Great Men their Actions of a Piece fhould have; Heroic all, and each entirely brave:
From the nice Rules of Honour none fhould fwerve;
Done, because good, without a mean Reserve. The Crimes new charg'd upon th' unhappy
May have Revenge, and Malice, but no Truth.
Suppose the Accusation juftly brought,
And clearly prov'd to the minutest Thought;
Yet Mercy's next, to infinite abate,
Offences next, to infinitely great:
And 'tis the Glory of a noble Mind,
In full Forgiveness not to be confin'd.
Your Prince's Frowns, if you have Cause to fear,
This Act will more illuftrious appear;
Tho' his Excufe can never be withstood,
Who disobeys, but only to be good.
Perhaps the Hazard's more than you express;
The Glory would be, were the Danger lefs.
For he that, to his Prejudice, will do
A noble Action, and a gen'rous too,
Deferves to wear a more refplendent Crown,
Than he that has a thousand Battles won.
Do not invert Divine Compaffion fo,
As to be cruel, and no Mercy fhew!
Of what Renown can such an Action be,
Which faves my Husband's Life, but ruins me?
Tho', if you finally refolve to stand
Upon fo vile, inglorious a Demand,
He muft fubmit: If 'tis my Fate to mourn
His Death, I'll bathe with virt'ous Tears his
Urn.
Well, Madam, haughtily, Neronior cry'd,
Your Courage and your Virtue fhall be try'd.
But to prevent all Prospect of a Flight,
Some of my* Lambs fhall be your Guard To-
night:
By them, no doubt, you'll tenderly be us'd;
They feldom afk a Favour that's refus'd:
Perhaps you'll find them so genteely bred,
They'll leave you but few virt'ous Tears to shed.
Surrounded with fo innocent a Throng,
The Night muft pafs delightfully along.
And, in the Morning, fince you will not give
What I require, to let your Husband live,
You fhall behold him figh his latest Breath,
And gently fwing into the Arms of Death.
His Fate he merits, as to Rebels due;
And yours will be as much deferv'd by you.
Oh, Celia, think! fo far as Thought can
fhew,
What Pangs of Grief, what Agonies of Woe,
At this dire Refolution, feiz'd my Breast!
By all Things fad and terrible poffeft.
In vain I wept, and 'twas in vain I pray'd;
For all my Pray'rs were to a Tyger made:
*Kirke ufed to call the most inhuman of his Soldiers, his Lambs.
A Tiger! worfe; for, 'tis beyond Dispute,
No Fiend's fo cruel as a reas'ning Brute.
Encompass'd thus, and hopeless of Relief,
With all the Squadrons of Despair and Grief;
Ruin it was not poffible to shun:
What could I do? Oh! what would you have
done?
The Hours that pass'd, till the black Morn re
With Tears of Blood fhould be for ever mourn'd.
When, to involve me with consummate Grief,
Beyond Expreffion, and above Belief,
Madam, the Monster cry'd, that you may find
I can be grateful to the Fair that's kind,
Step to the Door, I'll fhew you fuch a Sight,
Shall overwhelm your Spirits with Delight.
Does not that Wretch, who would dethrone his
King,
Become the Gibbet, and adorn the String?
You need not now an injur'd Husband dread;
Living he might, he'll not upbraid you dead.
'Twas for your Sake I feiz'd upon his Life;
He would, perhaps, have fcorn'd so chafte a
Wife.
And, Madam, you'll excufe the Zeal I fhew,
To keep that fecret none alive should know.
Curs'd of all Creatures! for, compar'd with thee,
The Dev'ls, faid I, are dull in Cruelty.
Oh! may that Tongue eternal Vipers breed,
And, wasteless, their eternal Hunger feed :'
In Fires too hot for Salamanders dwell,
The burning Earneft of a hotter Hell!
May that vile Lump of execrable Luft
Corrupt alive, and rot into the Duft!
May'ft thou, despairing, at the Point of Death,
With Oaths and Blafphemies, refign thy Breath;
And the worst Torments that the Damn'dfhould
fhare,
In thine own Person all united bear!
Oh, Celia! Oh, my Friend! what Age can fhew
Sorrows like mine, fo exquifite a Woe?
Indeed it does not infinite appear,
Because it can't be everlasting here:
But 'tis fo vaft, that it can ne'er increase,
And fo confirm'd, it never can be less.
N that fair Ifle, the Garden of the Main, Where Love extended once his easy Reign, And where his Queen her Seat of Empire chofe, And to the fabled Goddess Temples rofe,
In Cyprus liv'd, long fince, a virtuous Pair,
The brave Philander, and Cydippe fair;
Of whom the Muse records the mutual Flame,
The patient Hero, and the conftant Dame.
YoungMen, and Virgins, to myTale draw near,
Attend a Song fit for a veftal Ear;
Approach, ye Parents, who, for fordid Gain,
Would to detefted Bands the Fair conftrain;
Approach, and from Agenor's Story see
How curs'd theNuptials, where not Hearts agree:
And thou, fair * Annandale, a-while attend,
Thou sweet Inspirer, and the Poet's Friend;
Where Beauty, like thy own, and Virtue shine,
Indulge the Mufe, and make the Poem thine.
Two Friends in Cyprus liv'd, Philander one,
The other Dion, rich Agenor's Son;
Their Friendship early in their Youth began,
Encreasing daily as they rose to Man;
Their blooming Virtues had to each their
Charms,
Young Heroes both renown'd in Feats of Arms:
And now the Labours of the Battle end,
Dion, but half alive without his Friend,
Invites him to his Father's House a Gueft;
Philander, near the Partner of his Breaft,
Had all he wifh'd; each in the other blefs'd.
Tho' in Philander's Heart, large Dion's Share,
He was not long without a Rival there.
* Charlotte, Marchionefs of Annandale,
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