Your suffering sons, and so return your bribe: But incense from my hands is poorly prized; For gifts are scorned where givers are despised. I served a turn, and then was cast away; } You, like the gaudy fly, your wings display, } And sip the sweets, and bask in your great patron's day.--[188]} This heard, the matron was not slow to find What sort of malady had seized her mind; Disdain, with gnawing envy, fell despite, And cankered malice, stood in open sight; Ambition, interest, pride without controul, And jealousy, the jaundice of the soul; Revenge, the bloody minister of ill, With all the lean tormentors of the will. 'Twas easy now to guess from whence arose Her new-made union with her ancient foes; Her forced civilities, her faint embrace, Affected kindness, with an altered face; Yet durst she not too deeply probe the wound, As hoping still the nobler parts were sound; But strove with anodynes to assuage the smart, And mildly thus her medicine did impart. Complaints of lovers help to ease their pain; It shows a rest of kindness to complain; A friendship loth to quit its former hold, And conscious merit, may be justly bold; But much more just your jealousy would shew, If others' good were injury to you: Witness, ye heavens, how I rejoice to see Rewarded worth and rising loyalty! Your warrior offspring, that upheld the crown, The scarlet honour of your peaceful gown, Are the most pleasing objects I can find, Charms to my sight, and cordials to my mind: When virtue spooms[189] before a prosperous gale, My heaving wishes help to fill the sail; And if my prayers for all the brave were heard, Cæsar should still have such, and such should still reward. The laboured earth your pains have sowed and tilled, 'Tis just you reap the product of the field: Yours be the harvest; 'tis the beggar's gain, To glean the fallings of the loaded wain. Such scattered ears as are not worth your care,} Your charity, for alms, may safely spare, } For alms are but the vehicles of prayer. } My daily bread is literally implored; I have no barns nor granaries to hoard. If Cæsar to his own his hand extends, } Say which of yours his charity offends; } You know, he largely gives to more than are his friends.} Are you defrauded, when he feeds the poor? Our mite decreases nothing of your store. I am but few, and by your fare you see My crying sins are not of luxury. Some juster motive sure your mind withdraws, } And makes you break our friendship's holy laws;} For barefaced envy is too base a cause. } Show more occasion for your discontent; Your love, the Wolf, would help you to invent: Some German quarrel, or, as times go now,