bore the lamented Dead.

It chanc'd the cruel Virgin's Dwelling lay,
Just where the Mourners took their solemn Way:
Their Lamentations loud her Ears invade,
And Heav'ns just Vengeance close pursues the Maid.
Let's view this mournful Pomp, surpriz'd, she cries;
And instant to the open Window flies:
Whence seeing Iphis on his burial Bed,
Her Eye--Balls stiffen'd, and her Colour fled.
Retire she would, but fixt was forc'd to stay,
And strove in vain to turn her Eyes away:
Life left her by Degrees, and every Part
To Stone was harden'd, like her stony Heart.--

No Mean, no Cure for Love was left, but Death:
Death pleas'd: She rose, resolv'd to stop her Breath.
And while her Girdle round the Beam she ty'd,
Farewell, Dear Cinyras! she softly cry'd:
Of my untimely End know you're the Cause:
Then round her Neck the fatal Noose she draws.

The Nurse, who lay without, her faithful Guard,
Tho' not the Words, the Murmurs over--heard:
Startled she rises, opes the Door, and straight
Beholds the ready Instrument of Fate.
Screaming she beats her Breast, and rends her Hairs,
And from the Virgin's Neck the Halter tares.--
Lover's Leap.

--O you that love in vain!
Fly hence: and seek the far Leucadian Main:
There stands a Rock, from whose impending Steep,
Apollo's Fane surveys the rolling Deep:
There injur'd Lovers leaping from above,
Their Flames extinguish, and forget to love.
Deucalion once with hopeless Fury burn'd,
In vain he lov'd, relentless Pyrrha scorn'd:
But when from hence he plung'd into the Main,
Deucalion scorn'd, and Pyrrha lov'd in vain.
Haste, thither haste: from high Leucadia throw
Your wretched Weight, nor dread the Deeps below.--
Lust.

Tereus beheld the Virgin, and admir'd,
And with the Coals of burning Lust was fir'd:
Like crackling Stubble, or the Summer Hay,
When forked Lightnings o'er the Meadows play.
Such Charms in any Breast might kindle Love,
But him the Heats of inbred Lewdness move.
Straight her Attendants he designs to buy,
And with large Bribes her Governess would try:
Herself with ample Gifts resolves to bend,
And his whole Kingdom in th' Attempt expend:
Or, snatch'd away by Force of Arms, to bear,
And justify the Rape with open War.--
All Things he dares, provok'd by wild Desire:
Nor can his Breast endure so fierce a Fire.--

Her snowy Arms her aged Sire embrace,
And clasp his Neck with an endearing Grace.
Tereus surveys her with a luscious Eye,
And in his Mind forestalls the blissful Joy:
Her circling Arms a Scene of Lust inspire,
And ev'ry Kiss foments the raging Fire.
Fondly he wishes for the Father's Place,
To feel, and to return the warm Embrace:
Nor would the nearest Ties of filial Blood,
Abate his Flame, or force him to be good.--

Now Philomela, scarce receiv'd on Board,
And in the Royal gilded Barque secur'd:
While from the Shore with Oars and Sails it flies,
We've gain'd our Point! the rough Barbarian cries:--
Now I possess the dear, the blissful Hour,
And ev'ry Wish subjected to my Pow'r!
Transports of Lust his vicious Thoughts employ,
And he forbears, with Pain, th' expected Joy.
His gloating Eyes incessantly survey'd
The Virgin Beauties of the lovely Maid.
As when the bold rapacious Bird of Jove,
With crooked Talons stooping from above,
Has snatch'd, and carry'd to his lofty Nest
A captive Hare, with cruel Gripes opprest:
Secure, with fix'd and unrelenting Eyes,
He sits, and views the helpless trembling Prize.

Their Vessels now had made th' intended Land,
And all with Joy descend upon the Strand:
When the false Tyrant seiz'd the princely Maid,
And to a Lodge in distant Woods convey'd:
Pale, sinking, and distress'd with jealous Fears,
And asking for her Sister all in Tears.
The Letcher, for Enjoyment fully bent,
No longer now conceal'd his base Intent;
But with rude Haste the blooming Maid deflow'r'd,
Alone, defenceless, and with Ease o'erpow'r'd.
Her piercing Accents to her Sire complain,
And to her absent Sister, but in vain!
In vain she importunes, with doleful Cries,
Each unattentive Godhead of the Skies.
She pants, and trembles, like the bleating Prey,
From some close--hunted--Wolf just snatch'd away,
That still, with fearful Horror, looks around,
And on its Flank regards the bleeding Wound:
Or as a Dove, whose bloody Feathers show
The cruel Fury of her greedy Foe,
Still pants, and trembles, tho' the Danger's o'er,
And dreads the Talons, which she felt before.--
Luxury.
See Extravagance. Gluttony.

