cloud that Heaven's bright queen Shrouds her still beams; how should the stars be seen? Thus when Dorinda wept, joy every face forsook, And grief flung sables on each menial look; The humble tribe mourn'd for the quick'ning soul, That furnish'd spirit and motion through the whole; So would earth's face turn pale, and life decay, Should Heaven suspend to act but for a day; So nature's crazed convulsions make us dread That time is sick, or the world's mind is dead.— Take, youth, these thoughts, large matter to employ The fancy furnish'd by returning joy; And to mistaken man these truths rehearse, Who dare revile the integrity of verse: Ah, favourite youth, how happy is thy lot!— But I'm deceived, or thou regard'st me not; Speak, for I wait thy answer, and expect Thy just submission for this bold neglect. Unknown the forms we the high-priesthood use At the divine appearance of the Muse, Which to divulge might shake profane belief, And tell the irreligion of my grief; Grief that excused the tribute of my knees, And shaped my passion in such words as these! Malignant goddess! bane to my repose, Thou universal cause of all my woes; Say whence it comes that thou art grown of late A poor amusement for my scorn and hate; The malice thou inspirest I never fail On thee to wreak the tribute when I rail; Fool's commonplace thou art, their weak ensconcing fort, Th'appeal of dulness in the last resort: Heaven, with a parent's eye regarding earth, Deals out to man the planet of his birth: But sees thy meteor blaze about me shine, And passing o'er, mistakes thee still for mine: Ah, should I tell a secret yet unknown, That thou ne'er hadst a being of thy own, But a wild form dependent on the brain, Scattering loose features o'er the optic vein; Troubling the crystal fountain of the sight, Which darts on poets' eyes a trembling light; Kindled while reason sleeps, but quickly flies, Like antic shapes in dreams, from waking eyes: In sum, a glitt'ring voice, a painted name, A walking vapour, like thy sister fame. But if thou be'st what thy mad votaries prate, A female power, loose govern'd thoughts create; Why near the dregs of youth perversely wilt thou stay, So highly courted by the brisk and gay? Wert thou right woman, thou should'st scorn to look On an abandon'd wretch by hopes forsook; Forsook by hopes, ill fortune's last relief, Assign'd for life to unremitting grief; For, let Heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days, If hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays. Time o'er the happy takes so
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