Epistles.
133
This night shall see the gaudy Wreath decline,
The roses wither and the lilies pine.
The Garland's fate to thine shall be apply'd,
And what advanc'd thy form shall check thy pride.
Be wise, my Fair! the present hour improve, 25
Let joy be now, and now a waste of love;
Each drooping bloom shall plead thy just excuse,
And that which shew'd thy beauty shew its use. 28
The roses wither and the lilies pine.
The Garland's fate to thine shall be apply'd,
And what advanc'd thy form shall check thy pride.
Be wise, my Fair! the present hour improve, 25
Let joy be now, and now a waste of love;
Each drooping bloom shall plead thy just excuse,
And that which shew'd thy beauty shew its use. 28
ON A LADY'S PICTURE.
TO GILFRED LAWSON, ESQ.
As Damon Chloe's painted form survey'd
He sigh'd and languish'd for the jilting shade,
For Cupid taught the artist-hand its grace,
And Venus wanton'd in the mimick face.
Now he laments a look so falsely fair, 5
And almost damns what yet resembles her;
Now he devours it with his longing eyes,
Now sated from the lovely phantom flies,
Yet burns to look again, yet looks again and dies.
Her iv'ry neck his lips presume to kiss, 10
And his bold hands the swelling bosom press;
The swain drinks in deep draughts of vain desire,
Melts without heat and burns in fancy'd fire.
Strange pow'r of Paint! thou nice creator Art!
What love inspires may life itself impart. 15
He sigh'd and languish'd for the jilting shade,
For Cupid taught the artist-hand its grace,
And Venus wanton'd in the mimick face.
Now he laments a look so falsely fair, 5
And almost damns what yet resembles her;
Now he devours it with his longing eyes,
Now sated from the lovely phantom flies,
Yet burns to look again, yet looks again and dies.
Her iv'ry neck his lips presume to kiss, 10
And his bold hands the swelling bosom press;
The swain drinks in deep draughts of vain desire,
Melts without heat and burns in fancy'd fire.
Strange pow'r of Paint! thou nice creator Art!
What love inspires may life itself impart. 15