Mean time his Lordship lolls within at Ease,
Pamp'ring his Paunch with foreign Rarities:
Both Sea and Land are ransack'd for the Feast,
And his own Gut the sole invited Guest:
Such Plate, such Tables, Dishes dress'd so well,
That whole Estates are swallow'd at a Meal.--

--Attir'd beyond our Purse we go;
For useless Ornament and flaunting Show.
We take on Trust; in costly Robes we shine;
And poor, are yet ambitious to be fine--

--The lavish Slave
Six thousand Pieces for a Barbel gave:
A Sesterce for each Pound it weigh'd, as they
Give out, who hear great Things, but greater say.
If by this Bribe well plac'd, he would ensnare
Some sapless Usurer that wants an Heir:
Or if this Present the sly Courtier meant,
Should to some Punk of Quality be sent,
Who in her easy Chair in State does ride,
The Glasses all drawn up on ev'ry Side,
I'd praise his Cunning:--but expect not this:
For his own Gut he bought the stately Fish.
Now ev'n Apicius frugal seems, and poor,
Outvy'd in Luxury unknown before.--

You ask from whence proceed these monstrous Crimes?
Once poor, and therefore chaste, in former Times
Our Matrons were: No Luxury found Room
In low--roof'd Houses, and bare Walls of Loom:
Their Hands with Labour harden'd while 'twas light,
And frugal Sleep supply'd the quiet Night,
While pinch'd with Want, their Hunger held 'em straight,
And Hannibal was hov'ring at the Gate.
But wanton, now, and lolling at our Ease,
We suffer all th' inveterate Ills of Peace
And wasteful Riot, whose destructive Charms
Revenge the vanquish'd World of our victorious Arms.
No Crime, no lustful Actions are unknown,
Since Poverty, our Guardian God, is gone.
Pride, Laziness, and all luxurious Arts,
Pour like a Deluge in from foreign Parts.
Since Gold obscene, and Silver found the Way,
Strange Fashions with strange Bullion to convey.
And our plain simple Manners to betray.--

Those fatal Seeds luxurious Vices sow,
Which ever lay a mighty People low.
To Rome the vanquish'd Earth her Tribute paid,
And deadly Treasures to her View display'd:
Then Truth and simple Manners left the Place,
While Riot rear'd her lewd dishonest Face:
Virtue to full Prosperity gave way,
And fled from Rapine and the Lust of Prey.
On every Side proud Palaces arise,
And lavish Gold each common Use supplies:
Their Father's frugal Tables stand abhorr'd,
While foreign Dainties smoke upon the Board:
In silken Robes the minion Men appear,
Which Maids and youthful Brides should blush to wear.
That Age, by honest Poverty adorn'd,
Which brought the manly Romans forth, is scorn'd:
Where--ever ought pernicious does abound,
For Luxury all Lands are ransack'd round,
And dear--bought Deaths the sinking State confound.

Hence Wrath and Rage their ready Minds invade,
And Want could ev'ry Wickedness perswade:
Hence impious Pow'r was first esteem'd a Good,
Sought for by Arms, and bought with Streams of Blood:
With Glory, Tyrants did their Country awe,
And Violence prescrib'd the Rule to Law.
Hence pliant servile Voices were constrain'd,
And Force in popular Assemblies reign'd:
Consuls and Tribunes, with opposing Might,
Join'd to confound and overturn the Right:
Hence shameful Magistrates were made for Gold,
And a base People by themselves were sold:
Hence Slaughter in the venal Field returns,
And Rome her yearly Competition mourns:
Hence Debt unthrifty, careless to repay,
And Usury still watching for its Day:
Hence Perjuries in ev'ry wrangling Court:
And War, the needy Bankrupt's last Resort.--

-- Eutrapelus,
Bestow'd fine Cloaths on those he meant to hurt.
A gaudy Dress will make the Wearer vain,
Thought he, and change his Purposes and Hopes:
He'll sleep till Noon: his Business he'll neglect,
To follow Whores, and deeply run in Debt:
Till, beggar'd quite, a Bully he'll become,
Or drive an Herb--man's Cart for wretched Hire.—