Ovid's epistles translated by several hands.

A PARAPHRASE ON OENONE to PARIS.

BY M^rs. A. BEHN.

The ARGUMENT.

Hecuba being with Child of Paris, dreamt she was delivered of a Firebrand, Priam consulting the Prophets, was answer'd the Child shou'd be the Cause of the Destruction of Troy, wherefore Priam commanded it should be de∣liver'd to wild Beasts as soon as born; but He∣cuba conveys it secretly to Mount Ida, there to be foster'd by the Shepherds, where he falls in love with the Nymph Oenone, but at length being known and own'd, he sayls into Greece, and carries Helen to Troy, which Oenone hearing, writes him this Epistle.

TO thee, dear Paris, Lord of my Desires, Once tender Partner of my softest Fires;

To thee I write, mine, whilst a Shepherds Swain, But now a Prince, that Title you disdain. Oh fatal pomp, that cou'd so soon divide What Love, and all our Vows so firmly ty'd! What God our Loves industrious to prevent, Curst thee with power, and ruin'd my Content? Greatness which does at best but ill agree With Love, such Distance sets 'twixt Thee & Me. Whilst thou a Prince, and I a Shepherdess, My raging Passion can have no redress. Wou'd God, when first I saw thee, thou hadst been. This Great, this Cruel, Celebrated thing. That without hope I might have gaz'd & bow'd, And mixt my Adoration with the Crowd; Unwounded then I had escap'd those Eyes, Those lovely Authors of my Miseries. Not that less Charms their fatal pow'r had drest, But Fear and Awe my Love had then supprest:

My unambitious Heart no Flame had known, But what Devotion pays to Gods alone. I might have wonder'd, and have wisht that He, Whom Heaven shou'd make me love, might look like Thee. More in a silly Nymph had been a sin, This had the height of my presumption been. But thou a Flock didst feed on Ida's Plain, And hadst no Title, but The lovely Swain. A Title! which more Virgin Hearts has won, Then that of being own'd King Priam's Son. Whilst me a harmless Neighbouring Cottager You saw, and did above the rest preser. You saw! and at first sight you lov'd me too, Nor cou'd I hide the wounds receiv'd from you. Me all the Village Herdsmen strove to gain, For me the Shepherds sigh'd and su'd in vain, Thou hadst my heart, and they my cold disdain.

Not all their Offerings, Garlands, and first born Of their lov'd Ewes, cou'd bribe my Native scorn. My Love, like hidden Treasure long conceal'd, Cou'd only where 'twas destin'd, be reveal'd. And yet how long my Maiden blushes strove Not to betray the easie new born Love. But at thy sight the kindling Fire wou'd rife, And I, unskil'd, declare it at my Eyes. But oh the Joy! the mighty Extasy Possest thy Soul at this Discovery. Speechless, and panting at my feet you lay, And short-breath'd Sighs told what you cou'd not say. A thousand times my hand with Kisses prest, And look'd such Darts, as none cou'd e're resist. Silent we gaz'd, and as my Eyes met thine, New Joy fill'd theirs, new Love and shame fill'd mine! You saw the Fears my kind disorder shows, And broke your Silence with a thousand Vows!

Heavens, how you swore! by ev'ry Pow'r Divine You wou'd be ever true! be ever mine: Each God, a sacred witness you invoke, And wish'd their Curse when e're these Vows you broke. Quick to my Heart the perjur'd Accents ran, Which I took in, believ'd, and was undone. "Vows are Loves poyson'd Arrows, & the heart So wounded, rarely finds a Cure in Art. At least this heart which Fate has destin'd yours, This heart unpractic'd in Loves mystick pow'rs, For I am soft, and young as April Flowers. Now uncontroul'd we meet, uncheck't improve Each happier Minute in new Joys of Love! Soft were our hours! and lavishly the Day We gave intirely up to Love, and Play. Oft to the cooling Groves, our Flocks we led, And seated on some shaded, flowry Bed; Watch'd the united Wantons as they fed.

And all the Day my list'ning Soul I hung, Upon the charming Musick of thy Tongue, And never thought the blessed hours too long. No Swain, no God like thee cou'd ever move, Or had so soft an Art in whispering Love, No wonder that thou wert Ally'd to Iove. And when you pip'd, or sung, or danc'd, or spoke, The God appear'd in every Grace, and Look. Pride of the Swains, and Glory of the Shades, The Grief, and Joy of all the Love-sick Maids. Thus whilst all hearts you rul'd without Controul, I reign'd the absolute Monarch of your Soul. Each Beach my Name yet bears, carv'd out by thee, Paris, and his Oenone fill each Tree; And as they grow the Letters larger spread, Grow still! a witness of my Wrongs when dead!

