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Not knowing 'twas my labor, I complain
creas'd, Which with her hand the conscious nurse fup
press’d. To that unhappy fortune was I come, Pain urg'd my clamors, but fear kept me dumb. With inward struggling I restrain'd my
cries, And drunk the tears that trickled from
60 Death was in fight, Lucina gave no aid ; And even my dying had my guilt betray’d. Thou cam'ft, and in thy count'nance fate de.
spair; Rent were thy garments all, and torn thy
Yet feigning comfort, which thou couldst not
give, (Prest in thy arms, and whisp’ring me to live :) For both our fakes, (faidst thou) preserve thy
Live, my dear sister, and my dearer wife.
my last pangs I strove; Such pow'r have words, when spoke by those
The babe, as if he heard what thou hadft sworn, With hafty joy sprung forward to be born.
What helps it to have weather'd out one storm?
fear. He rush'd upon me, and divulg'd my stain ; 95 Scarce from my murder could his hands refrain. I only answer'd him with silent tears; They flow'd: my tongue was frozen up
with fears. His little grand-child he commands away, To mountain wolves and ev'ry bird of
The babe cry'd out, as if he understood,
could. By what expressions can my grief be shown ? (Yet you may guess my anguilh by your own) To see my bowels, and, what yet was worse, 105 Your bowels too, condemn'd to such a curse ! Out went the king; my voice its freedom found, My breasts I beat, my blubber'd cheeks I
wound. And now appear’d the messenger of death ; Sad were his looks, and scarce he drew his
“ Your father sends you"-(with that
word His trembling hands presented me a sword :) “ Your father sends you this ; and lets you
know, “ That your own crimes the use of it will show.” Too well I know the sense those words im
part: His present shall be treasur’d in
heart. 116 Are these the nuptial gifts a bride receives? And this the fatal dow'r a father gives ? Thou god of Marriage, fun thy own disgrace, And take thy torch from this detested place : 190 Instead of that, let furies light their brands, And fire my pile with their infernal hands.
With happier fortune may my sisters wed;
shorn hair; 135 Nor shew the grief which tender mothers bear. Yet long thou shalt not from my arms be loft ; For foon I will o'ertake thy infant ghost. But thou, my love, and now my love's despair, Perform his funerals with paternal care. His scatter'd limbs with my dead body burn; And once more join us in the pious urn.
wounded breast thou dropp'st a tear, Think for whose fake my breast that wound did
If on my
And faithfully my last desires fulfil,
145 As I perform my cruel father's will.
Ver. 146. As I perform] The subject of this epistle is so very disgusting an:1 offensive, that I could not bring my mind to make any obfervation upon it, and fuppofe Dryden translated it only to complete the volume.
Dr. J. WARTON,