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.