Close by a silent silver Brook there grows A Poplar, under whose dear gloomy Boughs A thousand times we have exchang'd our Vows! Oh may'st thou grow! to an endless date of Years! Who on thy Bark this fatal Record bears; When Paris to Oenone proves untrue, Back Xanthus Streams shall to their Fountains ••low. Turn! turn! your Tide, back to your Fountains run! The perjur'd Swain from all his Faith is gone! Curst be that day, may Fate point out the hour, As Ominous in his black Kalender; When Venus, Pallas, and the Wife of Iove Descended to thee in the Mirtle Grove, In shining Chariots drawn by winged Clouds: Naked they came, no Veil their Beauty shrouds;

But every Charm, and Grace expos'd to view, Left Heav'n to be survey'd, and judg'd by you. To bribe thy voice, Iuno wou'd Crowns bestow, Pallas more gratefully wou'd dress thy Brow With Wreaths of Wit! Venus propos'd the choice Of all the fairest Greeks! and had thy Voice. Crowns, and more glorious Wreaths thou didst despise, And promis'd Beauty more than Empire prize! This when you told, Gods! what a killing fear Did over all my shivering Limbs appear? And I presag'd some ominous Change was near! The Blushes left my Cheeks, from every part The Blood ran swift to guard my fainting heart. You in my Eys the glimmering Light perceiv'd Of parting Life, and on my pale Lips breath'd Such Vows, as all my Terrors undeceiv'd. But soon the envying Gods disturb'd our Joys,

Declare thee Great! and all my Bliss destroys! And now the Fleet is Anchor'd in the Bay That must to Troy the glorious Youth convey. Heavens! how you look'd! and what a Godlike Grace At their first Homage beautify'd your Face! Yet this no Wonder, or Amazement brought, You still a Monarch were in Soul, and thought! Nor cou'd I tell which most the Sight augments, Your Joys of Pow'r, or parting Discontents. You kist the Tears which down my Cheeks did glide, And mingled yours with the ••oft falling Tide, And 'twixt your Sighs a thousand times you said Cease my Oenone! Cease my charming Maid! If Paris lives his Native Troy to see, My lovely Nymph, thou shalt a Princess be! But my Prophetick Fear no Faith allows, My breaking Heart resisted all thy Vows.

Ah must we part, I cryd! those killing words No further Language to my Grief affords. Trembling, I fell upon thy panting Breast Which was with equal Love, and Grief opprest, Whilst sighs and looks, all dying spoke the rest, About thy Neck my feeble Arms I cast, Not Vines, nor Ivy circle Elms so fast. To stay, what dear Excuses didst thou frame, And fanciedst Tempests when the Seas were calm? How oft the Winds contrary feign'd to be, When they alas were only so to me! How oft new Vows of lasting Faith you swore, And 'twixt your Kisses all the old run o're? But now the wisely Grave, who Love despise, (Themselves past hope) do busily advise, Whisper Renown, and Glory in thy Ear, Language which Lovers fright, and Swains ne're hear.

For Troy they cry! these Shepherds Weeds lay down, Change Crooks for Scepters! Garlands for a Crown! 'But sure that Crown does far less easie sit, 'Than Wreaths of Flow'rs, less innocent & sweet. 'Nor can thy Beds of State so grateful be, 'As those of Moss, & new fall'n Leaves with me! Now tow'rds the Beach we go, & all the way The Groves, the Fern, dark Woods, and Springs survey; That were so often conscious to the Rites Of sacred Love, in our dear stol'n Delights. With Eyes all languishing, each place you view, And sighing cry, Adieu, dear Shades, Adieu! Then 'twas thy Soul e'en doubted which to do, Refuse a Crown, or those dear Shades forgoe! Glory and Love! the great dispute persu'd, But the false Idol soon the God subdu'd.

And now on Board you go, and all the Sails Are loosned, to receive the flying Gales. Whilst I half dead on the forsaken Strand, Beheld thee sighing on the Deck to stand, Wafting a thousand Kisses from thy Hand. And whilst I cou'd the lessening Vessel see, I gaz'd, and sent a thousand Sighs to thee! And all the Sea-born Neriads implor•• Quick to return thee to our Rustick shore. Now like a Ghost I glide through ev'ry Grove, Silent, and sad as Death, about I rove, And visit all our Treasuries of Love! This Shade th'account of thousand Joys does hide, As many more this murmuring Rivers side, Where the dear Grass, as sacred, does retain The print, where thee and I so oft have lain. Upon this Oak thy Pipe, and Garland's plac'd, That Sycamore is with thy Sheephook grac'••••

Here feed thy Flocks, once lov'd though now thy scorh; Like me forsaken, and like me forlorn! A Rock there is, from whence I cou'd survey From far the blewish Shore, and distant Sea, Whose hanging top with toy1 I climb each day, With greedy View the prospect I run o're, To see what wish't for Ships approach our shore. One day all hopeless on its point I stood, And saw a Vessel bounding o're the Flood, And as it nearer drew, I cou'd discern Rich Purple Sayls, Silk Cords, and Golden Stern; Upon the Deck a Canopy was spread Of Antique work in Gold and Silver made. Which mixt with Sun-beams dazling Light dis∣play'd. But oh! beneath this glorious Scene of State (Curst be the sight) a fatal Beauty sate.

