John Hoole

When highest placed on giddy Fortune's wheel, Unhappy man must soon expect to feel A sad reverse, and in the changing round With rapid whirl as sudden touch the ground.

Not beauty, wealth, or lineage e'er could raise A woman's name (he said) to height of praise, If not in action chaste.

These friendly words awhile consoled the fair; For grief imparted oft alleviates care.

And Neptune's white herds low above the wave.

When Fame, O monarch! good or evil tells, Evil or good beyond the truth she swells.

But such their power who rule with tyrant sway, Whom most they loath the people most obey.

Never let us utter what we never can know, And chiefly when it works another's woe.

Behold the state of man's unstable mind, Still prone to change with every changing wind! All our resolves are weak, but weakest prove Where sprung from sense of disappointed love.

To others never do That which yourselves would wish undone to you.

Of all the sex this certain truth is known, No woman yet was ever content with one.

For oft the grace Of costly vest improves a beauteous face.

In blaming others, fools their folly show, And most attempt to speak when least they know.

What more our folly shows, Than while we others seek, ourselves to lose?

Reflect, ye gentle dames, that much they know, Who gain experience from another's woe.

The youth, who pants to gain the amorous prize, Forgets that Heaven with all-discerning eyes Surveys the secret heart; and when desire Has, in possession, quenched its short-lived fire, The devious winds aside each promise bear, And …

So from a water clear, the trembling light Of Phoebus, or the silver queen of night, Along the spacious rooms with splendour plays, Now high, now low, and shifts a thousand ways.

What has that wretched damsel left to boast, What good on earth, whose virtuous praise is lost?

Ah! why so rare does cruel Love inspire Two tender bosoms with a mutual fire? Say, whence, perfidious, dost thou pleasure find To sow dissension in the human mind?

Love what we see can from our sight remove, And things invisible are seen by Love.

The spotless maid is like the blooming rose Which on its native stem unsullied grows; Where fencing walls the garden-space surround, Nor swains, nor browsing cattle tread the ground. But if some hand the tender stalk invades, Lost is its …

My endeavour has been to render the sense of my author as nearly as possible, which could never be done merely by translating his words.