_All Day, o’er Hills and Plains, wild Beasts he chas’d,_ _Swift as the flying Winds, his eager haste;_ _In vain, the God of Love pursues as fast._ _But oh! no Sports, no Toils, divertive prove,_ _The Evening still returns him to the Grove,_ _To sigh and languish for the Queen of Love:_ _Where Elegies and Sonnets he does frame,_ _And to the list’ning Echoes sighs her Name,_ _And on the Trees carves Records of his Flame._ _The Warrior in the dusty Camp all day_ _With rattling Drums and Trumpets, does essay_ _To fright the tender flatt’ring God away._ _But still, alas, in vain: whate’er Delight,_ _What Cares he takes the wanton Boy to fright,_ Love _still revenges it at night._ _’.is then he haunts the Royal Tent,_ _The sleeping Hours in Sighs are spent,_ _And all his Resolutions does prevent._ _In all his Pains,_ Love _mixt his Smart;_ _In every Wound he feels a Dart;_ _And the soft God is trembling in his Heart._ _Then he retires to shady Groves,_ _And there, in vain, he seeks Repose,_ _And strives to fly from what he cannot lose._ _While thus he lay,_ Bellona _came,_ _And with a gen’rous fierce Disdain,_ _Upbraids him with his feeble Flame._ _Arise, the World’s great Terror, and their Care;_ _Behold the glitt’ring Host from far,_ _That waits the Conduct of the God of War._ _Beneath these glorious Laurels, which were made_ _To crown the noble Victor’s Head,_ _Why thus supinely art thou laid?_ _Why on that Face, where awful Terror grew,_ _Thy Sun-parch’d Cheeks why do I view_ _The shining Tracks of falling Tears bedew?_ _What God has wrought these universal Harms?_ _What fatal Nymph, what fatal Charms,_ _Has made the Heroe deaf to War’s Alarms?_ _Now let the conqu’ring Ensigns up be furl’d:_ _Learn to be gay, be soft, and curl’d;_ _And idle, lose the Empire of the World._ _In fond effeminate Delights go on;_ _Lose all the Glories you have won:_ _Bravely resolve to love, and be undone._ _’.is thus the martial Virgin pleads;_ _Thus she the am’rous God persuades_ _To fly from_ Venus, _and the flow’ry Meads._ You see here that Poets and Warriors are oftentimes in affliction, even under the Shades of their protecting Laurels; and let the Nymphs and Virgins sing what they please to their memory, under the Myrtles, and on flowery Beds, they are much better Days than in the Campagne. Nor do the Crowns of Glory surpass those of Love: The first is but an empty Name, which is won, kept and lost with Hazard; but Love more nobly employs a brave Soul, and all his Pleasures are solid and lasting; and when one has a worthy Object of one’s Flame, Glory accompanies Love too. But go to sleep, the Hour is come; and ‘tis now that your Soul ought to be entertain’d in Dreams. TWO o’.LOCK. _Conversation in Dreams._