And fondly you were on her Bosome laid, Whilst with your perjur'd Lips her Fingers plaid; Wantonly curl'd and dally'd with that hair, Of which, as sacred Charms, I Bracelets wear. Oh! hadst thou seen me then in that mad state So ruin'd, so design'd for Death and Fate, Fix't on a Rock, whose horrid Precipice In hollow Murmurs wars with Angry Seas; Whilst the bleak Winds alost my Garments bear, Ruffling my careless and dishevel'd hair, I look't like the sad Statue of Despair. With out-stretch'd voice I cry'd, and all around The Rocks and Hills my dire complaints resound, I rend my Garments, tear my flattering Face, Whose false deluding Charms my Ruin was. Mad as the Seas in Storms, I breath Despair, Or Winds let loose in unresisting Air. Raging and Frantick through the Woods I fly,

And Paris! lovely, faithless, Paris; cry. But when the Ecchos sound thy Name again. I change to new variety of Pain. For that dear Name such tenderness inspires, As turns all Passion to Loves softer Fires: With tears I fall to kind Complaints again, So Tempests are allay'd by Show'rs of Rain. Say, lovely Youth, why wou'dst thou thus be∣tray My easie Faith, and lead my heart astray? It might some humble Shepherds Choice have been, Had I that Tongue ne're heard, those Eyes ne're seen. And in some homely Cott, in low Repose, Liv'd undisturb'd with broken Vows and Oaths: All day by shaded Springs my Flocks have kept, And in some honest Arms at Night have slept. Then unupbraided with my wrongs thou'dst been Safe in the Joys of the fair Grecian Queen••

What Stars do rule the Great? no sooner you Became a Prince, but you were Perjur'd too. Are Crowns and Falshoods then consistant things? And must they all be faithless who are Kings? The Gods be prais'd that I was humbly born, Even tho' it renders me my Paris scorn. And I had rather this way wretched prove, Than be a Queen and faithless in my Love. Not my fair Rival wou'd I wish to be, To come prophan'd by others Joys to thee. Aspotless Maid into thy Arms I brought, Untouch't in Fame, ev'n Innocent in thought. Whilst she with Love has treated many a Guest, And brings thee but the leavings of a Feast: With Theseus from her Country made Escape, Whilst she miscall'd the willing Flight, a Rape. So now from Atreus Son, with thee is fled, And still the Rape hides the Adult' rous Deed.

And is it thus Great Ladies keep intire That Vertue they so boast, and you admire? Is this a Trick of Courts, can Ravishment Serve for a poor Evasion of Consent? Hard shift to save that Honour priz'd so high, Whilst the mean Fraud's the greater Infamy. How much more happy are we Rural Maids, Who know no other Palaces than Shades? Who want no Titles to enslave the Croud, Least they shou'd babble all our Crimes aloud. No Arts our good to show, our Ills to hide, Nor know to cover faults of Love with Pride. I lov'd, and all Loves Dictates did persue, And never thought it cou'd be Sin with you. To Gods, and Men, I did my Love proclaim For one soft hour with thee, my charming Swain, Wou'd Recompence an Age to come of Shame, Cou'd it as well but satisfie my Fame.

But oh! those tender hours are fled and lost, And I no more of Fame, or Thee can boast! 'Twas thou wert Honour, Glory, all to me: Till Swains had learn'd the Vice of Perjury, No yielding Maids were charg'd with Infamy. 'Tis false and broken Vows make Love a Sin, Hadst thou been true, We innocent had been. But thou less faith than Autumn leaves do'st show, Which ev'ry Blast bears from their native Bough. Less Weight, less Constancy, in thee is born Than in the slender mildew'd Ears of Corn. Oft when you Garlands wove to deck my hair, Where mystick Pinks, & Dazies mingled were, You swore 'twas ••itter Diadems to bear: And when with eager Kisses prest my hand, Have said, How well a Scepter 'two••'d command!

And if I danc't upon the Flow'ry Green, Wi••h charming, wishing Eyes survey my Miene, And cry! the Gods design'd thee for a Queen! Why then for Helen dost thou me forsake? Can a poor empty Name such difference make? Besides, if Love can be a Sin thine's one, Since Helen does to Menelaus belong. Be Just, restore her back, She's none of thine, And, charming Paris, thou art only mine. ••Tis no Ambitious Flame that makes me sue To be again belov'd, and blest with you; No vain desire of being Ally'd t'a King, Love is the only Dowry I can bring, And tender Love is all I ask again. Whilst on her dang'rous Smiles fierce War must wait With Fire and Vengeance at your Palace gate,

Rouze your soft Slumbers with their rough Alarms, And rudely snatch you from her faithless Arms: Turn then ••air Fugitive, e're tis too late, E're thy mistaken Love procures thy Fate; E're a wrong'd Husband dos thy Death design, And pierce that dear, that faithless Heart of thine.