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"His aged widow and his daughter live,
"Whom yet my fruitlefs fearch could never find. "Romantic with! would this the daughter were
When, ftri& enquiring, from herself he found
She was the fame, the daughter of his friend,
Of bountiful Acafto; who can fpeak
The mingled paffions that furpriz'd his heart,
And thro' his nerves in fhivering transport ran?
Then blaz'd his fmother'd flame, avow'd, and bold'
And as he view'd her, ardent, o'er and o'er,
Love, gratitude, and pity wept at once.
Confus'd, and frightened at his fudden tears,
Her rifing beauties flufh'd a higher bloom,
As thus Palemon, paffionate, and just,
Pour'd out the pious rapture of his foul.
"And art thou then Acafto's dear remains? She, whom my reftlefs gratitude has fought "So long in vain ? O heavens! the very fame, "The softened image of my noble friend.; "Alive his every look, his every feature, "More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than fpring? "Thou fole furviving bloffom from the root "That nourish'd up my fortune! Say, ah where, In what fequefter'd defart, haft thou drawn The kindest afpect of delighted Heaven? "Into fuch beauty fpread, and blown fo fair;
"Tho' poverty's cold wind, and crushing rain, "Beat keen, and heavy, on thy tender years? "O let me now, into a richer foil,
"Tranfplant thee fafe! where vernal funs, and flowers, "Difufe their warmeft, largeft influence;
And of my garden be the pride, and joy! "Ill it befits thee, oh it ill befits "Acafto's daughter, his whofe open flores, "Tho' vaft, were little to his ampler heart, "The father of a country, thus to pick "The very refuse of those harvelt-fields,
"Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy. "Then throw that hameful pittance from thy hand, "But ill apply'd to fuch a rugged task;
"The fields, the mafter, all, my fair, are thine;
"If to the various bleffings which thy houfe
"Has on me lavish'd, thou wilt add that blifs,
"That deareft blifs, the power of bleffing thee !”,
Here ceas'd the youth: yet fill his speaking eye
Exprefs'd the facred triumph of his foul,
With confcious virtue, gratitude, and love,
Above the vulgar joy divinely rais'd.
Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm
Of goodness irrefiftible, and all
In fweet diforder loft, fhe blufa'd confent.
The news immediate to her mother brought,
While, pierc'd with anxious thought, she pin'd away
The lonely moments for-Lavinia's fate;
Amaz'd, and scarce believing what she heard,
Joy feiz'd her wither'd veins, and one bright gleam
Of fetting life fhone on her evening-hours:
Not lefs enraptur'd than the happy pair ;
Who flourish'd long in tender blifs, and rear'd
A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves,
And good, the grace of all the country round.
HE counfels of a friend, Belinda, hear,
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear;
Unlike the flatt'ries of a lover's pen,
Such truths as women feldom learn from men.
Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I fhew
What female vanity might fear to know:
Some merit's mine, to dare to be fincere,
But greater yours, fincerity to bear.
Hard is the fortune that your fex attends;
Women, like princes, find few real friends:
All who approach them their own ends pursue:
Lovers and minifters are feldom true.
Hence oft from reafon heedlefs beauty ftrays,
And the most trufted guide the most betrays:
Hence by fond dreams of fancy'd pow'r amus'd,
When most you tyrannize you're most abus'd.
What is your fex's earlieft, lateft care,
Your heart's fupreme ambition? To be fair:
For this the toilet ev'ry thought employs,
Hence all the toils of drefs, and all the joys:
For this, hands, lips, and eyes are put to school,
And each inftructive feature has its rule;
And yet how few have learnt, when this is giv'n,
Not to difgrace the partial boon of heav'n?
How few with all their pride of form can move?
How few are lovely, that were made for love?
Do you, my fair, endeavour to poffefs
An elegance of mind as well as drefs;
Be that your ornament, and know to please
By grateful nature's unaffected eafe.
Nor make to dang'rous wit a vain pretence,
But wifely reft content with modest sense;
For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain,
Too ftrong for feeble women to fustain ;
Of those who claim it, more than half have none,
And half of those who have it, are undone.
Be ftill fuperior to your fex's arts,
Nor think difhonefty a proof of parts;
For you the plaineft is the wifeft rule,
A Cunning Woman is a Knavífh Fool.
Be good yourself, nor think another's fhame
Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame.
Prudes rail at whores, as ftatefmen in difgrace
At minifters, because they wish their place.
Virtue is amiable, mild, ferene,
Without all beauty, and all peace within:
The honour of a prude is rage and ftorm,
'Tis ugliness in its most frightful form: