An
EPISTLE
to
a
LADY
.
WHEN
the
heart
akes
with
anguish
,
pines
with
grief
,
And
heav'n
and
you
alike
deny
relief
;
When
ev'n
the
flatt'rer
Hope
is
no
where
found
,
'Tis
hard
to
feel
the
smart
,
and
not
lament
the
wound
.
Permit
me
then
to
sigh
one
last
adieu
,
Nor
scorn
a
sorrow
friendship
owes
to
you
:
A
friendship
modesty
might
well
return
;
A
sorrow
,
cruelty
itself
might
mourn
.
Think
how
the
miser
,
pierc'd
with
inward
pain
,
Looks
down
with
horror
on
the
troubled
main
,
Or
wildly
roams
along
the
rocky
coast
,
T'
explore
his
treasures
in
the
tempest
lost
;
Hates
his
own
safety
,
chides
the
waves
that
roll'd
Himself
ashore
,
but
sunk
his
dearer
gold
.
Like
him
afflicted
,
pensive
,
and
forlorn
,
I
look
on
life
and
all
its
pomp
with
scorn
.
You
was
the
sweetner
of
each
busy
scene
;
You
gave
the
joy
without
,
the
pain
within
.
Pleasure
and
you
were
both
so
near
ally'd
,
That
when
I
lost
the
one
,
the
other
dy'd
;
Pain
too
has
lavish'd
all
her
killing
store
;
Nor
can
she
add
,
nor
can
I
suffer
more
.
In
vain
I
view'd
you
with
as
chaste
a
fire
,
As
angels
mingle
,
or
as
saints
admire
;
By
reason
prompted
,
passion
had
no
part
,
A
virtuous
ardour
,
that
refin'd
the
heart
.
In
vain
I
sought
a
friendship
free
from
fault
,
Where
sex
and
beauty
were
alike
forgot
:
A
friendship
by
the
noblest
union
join'd
,
The
female
softness
,
and
the
manly
mind
.
Courage
to
conquer
evils
,
or
endure
:
Sweetness
to
sooth
the
pain
,
and
smiles
to
cure
.
Scandal
,
a
busy
fiend
,
in
Truth's
disguise
,
Like
Fame
all
cover'd
o'er
with
ears
and
eyes
,
Learns
the
fond
tale
,
and
spreads
it
as
she
flies
;
Nor
spreads
alone
,
but
alters
,
adds
,
defames
,
Affects
to
pity
,
tho'
her
duty
blames
;
Feigns
not
to
credit
all
she
sees
or
hears
,
But
hopes
the
evil
only
in
her
fears
;
Pretends
to
weigh
the
fact
in
even
scale
,
And
wish
,
at
least
,
that
justice
may
prevail
;
Insinuates
,
dissembles
,
lyes
,
betrays
,
Plays
the
whole
hypocrite
such
various
ways
,
That
Innocence
itself
must
suffer
wrong
,
And
Honour
bleed
the
prey
of
Slander's
tongue
.
Such
is
my
fate
,
so
grievous
my
distress
,
Condemn'd
to
suffer
,
but
deny'd
redress
:
Too
fond
of
joy
,
too
sensible
of
pain
,
To
part
with
all
that's
dear
,
and
not
complain
:
Too
delicate
to
injure
what
I
love
,
To
ask
the
pity
fame
will
ne'er
approve
.
What
more
remains
,
then
,
but
to
drop
my
claim
,
And
by
my
conduct
justify
my
flame
?
Burst
the
dear
bands
that
to
my
heart-strings
join
,
And
sacrifice
my
peace
to
purchase
thine
?
As
the
fond
mother
,
who
delirious
eyes
Her
dying
babe
,
will
scarce
believe
it
dies
;
But
strains
it
still
with
transport
in
her
arms
,
Dwells
on
its
lips
and
numbers
o'er
its
charms
;
Pleads
that
it
slumbers
,
and
expects
,
in
vain
,
To
see
the
little
cherub
live
again
:
So
my
torn
heart
must
all
the
sorrows
prove
That
torture
constancy
,
or
sadden
love
:
Yet
fondly
follow
your
dear
image
still
,
Fancy
I
hear
you
speak
,
I
see
you
smile
:
Doat
on
a
phantom
,
idolize
the
name
,
And
wish
the
shade
and
substance
were
the
same
.
Alas
!
how
fruitless
is
the
idle
pray'r
!
The
joy's
imagin'd
,
real
the
despair
.
Like
Adam
forc'd
his
Eden
to
forego
,
I
lose
my
only
paradise
below
,
And
dread
the
prospect
of
succeeding
woe
.