THIS flatt'ry roused the beauteous widowed fair; The god of soft persuasion soon was there, And from his quiver in a moment drew Two arrows keen, which from his bow-string flew; With one he pierced the soldier to the heart, The lady slightly felt the other dart. Her youth and beauty, spite of tears, appeared, And men of taste such charms had long revered; A mind of tender feeling might, through life. Have loved her--even though she were a wife.
THE sentinel was smitten with her charms; Grief, pity, sighs, belong to Cupid's arms; When bosoms heave and eyes are drowned in tears, Then beauty oft with conq'ring grace appears.
BEHOLD our widow list'ning to his praise, Incipient fuel Cupid's flame to raise; Behold her, even glad to view the wight, Whose well tim'd flatt'ry filled her with delight
AT length, to eat he on the fair prevailed, And pleased her better than the dead bewailed. So well he managed, that she changed her plan, And, by degrees, to love him fondly 'gan. The son of Mars a darling husband grew, While yet her former dear was full in view.
MEANTIME the corpse, that long in chains had swung, By thieves was carried off from where it hung. The noise was heard, and thither ran our wight; But vain his efforts:--they were out of sight; Confused, distressed, he sought again the tomb, To tell his grief and settle, 'mid the gloom, How best to act, and where his head to hide, Since hang he must, the laws would now decide.
THE slave replied, your gibbet-thief, you say, Some lurking rogues this night have borne away: The law, it seems, will ne'er accord you grace The corpse that's here, let's set in t'other's place: The passers-by the change will never tell The lady gave consent, and all was well.
O FICKLE females, ever you're the same; A woman's a woman, both in mind and name Some fair we find, and some unlike the dove, But CONSTANCY'S the highest charm of love.
YE prudes, for ever doubt of full success; Don't boast at all: too much you may profess, How good soever your design may be, Not less is ours, you easily may see; The MATRON'S tale is not beyond belief: To entertain, our object is in chief.
THE widow's only errors were her cries; And mad design her life to sacrifice; For, merely setting husband-dead in place of one of this patibulary race, Was surely not a fault so very grave: Her lover's life was what she sought to save.