Beneath the kind protecting Laurel’s shade,
For sighing Lovers, and for Warriors made,
The soft Adonis, and rough Mars were laid.
Both were design’d to take their Rest;
But Love the gentle Boy opprest,
And false Alarms shook the stern Heroe’s Breast.
This thinks to soften all his Toils of War,
In the dear Arms of the obliging Fair;
And that, by Hunting, to divert his Care.
All Day, o’er Hills and Plains, wild Beasts he chas’d,
Swift as the flying Winds, his eager haste;
In vain, the God of Love pursues as fast.
But oh! no Sports, no Toils, divertive prove,
The Evening still returns him to the Grove,
To sigh and languish for the Queen of Love:
Where Elegies and Sonnets he does frame,
And to the list’ning Echoes sighs her Name,
And on the Trees carves Records of his Flame.
The Warrior in the dusty Camp all day
With rattling Drums and Trumpets, does essay
To fright the tender flatt’ring God away.
But still, alas, in vain: whate’er Delight,
What Cares he takes the wanton Boy to fright,
Love still revenges it at night.
‘Tis then he haunts the Royal Tent,
The sleeping Hours in Sighs are spent,
And all his Resolutions does prevent.
In all his Pains, Love mixt his Smart;
In every Wound he feels a Dart;
And the soft God is trembling in his Heart.
Then he retires to shady Groves,
And there, in vain, he seeks Repose,
And strives to fly from what he cannot lose.
While thus he lay, Bellona came,
And with a gen’rous fierce Disdain,
Upbraids him with his feeble Flame.
Arise, the World’s great Terror, and their Care;
Behold the glitt’ring Host from far,
That waits the Conduct of the God of War.
Beneath these glorious Laurels, which were made
To crown the noble Victor’s Head,
Why thus supinely art thou laid?
Why on that Face, where awful Terror grew,
Thy Sun-parch’d Cheeks why do I view
The shining Tracks of falling Tears bedew?
What God has wrought these universal Harms?
What fatal Nymph, what fatal Charms,
Has made the Heroe deaf to War’s Alarms?
Now let the conqu’ring Ensigns up be furl’d:
Learn to be gay, be soft, and curl’d;
And idle, lose the Empire of the World.
In fond effeminate Delights go on;
Lose all the Glories you have won:
Bravely resolve to love, and be undone.
‘Tis thus the martial Virgin pleads;
Thus she the am’rous God persuades
To fly from Venus, and the flow’ry Meads.
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