Page:The Poetical Works of Thomas Parnell (1833).djvu/140

12 Lord of himself, and all the world his own. For him the Nymphs in green forsook the woods, For him the Nymphs in blue forsook the floods; In vain the Satyrs rage, the Tritons rave; They bore him heroes in the secret cave. No care destroy'd, no sick disorder prey'd, No bending age his sprightly form decay'd, No wars were known, no females heard to rage, And poets tell us, 'twas a golden age.

When woman came, those ills the box confin'd Burst furious out, and poison'd all the wind, From point to point, from pole to pole they flew, Spread as they went, and in the progress grew: The Nymphs regretting left the mortal race, And altering nature wore a sickly face; New terms of folly rose, new states of care; New plagues to suffer, and to please, the fair! The days of whining, and of wild intrigues, Commenc'd, or finish'd, with the breach of leagues; The mean designs of well-dissembled love; The sordid matches never join'd above; Abroad, the labour, and at home the noise, (Man's double sufferings for domestic joys); The curse of jealousy; expense, and strife; Divorce, the public brand of shameful life; The rival's sword; the qualm that takes the fair; Disdain for passion, passion in despair— These, and a thousand, yet unnam'd, we find; Ah fear the thousand, yet unnam'd, behind!