To a LADY in Town , soon after her leaving the Country . By the Same . WHilst you , dear maid , o'er thousands born to reign , For the gay town exchange the rural plain , The cooling breeze and ev'ning walk forsake For stifling crowds , which your own beauties make ; Thro' circling joys while you incessant stray , Charm in the Mall , and sparkle at the play ; Think ( if successive vanities can spare One thought to love ) what cruel pangs I bear , Left in these plains all wretched , and alone , To weep with fountains , and with echoes groan , And mourn incessantly that fatal day , That all my bliss with CHLOE snatch'd away . Say , by what arts I can relieve my pain , Musick , verse , all I try , but try in vain ; In vain the breathing flute my hand employs , Late the companion of my CHLOE'S voice . Nor HANDEL'S , nor CORELLI'S tuneful airs Can harmonize my soul , or sooth my cares ; Those once-lov'd med'cines unsuccessful prove , Musick , alas , is but the voice of love ! In vain I oft harmonious lines peruse , And seek for aid from POPE'S and PRIOR'S Muse ; Their treach'rous numbers but assist the foe , And call forth scenes of sympathising woe ; Here HELOISE mourns her absent lover's charms , There panting EMMA sighs in HENRY'S arms ; Their loves like mine ill-fated I bemoan , And in their tender sorrows read my own . Restless sometimes , as oft the mournful dove Forsakes her nest forsaken by her love , I fly from home , and seek the sacred fields , Where CAM'S old urn its silver current yields , Where solemn tow'rs o'er-look each mossy grove , As if to guard it from th' assaults of love ; Yet guard in vain , for there my CHLOE'S eyes But lately made whole colleges her prize ; Her sons , tho' few , not PALLAS cou'd defend , Nor DULLNESS succour to her thousands lend ; Love like a fever with infectious rage Scorch'd up the young , and thaw'd the frost of age ; To gaze at her , ev'n DONS are seen to run , And leave unfinish'd pipes , and authors — scarce begun . So HELEN look'd , and mov'd with such a grace , When the grave seniors of the TROJAN race Were forc'd those fatal beauties to admire , That all their youth consum'd , and set their town on fire . At fam'd NEWMARKET oft I spend the day , An unconcern'd spectator of the play ; There pitiless observe the ruin'd heir With anger fir'd , or melting with despair : For how should I his trivial loss bemoan , Who feel one , so much greater , of my own ? There while the golden heaps , a glorious prize , Wait the decision of two rival dice , While long disputes 'twixt seven and five remain , And each , like parties , have their friends for gain , Without one wish I see the guineas shine , Fate , keep your gold , I cry , make CHLOE mine . Now see , prepar'd their utmost speed to try , O'er the smooth turf the bounding racers fly ! Now more and more their slender limbs they strain , And foaming stretch along the velvet plain ! Ah stay ! swift steeds , your rapid flight delay , No more the jockey's smarting lash obey : But rather let my hand direct the rein , And guide your steps a nobler prize to gain ; Then swift as eagles cut the yielding air , Bear me , oh bear me to the absent fair . Now when the winds are hush'd , the air serene , And chearful sun-beams gild the beauteous scene , Pensive o'er all the neighb'ring fields I stray , Where-e'er or choice , or chance directs the way ; Or view the op'ning lawns , or private woods , Or distant bluish hills , or silver floods : Now harmless birds in silken nets insnare , Now with swift dogs pursue the flying hare ; Dull sports ! for oh my CHLOE is not there ! Fatigued at length I willingly retire To a small study , and a chearful fire , There o'er some folio pore ; I pore , 'tis true , But oh my thoughts are fled , and fled to you ; I hear you , see you , feast upon your eyes , And clasp with eager arms the lovely prize . Here for a while I cou'd forget my pain , Whilst I by dear reflection live again ; But ev'n these joys are too sublime to last , And quickly fade , like all the real ones past : For just when now beneath some silent grove I hear you talk — and talk perhaps of love , Or charm with thrilling notes the list'ning ear , Sweeter than angels sing , or angels hear , My treach'rous hand its weighty charge lets go , The book falls thund'ring on the floor below , The pleasing vision in a moment's gone , And I once more am wretched and alone . So when glad ORPHEUS from th' infernal shade Had just recall'd his long-lamented maid , Soon as her charms had reach'd his eager eyes , Lost in eternal night — again she dies .