'Tis Am'rous Beauty Love invites,
A Passion, like it self, excites:
The Paragon, though all admire,
Kindles in none a fond desire:
No more than those the Kings Renown
And State applaud, affect his Crown.
_These following Fragments among many more were found among her
Papers._
Penelope to Ulysses.
Return my dearest Lord, at length return,
Let me no longer your sad absence mourn,
_Ilium_ in Dust, does no more Work afford,
No more Employment for your Wit or Sword.
Why did not the fore-seeing Gods destroy,
_Helin_ the Fire-brand both of _Greece_ and _Troy_,
E're yet the Fatal Youth her Face had seen,
E're lov'd and born away the wanton Queen?
Then had been stopt the mighty Floud of Woe,
Which now both _Greece_ and _Phrygia_ over-flow:
Then I, these many Teares, should not have shed,
Nor thou, the source of them, to War been led:
I should not then have trembled at the Fame
Of _Hectors_ warlike and victorious Name.
Why did I wish the Noble _Hector_ Slain?
Why _Ilium_ ruin'd? Rise, O rise again!
Again great City flourish from thine Urne:
For though thou'rt burn'd, my Lord does not return.
Sometimes I think, (but O most Cruel Thought,)
That, for thy Absence, th'art thy self in fault:
That thou art captiv'd by some captive Dame,
Who, when thou fired'st _Troy_, did thee inflame
And now with her thou lead'st thy am'rous Life,
Forgetful, and despising of thy Wife.
An Epitaph on her Self.
When I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse,
And for a Monument, I leave my VERSE.
An ODE.
Arise my Dove, from mid'st of Pots arise,
Thy sully'd Habitation leave,
To Dust no longer cleave,
Unworthy they of Heaven that will not view the Skies.
Thy native Beauty re-assume,
Prune each neglected Plume,
Till more than Silver white,
Then burnisht Gold more bright,
Thus ever ready stand to take thy Eternal Flight.