Young Tarquin's Wife, her hair disorder'd lay
And loofe, was fitting there at Wine and play.
Thence to Lucretia's, She a lovely Soul,

Her Basket lay before her, and her Wooll,
Sate midft her Maids, and as they wrought the faid,
Make hafte, 'tis for my Lord as foon as made;
Yet what d'ye hear? (for you perchance may hear)
How long is't e'er they hope to end the War?
Yet let them but return; But ah, my Lord
Is rash, and meets all dangers with his Sword:
Ah when I fancy that I fee him fight,

I fwoon and almoft perish with the fright.
Then wept, and leaving her unfinisht thread,
Upon her bofom lean'd her lovely head.
All this became, graceful her grief appears,
And he, chaft Soul, lookt beauteous in her Tears.
Her Face lookt well, by Nature's art defign'd,
All charming fair, and fit for fuch a mind.
I come, fays Collatine, difcard thy Fear;
At that the ftraight reviv'd,and, Oh my Dear,[there.
She clafpt his Neck, and hung a welcome burthen
Mean while young Tarquin gathers luftful Fire,
He burns and rages with a wild Defire;
Her Shape, her Lilie-white, and Yellow hair,
Her natural Beauty, and her graceful Air,
Her words, her voice, and every thing does please,
And all agree to heighten the Difeafe;
That she was Chaft doth raise his wishes higher,
The lefs his Hopes, the greater his Defire.
But now 'twas Morning, and the warlike Train
Return from Rome, and take the Field again:
His working Powers her abfent Form restore,
The more he minds her, ftill he loves the more;
'Twas thus the fate, thus fpun, and thus was dreft,
And thus her Locks hung dangling o'er her breaft;
Such was her Mein, and fuch each Air and Grace,
And fuch the charming figure of her Face.

As when a furious ftorm is now blown o'er,
The Sea ftill troubl'd, and the Waters roar,
And curl upon the Winds that blew before:
So he tho' gone the pleasing Form retains,
The Fire her prefent Beauty rais'd remains ;
He burns, and hurry'd by refiftless Charms,
Refolves to force, or fright her to his Arms.
I'll venture, let whatever Fates attend,

The daring bold have Fortune for their friend;
By daring I the Gabii did o'ercome;

}

This faid, he takes his Horfe, and fpeeds for Rome:
The Sun was setting when he reach'd the place,
With more than Evening blushes in his Face;
A Gueft in fhew, an Enemy in design
He reach'd the ftately Court of Collatine,
And's welcom'd there, for he was nearly kin.
How much are we deceiv'd? She makes a Feaft,
And treats her Enemy as a welcome Guest ;
Now Supper's done, and fleep invites to Bed,
And all was hufht, as Nature's felf lay dead.
The Lamps put out, and all for reft defign'd,
No Fire in all the Houfe, but in his mind:
He rofe, and drew his Sword, with luftful speed
Away he goes to chafte Lucretia's Bed;
And when he came, Lucretia, not a word,
For look, Lucretia, here's my naked Sword;
My Name is Tarquin, that Title own,
The King's young Son, his best beloved Son.
Half dead with fear, amaz'd Lucretia lay,
As harmless Lambs, their Mothers gone away,
Expos'd to ravenous Wolves an easie prey.
Her Speech, her Courage, Voice, and Mind did fail,
She trembled, and she breath'd, and that was all :
What could the do? Ah! could fhe ftrive? with whom?
A Man! a Woman's eafily o'ercome.

Should the cry out, and make Complaints of wrong,
His violent Sword had quickly ftopt her tongue
What fhould the ftrive to fly that hope was gone,
Young Tarquin held her faft, and kept her down.

He preft her Bofom with a luftful hand,

That chaft, that charming Breaft then firft prophan'd. The Loving Foe ftill fues, refolv'd to gain

With promife, threats, and bribes: but all in vain.
At laft, 'tis Folly to refift, he cry'd,

My Love will rife to Rage, if long deny'd;
For I'll accufe thee of unlawful Luft,

Kill thee, and fwear, tho' false, thy Death was Juft.
I'll ftab a Slave, and what's the worst of harms,
Black Fame shall fay I caught thee in his Arms.
This Art prevail'd, fhe fear'd an injur'd name,
And liv'd and fuffer'd, to fecure her Fame.
Why dost thou fmile, Triumphant Ravisher?
This fhameful Victory fhall coft thee dear.
Thy ruin pay for this thy forc'd delight,
How great a price! a Kingdom for a Night!
The guilty Night was gone, the day appears,
She blusht, and rofe, and double Mousing wears,
As for her only Son, the fits in Tears,

