And, while the sprightly Essence of the Bowl

Glows in each Vein, and opens ev’ry Soul,

With Rapture they recount their recent Toils,

Their Victories, and long-contested Spoils.

Their Wives alike indulge the genial Hour,

Studious to please, and call forth Beauty’s Pow’r;

Then Love’s soft Queen (to crown the short Repast,

And bless the Night of all their Nights the last)

Breath’d in each Husband’s Breast a fierce Desire

Of am’rous Joys that quickly must expire.

T’was dead of Night; the Matrons cease to sing,

Dumb was each Voice, and mute the tuneful String;

When Sleep, Half-Brother of approaching Death,

Steep’d in soft Dews exhal’d from Styx beneath,

Safe under Covert of the silent Hours,

With lavish Hand his opiate Juices pours,

But not on all: their Ardour to destroy,

And watchful Cares the female Part employ.

At length, no longer patient of Delay,

They rush impetuous on their helpless Prey:

And each (a Fury lodg’d within her Breast,)

Invades her Man, with downy Sleep opprest.

Thus Scythian Tigresses the Herd surround,

And leap amidst them with a furious Bound,

When, press’d with Hunger, they desert the Wood,

Or their fierce Whelps demand the promis’d Food.

What Act of Guilt, or whose untimely Fate

Amidst a Thousand shall I first relate?

O’er Helimus, with leafy Honours crown’d,

Rash Gorge stands, and meditates a Wound.

Cloy’d with the Banquet, he retir’d to Rest,

And puff’d the fumy God from out his Breast;

But Sleep forsook him, e’er depriv’d of Breath,

And starting at the cold Approach of Death,

He wakes, confounded at the sudden View,

And round her Neck his Arms in Transport threw,

But mourns the social Greeting ill repaid,

As in his Chest he feels the driving Blade.

Nor yet resenting of his Wound, he prest

Th’ unworthy Object closer to his Breast,

And, struggling in the griping Arms of Death,

On Gorge dwells, and wastes his parting Breath.

Dire as they were, I cannot now relate

The Vulgar’s countless Deaths and various Fate:

Suffice it private Evils to disclose,

And measure by my own another’s Woes.

Craeneus fell, a Warrior fair and bold,

And youthful Cydon, grac’d with Locks of Gold.

With these, the Product of an Alien’s Bed,

I pass’d my early Days, together bred.

Next Gyas bled, design’d with me to prove,

Had Heav’n prolong’d his Date, the Joys of Love.

Then fair Aepopeus met his Mother’s Blade,

As at the Feast the wanton Stripling play’d.

Lycaste of her Rage disarm’d, appears

And sheds o’er Cydimus a Flood of Tears;

As she beheld a Face of her own Mold,

And Hair which she herself had trick’d with Gold,

Her Consort slain, her Mother near her Stands,

Impells with Threats, and arms her trembling Hands.

As when the Lion, or the spotted Pard,