'Tis just, Aminta , you are paid
For all the cruel Wounds you've made:
The Bee with arrow keen, tho small
Has on your Lip reveng'd us all.

No wonder with their dazzling Light.
Your Eyes deceiv'd the Wand'rer 's Sight,
While, by your Breath inform'd to steer,
Some fragrant Flow'r it fancy'd near.

It rages! but how faint the Smart
To that of my tormented Heart?
O, let me heal the Wound! O, joyn,
Afflicted Nymph , your Lip to mine!

Not by the arms of the Bangash have I been defeated, believe me;
In the fight of Gunbut Heaven it was that fought against me:
It was not the Bangash, or their arms, or numbers;
But it was the incantations of the dogs of Mecca that undid us.
Since they fled to the mountains without fighting,
Great was the injury that many of my bands did me.
That I did not send my best horsemen on in front
Is a thing that gave me great cause for repentance.
That we did not all advance at once and keep together
Was all owing to the folly of the Hussun-kheyis.

Ye eyes with love o'erflowing — eyes of blue,
Ye white pearls peeping thro' unfolding buds,
Eyes where earth's azure, and heaven's azure too,
Shine as reflected on the mirrory floods.
From ye — from your own brightness, living schools!
I studied virtue — why did ye impart,
With your instructions, poison to my heart?
Why mingle mischief with your moral rules?
In your first glance the peace-destroyer shot
His mortal arrow thro' me — and it smote
My inmost heart — but yet I murmur not;
But dwell on thought more blessed, tho' remote:

Prologues to Plays, and Prefaces to Books,
Without their Help, how awkardly it looks?
Our Cato 's Author, tho' excell'd by no Man,
With Prologue chose to introduce his Roman .
Din Pope harangu'd in such a lofty Strain,
As in Friend Addi . had been counted vain;
The Audience must applaud, or they were short All — —
A pretty Way of getting Fame immortal!

It had Success — — throng'd was the House of Drury ;
Both Factions clap'd with more than civil Fury — —
Cato 's now Sterling Coin, that you must take;

Cheeks which are colored from the dewy rose;
Lips, whence young smiles go forth and where they rest:
A swan-like neck above a snowy breast,
Where many a golden curl light-waving flows.
A forehead bright as sunshine — hazel brows,
Pencil'd as if by art — their orbits drest
In living light of innocence, — repress'd
Each heaving sigh, and every breath that rose
Half-smother'd — thus it was that I was bound;
Love's thousand, thousand fetters girt me round:
What time he lull'd me with his sweet delusion,

The Father averse, and the Fair One unkind,
'Tis enough, my good Friend, to ruffle thy Mind——
Yet why keep thy Bed, and avoid Conversation?
Gods! are there no Women but her in the Nation?
Rise, pluck up thy Spirits, and finish thy Billet,
With keenest Invectives disdainfully fill it;
Then turn to some other, and be not so froward,
The Second may bend, tho' the First was untoward.

Rise! said the Muse , and bid adieu
To Worldly Thoughts! My Flight pursue!
When once resolv'd to follow me,
Far happier thy Life shall be,
Than his, who, on a peaceful Throne,
Beholds extended Realms his own;
Who boasts of Triumphs , and detains
His trembling Enemies in Chains:
For him shou'd rich Pactolus flow,
No Bliss like thine he e'er shall know.
I'll bear thee on my Wings on high
Thro' the bright Wonders of the Sky,
'Midst Crouds of Worlds , and form thy Ears,
To reach the Music of the Spheres .

Jove once was young, as Poets hold —
Then consequently Jove grows old;
And Wisdom, as by Man appears,
Increases with a Person's Years;
Then Jove must now be wise indeed!
That Point admitted, we proceed.

Grown old and wise; in nuptial Love,
Some Ages Jove had spent above:
Buils, Swans, and Show'rs, ungrateful Names!
No more promote his lawless Flames:
No Change the Deity desir'd,
Nor much of Men's Affairs enquir'd;
Or ask'd 'em with no other Views
Than mod'rate Mortals read the News:

Why are the Bangash thus calling aloud to me?
Ready I am and armed, my gun have I laid beside me.
Greater the sense and the might of the Gwarrikhels than of the Bangash:
Risen are the Gwarrikhels with me in honour's cause.
In the Bangash see I power neither of numbers nor of valour,
How then shall they join in fight against me?
Perchance they deem me blind, or I am crippled in their eyes?
Of this the ruin of their designs shall be the proof.
Too wise is the Locust to waste his life for nothing;
The foolish Moth it is that seeks the candle's flame.

In these days all look but to their own interests,
Whether it be father or son;
Such indeed is my sons' nature —
I know not if all men's experience is the same.
No regard is his for my rights, or the respect due me;
I know not how such a state of things can have arisen.
He who treats his children with too great indulgence,
How can such an one be deemed wise?
Alas! I know the return my children give me:
All my children are like the Scorpion or the Snake,
Thirty are my sons in number,
How can I tell the number of my grandchildren?