FLORA to POMPEY. John Hervey, Baron of Ickworth Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.004 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. IV. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 86-90. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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FLORA to POMPEY . By the Same .

Pompey , when he was very young , fell in love with Flora , a Roman courtezan , who was so very beautiful that the Ro mans had her painted to adorn the temple of Castor and Pollux . Geminius ( Pompey's friend ) afterwards fell in love with her too ; but she , prepossessed with a passion for Pompey , would not listen to Geminius . Pompey , in compassion to his friend , yielded him his mistress , which Flora took so much to heart , that she fell dangerously ill upon it ; and in that sickness is supposed to write the following letter to Pompey .

ERE death these closing eyes for ever shade , ( That death thy cruelties have welcome made ) Receive , thou yet lov'd man ! this one adieu , This last farewel to happiness and you . My eyes o'erflow with tears , my trembling hand Can scarce the letters form , or pen command : The dancing paper swims before my sight , And scarce myself can read the words I write . Think you behold me in this lost estate , And think yourself the author of my fate : How vast the change ! your Flora's now become The gen'ral pity , not the boast of Rome . This form , a pattern to the sculptor's art , This face , the idol once of Pompey's heart , ( Whose pictur'd beauties Rome thought fit to place The sacred temples of her gods to grace ) Are charming now no more ; the bloom is fled , The lillies languid , and the roses dead . Soon shall some hand the glorious work deface , Where Grecian pencils tell what Flora was : No longer my resemblance they impart , They lost their likeness , when I lost thy heart . Oh ! that those hours could take their turn again , When Pompey , lab'ring with a jealous pain , His Flora thus bespoke : " Say , my dear love ! " Shall all these rivals unsuccessful prove ? " In vain , for ever , shall the Roman youth " Envy my happiness , and tempt thy truth ? " Shall neither tears nor pray'rs thy pity move ? " Ah ! give not pity , 'tis akin to love . " Would Flora were not fair in such excess , " That I might fear , tho' not adore her less . " Fool that I was , I sought to ease that grief , Nor knew indiff'rence follow'd the relief : Experience taught the cruel truth too late , I never dreaded , till I found my fate . 'Twas mine to ask if Pompey's self could hear , Unmov'd , his rival's unsuccessful pray'r ; To make thee swear he'd not thy pity move ; Alas ! such pity is no kin to love . 'Twas thou thyself ( ungrateful as thou art ! ) Bade me unbend the rigour of my heart : You chid my faith , reproach'd my being true , ( Unnat'ral thought ! ) and labour'd to subdue The constancy my soul maintain'd for you ; To other arms your mistress you condemn'd , Too cool a lover , and too warm a friend . How could'st thou thus my lavish heart abuse , To ask the only thing it could refuse ? Nor yet upbraid me , Pompey , what I say , For 'tis my merit that I can't obey ; Yet this alledg'd against me as a fault , Thy rage fomented , and my ruin wrought . Just gods ! what tye , what conduct can prevail O'er fickle man , when truth like mine can fail ? Urge not , to gloss thy crime , the name of friend , We know how far those sacred laws extend ; Since other heroes have not blush'd to prove How weak all passions when oppos'd to love : Nor boast the virtuous conflict of thy heart When gen'rous pity took Geminius' part ; 'Tis all heroic fraud , and Roman art . Such flights of honour might amuse the crowd , But by a mistress ne'er can be allow'd ; Keep for the senate , and the grave debate , That infamous hypocrisy of state : There words are virtue , and your trade deceit . No riddle is thy change , nor hard t' explain ; Flora was fond , and Pompey was a man : No longer then a specious tale pretend , Nor plead fictitious merit to your friend : By nature false , you follow'd her decree , Nor gen'rous are to him , but false to me . You say you melted at Geminius' tears , You say you felt his agonizing cares : Gross artifice , that this from him could move , And not from Flora , whom you say you love : You could not bear to hear your rival sigh , Yet bear unmov'd to see your mistress die . Inhuman hypocrite ! nor thus can he My wrongs , and my distress , obdurate , see . He , who receiv'd , condemns the gift you made , And joins with me the giver to upbraid , Forgetting he's oblig'd , and mourning I'm betray'd . He loves too well that cruel gift to use , Which Pompey lov'd too little to refuse : Fain would he call my vagrant lord again , But I the kind ambassador restrain ; I scorn to let another take my part , And to myself will owe or lose thy heart . Can nothing e'er rekindle love in thee ? Can nothing e'er extinguish it in me ? That I could tear thee from this injur'd breast ! And where you gave my person , give the rest , At once to grant and punish thy request . That I could place thy worthy rival there ! No second insult need my fondness fear ; He views not Flora with her Pompey's eyes , He loves like me , he doats , despairs , and dies . Come to my arms , thou dear deserving youth ! Thou prodigy of man ! thou man with truth ! For him , I will redouble every care , To please , for him , these faded charms repair ; To crown his vows , and sharpen thy despair . Oh ! 'tis illusion all ! and idle rage ! No second passion can this heart engage ; And shortly , Pompey , shall thy Flora prove , Death may dissolve , but nothing change her love .