To me, ye injured youths, for help repair,
Who hopeless languish for some cruel fair;
I'll now unteach the art I taught before,
The hand that wounded shall your health restore.
One soil can herbs and pois'nous weeds disclose:
The nettle oft is neighbour to the rose.
Such was the cure the Arcadian hero found;1
The Pelian spear that wounded, made him sound.
But know, the rules that I to men prescribe,
In like distress may serve the female tribe:
And when beyond your sphere my methods go,
You may, at least, infer what you should do.
When flames beyond their useful bounds aspire,
'Tis charity to quench the threat'ning fire.
Nine visits to the shore poor Phillis made;
Had I advis'd, the tenth she should have paid.
Nor had Demophoon, when return'd from sea,2
For his expected bride embraced a tree,
Nor Dido, from her flaming pile, by night,
Discover'd her ungrateful Trojan's flight.
Nor had that mother dire revenge pursu'd,
Who in her offspring's blood her hands imbu'd.
Fair Philomel, preserv'd from Tereus' rape3
Her honour she had kept, and he his shape.
Pasiphae ne'er had felt such wild desire,
Nor Phoedra suffered by incestuous fire.
Let me the wanton Paris take in hand,
Helen shall be restor'd, and Troy shall stand.
My wholesome precepts had lewd Scylla read,
The purple lock had grown on Nisus' head.
Learn, youths, from me, to curb the desp'rate force
Of love, and steer, by my advice, your course.
By reading me, you first receiv'd your bane;
Now, for an antidote, read me again:
From scornful beauty's chains I'll set you free,
Consent but you to your own liberty.
Phoebus, thou god of physic and of verse,
Assist the healing numbers I rehearse;
Direct at once my med'cines and my song,
For to thy care both provinces belong.
