A Mischievous Lady
The gen'rous mind no subtle vengeance knows,
With peace, with love, with charity it glows:
The mind from enmity, from malice free,
Oh F LAVIA ! once it was assign'd to thee!
She who can form her dark insiduous scheme,
And follows Hatred to its dire extreme,
Not thus escapes the arrow of Distrust—
Not thus will teach Suspicion to be just;
For Innocence pursues a gentler way,
Clear and benignant as the light of day!
No sweet resource in keen Resentment finds,
But leaves that luxury to unworthy minds;
Leaves it to Heaven to make its inj'ries known,
Who marks the cause of Virtue as its own!
In human F LAVIA ! is thy triumph this,
To close the period of domestic bliss?
Is this thy joy, that anguish shou'd be felt,
Where Peace and Love, and sweet Contentment dwelt?—
Justice shall tell thee, that injurious breast,
Which wounds another, ne'er itself shall rest;
A thousand pangs shall pierce thee o'er and o'er,
When all the charms of Vengeance are no more:
Then shall thy fancy paint, with keen concern,
The fatal hour which never shall return!
That hour, which had it seen thee, meek and mild,
With conscious Virtue—Angels might have smil'd!
Thine is the guilt, in Error's path to run,
And act a thousand crimes to varnish one!
Leave then, oh false one! leave thy hateful plan,
Let Mercy end what Enmity began.
If cruel Slander seems to wound thy fame,
And injur'd Virtue feels the blush of shame,
Soon shall the genuine current find its course,
It needs no arts—no vengeance to enforce!
In Innocence there dwells a native pow'r,
And Heaven shall give it the triumphant hour
But Malice is its foe.—The worst defence!
We shine, even victors, at our own expence;
And Purity, which thus its cause shall plead
Shall find that Justice is but cold indeed!
But oh! if darkness has possess'd thy mind
And leaves no spark of tenderness behind;
If all that air of softness is deceit,
And no kind feelings in thy bosom beat;
If Nature form'd thee all her gifts to feign,
And gave thee wit and elegance in vain!
Fame may acquit thee, but a blot shall stay,
Not all thy wond'rous art can wash away;
Fame may acquit thee, and thy name restore—
But never wilt thou find Affection more!
With peace, with love, with charity it glows:
The mind from enmity, from malice free,
Oh F LAVIA ! once it was assign'd to thee!
She who can form her dark insiduous scheme,
And follows Hatred to its dire extreme,
Not thus escapes the arrow of Distrust—
Not thus will teach Suspicion to be just;
For Innocence pursues a gentler way,
Clear and benignant as the light of day!
No sweet resource in keen Resentment finds,
But leaves that luxury to unworthy minds;
Leaves it to Heaven to make its inj'ries known,
Who marks the cause of Virtue as its own!
In human F LAVIA ! is thy triumph this,
To close the period of domestic bliss?
Is this thy joy, that anguish shou'd be felt,
Where Peace and Love, and sweet Contentment dwelt?—
Justice shall tell thee, that injurious breast,
Which wounds another, ne'er itself shall rest;
A thousand pangs shall pierce thee o'er and o'er,
When all the charms of Vengeance are no more:
Then shall thy fancy paint, with keen concern,
The fatal hour which never shall return!
That hour, which had it seen thee, meek and mild,
With conscious Virtue—Angels might have smil'd!
Thine is the guilt, in Error's path to run,
And act a thousand crimes to varnish one!
Leave then, oh false one! leave thy hateful plan,
Let Mercy end what Enmity began.
If cruel Slander seems to wound thy fame,
And injur'd Virtue feels the blush of shame,
Soon shall the genuine current find its course,
It needs no arts—no vengeance to enforce!
In Innocence there dwells a native pow'r,
And Heaven shall give it the triumphant hour
But Malice is its foe.—The worst defence!
We shine, even victors, at our own expence;
And Purity, which thus its cause shall plead
Shall find that Justice is but cold indeed!
But oh! if darkness has possess'd thy mind
And leaves no spark of tenderness behind;
If all that air of softness is deceit,
And no kind feelings in thy bosom beat;
If Nature form'd thee all her gifts to feign,
And gave thee wit and elegance in vain!
Fame may acquit thee, but a blot shall stay,
Not all thy wond'rous art can wash away;
Fame may acquit thee, and thy name restore—
But never wilt thou find Affection more!
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