And for her Father, and her Husband fends }
Each quickly hears the meffage, and attends.
But when they came, and faw her drown'd in Tears,
Amaz'd they ask'd the Cause, what violent Fears,
What real ill did wound her tender mind;

What Friend was dead, for whom this Grief defign'd?
But the fate filent ftill, ftill fadly cry'd,

And hid her blushing Face, and wept, and figh'd.`
Both ftrive to comfort, both lament her Fate,
And fear fome deadly ill, they know not what.
Thrice fhe would fpeak, thrice ftopt; again she tries
To speak her wrong, yet durft not raise her Eyes:
This too on Tarquin's fcore, the cry'd, I place,
I'll fpeak, I'll fpeak, ah me! my own disgrace:
And what they could, her modeft words expreft,
The last remain'd, her Blushes spoke the rest.
Both weep, and both the forc'd offence forgive;
Ja vain you pardon me, I can't receive
The pity you beftow, nor can I live.
D S

"}

This faid, her fatal Dagger pierc'd her fide,
And at her Father's feet the fell and dy'd.
Her Soul flew through the wound, and mounts a
As white and innocent as a Virgin Dove, [bove
Not spotted with one thought of I.awless Love.
Yet as the fell, her dying thoughts contriv'd
The fall as modeftly as the had liv'd.

The Father o'er the Corps, and Husband fall,
And mourn, and both the common lofs bewail.
While thus they mourn'd, the generous Brutus came,
And fhew'd his Soul ill-fuited with his Name.
He grafpt the Dagger reeking in her Gore,
And as he held it, thus devoutly fwore;

By thee, by this thy chaste and innocent Blood,
And by thy Ghost, which I'll efteem a God;
Tarquin, and all his Race, fhall be expell'd:
My Virtue long enough hath lain conceal'd.
At that the rais'd her Eyes, the seem'd to bow
Her head, and with her Nod approv'd the Vow.
The Pomp appears, and as it paffes by,
The gaping Wound expos'd to publick View,
Fill'd all the Crowd with rage, and justly drew
Curfes from every Heart, and Tears from every Eye.
Young Brutus heads the Crowd, proclaims the wrong,
And tells them they endure the King too long:
The King's expell'd,, and Confuls they create,
And thus the Kingdom chang'd into a State.

On Mr. DRYDEN'S

RELIGIO

LAICI.

By the Earl of Rofcomon.

E gone you Slaves, you idle Vermin go,

BE

Fly from the Scourges, and your Mafter know;

Let free, impartial men from Dryden learn

Mysterious Secrets, of a high concern,

And weighty truths, folid convincing Sense,
Explain'd by unaffected Eloquence.

What can you (Reverend Levi) here take ill?

Men ftill had faults, and men will have them still;
He that hath none, and lives as Angels do,
Must be an Angel; but what's that to you?
While mighty Lewis finds the Pope too Great,
And dreads the Yoke of his impofing Seat,
Our Sects a more Tyrannick Power affume,
And would for Scorpions change the Rods of Rome;
That Church detain'd the Legacy Divine ;
Fanaticks caft the Pearls of Heaven to Swine:
What then have honeft thinking men to do,
But chufe a mean between th' Ufurping two?
Nor can th' Ægyptian Patriarch blame my Muse,
Which for his firmness does his heat Excufe;
What ever Councils have approv'd his Creed,
The PREFACE fure was his own A&t and Deed.
Our Church will have that Preface read (you'll fay)
'Tis true, But fo fhe will th' Apocrypha ;
And fuch as can believe them, freely may.
But did that God (fo little underftood)
Whofe darling Attribute is being good,"
From the dark Womb of the rude Chaos bring
Such various Creatures, and make Man their King;
Yet leave his Favorite, Man, his chiefest care,
More wretched than the vileft Infects are?

O! how much happier and more safe are they?
If helpless Millions must be doom'd a Prey
To Yelling Furies, and for ever burn
In that fad place from whence is no return,
For unbelief in one they never knew,
Or for not doing what they could not do!
The very Fiends know for what Crime they fell,
(And fo do all their followers that Rebel)
If then, a blind, well-meaning Indian ftray,
Shall the great Gulph be how'd him for the way?
For better ends our kind Redeemer dy'd,

Or the faln Angels Rooms will be but ill fupply'd.