Mr. SPECTATOR,

Having seen a Translation of one of the Chapters in the Canticles into English Verse inserted among your late Papers, I have ventured to send you the 7th Chapter of the Proverbs in a poetical Dress.  If you think it worthy appearing among your Speculations, it will be a sufficient Reward for the Trouble of

  Your constant Reader,

  A. B.

    My Son, th’ Instruction that my Words impart,
    Grave on the Living Tablet of thy Heart;
    And all the wholesome Precepts that I give,
    Observe with strictest Reverence, and live. 
      Let all thy Homage be to Wisdom paid,
    Seek her Protection and implore her Aid;
    That she may keep thy Soul from Harm secure,
    And turn thy Footsteps from the Harlot’s Door,
    Who with curs’d Charms lures the Unwary in,
    And sooths with Flattery their Souls to Sin. 
      Once from my Window as I cast mine Eye
    On those that pass’d in giddy Numbers by,
    A Youth among the foolish Youths I spy’d,
    Who took not sacred Wisdom for his Guide. 
      Just as the Sun withdrew his cooler Light,
    And Evening soft led on the Shades of Night,
    He stole in covert Twilight to his Fate,
    And passd the Corner near the Harlot’s Gate
    When, lo, a Woman comes!—­
    Loose her Attire, and such her glaring Dress,
    As aptly did the Harlot’s Mind express: 
    Subtle she is, and practisd in the Arts,
    By which the Wanton conquer heedless Hearts: 
    Stubborn and loud she is; she hates her Home,
    Varying her Place and Form; she loves to roam;
    Now she’s within, now in the Street does stray;
    Now at each Corner stands, and waits her Prey. 
    The Youth she seiz’d; and laying now aside
    All Modesty, the Female’s justest Pride,
    She said, with an Embrace, Here at my House
    Peace-offerings are, this Day I paid my Vows. 
    I therefore came abroad to meet my Dear,
    And, Lo, in Happy Hour I find thee here. 
      My Chamber I’ve adornd, and o’er my Bed
    Are cov’rings of the richest Tap’stry spread,
    With Linnen it is deck’d from Egypt brought,
    And Carvings by the Curious Artist wrought,
    It wants no Glad Perfume Arabia yields
    In all her Citron Groves, and spicy Fields;
    Here all her store of richest Odours meets,
    Ill lay thee in a Wilderness of Sweets. 
    Whatever to the Sense can grateful be
    I have collected there—­I want but Thee. 
    My Husband’s gone a Journey far away, }
    Much Gold he took abroad, and long will stay, }
    He nam’d for his return a distant Day. }
      Upon her Tongue did such smooth Mischief dwell,
    And from her Lips such welcome Flatt’ry fell,
    Th’ unguarded Youth, in Silken Fetters ty’d,
    Resign’d his Reason, and with Ease comply’d.