You'll think, when thro' Hemonian fields you rove,
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That magic arts may yield a cure for love.
Old tales, of witchcraft strange effects rehearse;
The only charm I bring is sacred verse.
By my advice no jargon shall be read,
Nor midnight hag, blaspheming, raise the dead;
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No standing crop to other fields shall range,
No sick eclipse the sun's complexion change;
Old Tyber shall his sacred course retain,
And Cynthia, unmolested, gain her wain.
No suffering heart to spells shall be oblig'd.
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Nor love resign, by sulphur streams besieg'd.
Think on Medea, of all hopes bereft,
When fled from home, and by her lover left.
And what did Circe's powerful drugs avail,
1
When she beheld Ulysses under sail?
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She tried her magic, charm on charm renew'd;
He with a merry gale his course pursu'd;
No force or skill the fatal dart removes,
She raves to find she loves-but still she loves.
To thousand shapes she could transform mankind,
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No means to change her hated self could find.
In these soft terms, to her departing guest,
Her passion (to detain him) was exprest.
"I now no more (as when I first receiv'd
Those hopes and you, by both alike deceiv'd)
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Expect that you with me should pass your life,
Nor more ambitious to be made your wife;
(Though sure my pedigree you cannot scorn;
The daughter of the son, a goddess born)
I but intreat you for a time to stay,
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And urge, for your own sake, the short delay.
The seas are rough, which you have cause to fear;
Wait but a friendlier season of the year.
What haste? This isle does no new
afford,
No second Rhesus to employ your sword.
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Love revels here, with peaceful myrtle crown'd,
And mine the only heart that feels a painful wound."
She said-his crew the swelling sails display,
That bear him and her fruitless pray'rs away.
In vain to her enchantments she returns,
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Tries all, yet still in hopeless flames she burns.
For Circe's sake, all lovers I advise,
That spells, as senseless things, they would despise.