And thou, whose beauty is the boast of fame,Hadst perish'd, had thy mother done the same;Nor had I liv'd love's faithful slave to be,Had my own mother dealt as ill by me.Ah, vile invention, ah, accurs'd design,To rob of rip'ning fruit the loaded vineAh, let it grow for nature's use mature,Ah, let it its full length of time endure;'Twill of itself, alas! too soon decay,And quickly fall, like autumn leaves, awayWhy barb'rously dost thou thy bowels tearTo kill the human load that quickens there?On venom'd drugs why venture, to destroyThe pledge of pleasure past, the promis'd boy?Medea, guilty of her childrens' blood,