To
a
LADY
in
Town
,
soon
after
her
leaving
the
Country
.
By
the
Same
.
WHilst
you
,
dear
maid
,
o'er
thousands
born
to
reign
,
For
the
gay
town
exchange
the
rural
plain
,
The
cooling
breeze
and
ev'ning
walk
forsake
For
stifling
crowds
,
which
your
own
beauties
make
;
Thro'
circling
joys
while
you
incessant
stray
,
Charm
in
the
Mall
,
and
sparkle
at
the
play
;
Think
(
if
successive
vanities
can
spare
One
thought
to
love
)
what
cruel
pangs
I
bear
,
Left
in
these
plains
all
wretched
,
and
alone
,
To
weep
with
fountains
,
and
with
echoes
groan
,
And
mourn
incessantly
that
fatal
day
,
That
all
my
bliss
with
CHLOE
snatch'd
away
.
Say
,
by
what
arts
I
can
relieve
my
pain
,
Musick
,
verse
,
all
I
try
,
but
try
in
vain
;
In
vain
the
breathing
flute
my
hand
employs
,
Late
the
companion
of
my
CHLOE'S
voice
.
Nor
HANDEL'S
,
nor
CORELLI'S
tuneful
airs
Can
harmonize
my
soul
,
or
sooth
my
cares
;
Those
once-lov'd
med'cines
unsuccessful
prove
,
Musick
,
alas
,
is
but
the
voice
of
love
!
In
vain
I
oft
harmonious
lines
peruse
,
And
seek
for
aid
from
POPE'S
and
PRIOR'S
Muse
;
Their
treach'rous
numbers
but
assist
the
foe
,
And
call
forth
scenes
of
sympathising
woe
;
Here
HELOISE
mourns
her
absent
lover's
charms
,
There
panting
EMMA
sighs
in
HENRY'S
arms
;
Their
loves
like
mine
ill-fated
I
bemoan
,
And
in
their
tender
sorrows
read
my
own
.
Restless
sometimes
,
as
oft
the
mournful
dove
Forsakes
her
nest
forsaken
by
her
love
,
I
fly
from
home
,
and
seek
the
sacred
fields
,
Where
CAM'S
old
urn
its
silver
current
yields
,
Where
solemn
tow'rs
o'er-look
each
mossy
grove
,
As
if
to
guard
it
from
th'
assaults
of
love
;
Yet
guard
in
vain
,
for
there
my
CHLOE'S
eyes
But
lately
made
whole
colleges
her
prize
;
Her
sons
,
tho'
few
,
not
PALLAS
cou'd
defend
,
Nor
DULLNESS
succour
to
her
thousands
lend
;
Love
like
a
fever
with
infectious
rage
Scorch'd
up
the
young
,
and
thaw'd
the
frost
of
age
;
To
gaze
at
her
,
ev'n
DONS
are
seen
to
run
,
And
leave
unfinish'd
pipes
,
and
authors
—
scarce
begun
.
So
HELEN
look'd
,
and
mov'd
with
such
a
grace
,
When
the
grave
seniors
of
the
TROJAN
race
Were
forc'd
those
fatal
beauties
to
admire
,
That
all
their
youth
consum'd
,
and
set
their
town
on
fire
.
At
fam'd
NEWMARKET
oft
I
spend
the
day
,
An
unconcern'd
spectator
of
the
play
;
There
pitiless
observe
the
ruin'd
heir
With
anger
fir'd
,
or
melting
with
despair
:
For
how
should
I
his
trivial
loss
bemoan
,
Who
feel
one
,
so
much
greater
,
of
my
own
?
There
while
the
golden
heaps
,
a
glorious
prize
,
Wait
the
decision
of
two
rival
dice
,
While
long
disputes
'twixt
seven
and
five
remain
,
And
each
,
like
parties
,
have
their
friends
for
gain
,
Without
one
wish
I
see
the
guineas
shine
,
Fate
,
keep
your
gold
,
I
cry
,
make
CHLOE
mine
.
Now
see
,
prepar'd
their
utmost
speed
to
try
,
O'er
the
smooth
turf
the
bounding
racers
fly
!
Now
more
and
more
their
slender
limbs
they
strain
,
And
foaming
stretch
along
the
velvet
plain
!
Ah
stay
!
swift
steeds
,
your
rapid
flight
delay
,
No
more
the
jockey's
smarting
lash
obey
:
But
rather
let
my
hand
direct
the
rein
,
And
guide
your
steps
a
nobler
prize
to
gain
;
Then
swift
as
eagles
cut
the
yielding
air
,
Bear
me
,
oh
bear
me
to
the
absent
fair
.
Now
when
the
winds
are
hush'd
,
the
air
serene
,
And
chearful
sun-beams
gild
the
beauteous
scene
,
Pensive
o'er
all
the
neighb'ring
fields
I
stray
,
Where-e'er
or
choice
,
or
chance
directs
the
way
;
Or
view
the
op'ning
lawns
,
or
private
woods
,
Or
distant
bluish
hills
,
or
silver
floods
:
Now
harmless
birds
in
silken
nets
insnare
,
Now
with
swift
dogs
pursue
the
flying
hare
;
Dull
sports
!
for
oh
my
CHLOE
is
not
there
!
Fatigued
at
length
I
willingly
retire
To
a
small
study
,
and
a
chearful
fire
,
There
o'er
some
folio
pore
;
I
pore
,
'tis
true
,
But
oh
my
thoughts
are
fled
,
and
fled
to
you
;
I
hear
you
,
see
you
,
feast
upon
your
eyes
,
And
clasp
with
eager
arms
the
lovely
prize
.
Here
for
a
while
I
cou'd
forget
my
pain
,
Whilst
I
by
dear
reflection
live
again
;
But
ev'n
these
joys
are
too
sublime
to
last
,
And
quickly
fade
,
like
all
the
real
ones
past
:
For
just
when
now
beneath
some
silent
grove
I
hear
you
talk
—
and
talk
perhaps
of
love
,
Or
charm
with
thrilling
notes
the
list'ning
ear
,
Sweeter
than
angels
sing
,
or
angels
hear
,
My
treach'rous
hand
its
weighty
charge
lets
go
,
The
book
falls
thund'ring
on
the
floor
below
,
The
pleasing
vision
in
a
moment's
gone
,
And
I
once
more
am
wretched
and
alone
.
So
when
glad
ORPHEUS
from
th'
infernal
shade
Had
just
recall'd
his
long-lamented
maid
,
Soon
as
her
charms
had
reach'd
his
eager
eyes
,
Lost
in
eternal
night
—
again
she
dies
.