THE TRIPLE LEAGUE TO MRS. SUSAN DOVE by ELIZABETH THOMAS

Pensive @3Eliza@1 lately sate,
Bewailing her unhappy Fate;
Careless her Dress, and wild her Air,
Her self an @3Emblem@1 of Despair:
Upon her Hand, she lean'd her Head,
And sighing first, these Words she said:
Ye @3Fates@1! why am I thus perplex'd,
And why thus daily teaz'd and vex'd?
Each Hour, new Troubles you prepare,
And I am born but to despair.

The first dear Friendship I profest,
Center'd in noble @3Celia@1's Breast!
Her Soul was great! her @3Friendship@1 true!
Her @3Conversation@1 always new:
But ravish'd hence, ah me! She's gone,
And left me here to mourn alone.

No not alone @3Clemena@1 said,
That fair! but ah forgetful Maid;
There still is one, will prove as true
As e'er bright @3Celia@1 did to you;
See where @3Clemena@1 does attend,
And willingly wou'd be your Friend
Why shou'd you then your Grief pursue,
She loves! and is related too.

Thus @3Phoenix@1 like, she did disclose,
And out of Celia's Ashes rose:
Fair @3Iris@1 too bestow'd a Part
Of her majestick gen'rous Heart:
'Twas then of all I wish'd possess'd,
Was poor @3Eliza@1, more than bless'd.

But this too happy was to last,
And much I fear my Joys are past;
To rural Shades, @3Clemena's@1 gone,
And I no more am thought upon:
Unkindly thus she leaves her Friend,
And now will neither come nor send.

Direct me now, ye sacred Nine,
Whilst here I for @3Clemena@1 pine,
Will not dear @3Iris@1 thus conclude,
@3Eliza's@1 either false, or rude?
She paus'd ---
When straight there shin'd a glorious Ray,
The gloomy Grott was bright as Day;
A fragrent Scent her Spirits cheer'd,
And whilst these @3Omens@1 she rever'd,
Young @3Cupids@1 came, and wanton'd there,
And gentle @3Zephirs@1 fann'd the Air:
Room! Room! for her whom we adore!
A @3Cupid@1 cry'd, and said no more:
But as she spoke there came along
Most beauteous @3Iris@1, fair and young;
So fine, so gay, so wond'rous Bright,
As was the first created Light:
Yet @3she@1 both kind, and good appears,
And quite disperses all my Fears.

As when, in Dead of Night alone,
A poor Unhappy! makes his Moan,
Dismal Horror, silent Care,
Sighs, and Groans, and deep Despair,
Do this poor Mortal quite surround,
And's little Stock of Sense confound:
But if an Angel pity take,
And to's Relief a Tour doth make,
Soon as the heaven'ly Beams appear,
So soon is vanish'd all his Fear.

Such you, my @3Lovely Angel@1, came,
Expell'd my Doubts, and clear'd her Fame;
You did ev'n all a Friend cou'd do,
And for some Hours, you gave me you.

But say, sweet @3Nymph@1, can you forgive,
The @3Slights@1 you did that Day receive?
If so: Pray send me in a Line,
That charming @3Iris@1 still is mine.

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