THE ART OF LOVE: In Two Books. Written both to Men and Ladies. A NEW POEM. Me Venus Artificem tenero praefecit Amori— Quô me finxit Amor, quô me violentius Vssit; Hoc melior facti vulneris ultor ero— LONDON: Printed for joseph Wild, at the Elephant at Charing-Cross, 1700. Where Gentlemen and Ladies may pick Novels at 6 s. per Does. And be furnished with most Sorts of Plays. THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY, To the Right Honourable EVELIN EARL OF KINGSTON. My LORD, THE deserving Patron reads the Dedication with a Caution, as curious, as the modest Poet feels when writing it; both equally afraid of any Thing that looks like Flattery. But Your Lordship may be, (at present) as easy in a Poet, as I am happy in a Patron; You are above it; and I think, I need take no great Pains to Vindicate the Assertion, since I shall make it my business in this Address to convince Your Lordship, that 'tis below even me. Nor will I, with industrious Art, couch Flattery under the pretence: of disavowing it. I would not apply to any Person, whom I believe not every way Noble; I am a Stranger to Your Lordship, I mean, so far a Stranger, as only to know Your Lordship by the Opinion of the World, and by the Character Mankind has given you: Why should I then run out on your Encomiums, and only Echo to the World what I first heard from them? All that becomes me to say at present, is, that I agree with the Universal Consent of either Sex, and make one to fill the Train of your Admirers. To whom can I more fitly present the Art of Love, than to Your Lordship? You are the Lover in all the several Scenes of Life, the Courtier, the Husband, and the Widower; you were the Lover of your Wife, you loved beyond the Fashion, you loved her tho' your Wife; you were the Lover of your Wife, and are the Lover of your Children. So fond you are of those young Pledges of your Nuptial Friendship, you seem the admiring Courtier of them, you seem wedded to them, you seem the very Father of Love itself. Hence 'tis that this Book, the Child of Love, flies to Your Lordship for Protection. 'Tis an Original, not Copied after Ovid; for Ovid's Book indeed cannot be properly said with modesty, to be the Art of Love. Where his Precepts are virtuous, as they fall in naturally to the purpose, I could not well avoid them; for every Man that Loves, runs fond, (I may say without Thought almost,) on the same amorous Expressions. How far I have Succeeded in the Attempt, Your Lordship can best Judge, who are the greatest Master in all the Noble Innocence of generous Gallantries; Your Approbation of it will sufficiently recommend it to the Fair, and Crown with Success, the Wishes of My Lord, Your Lordship's very Humble and Obedient Servant▪ THE PREFACE. THE Bookseller has prevailed on me to Write something by way of Preface, with which I should not otherwise have troubled the Reader, or myself. When the Title of this Poem is read, 'twill, doubtless, be concluded that 'tis a Translation of Ovid De arte Amandi, but in my Opinion. Ovid's Book De arte Amandi cannot justly be Englished into The Art of Love; 'tis rather the Art of something else. His Poem, I am positive, cannot be Modestly, and, Literally Translated. He has taken such liberty with the Roman Ladies, as I am sure, the most Airy of our English Ladies would blush to allow. Cupid may be drawn, he's but a Child; be has been drawn, but always Blind; the Poets thought not fit to give him Eyes, lest he should see the Nakedness of his Mother's Beauty. Venus is always painted Naked, and therefore Venus should not be painted. That there are greater Masters in Poetry than I, must be confessed, I acknowledge it here, and all I writ confesses it; but that there are greater Masters in Love I will not easily allow. He who has served his Time to a Trade, in all probability, has had the best Opportunities of understanding the Crafts which may be practicable in it; and he who has the greatest Stock, when he sets up, is capable of making the greatest Advantage. Now half my ' Life I have been bound to Love, and I have served a rigid Mistress faithfully, too faithfully ever to have made Advantage in her Service. O what a load of Love have I upon my Hands, upon my Heart! My Liberty seems now to me the greatest Bondage; for I can never perfectly grow free from my first Slavery, unless it could be possible that I could serve again. Thus, from the Art of Love, I wander insensibly into the Nature of it; and I may hence infer that should I ever endeavour again to Love (for sure I must endeavour it, if e'er I do) Amasia's Memory would still be dearer to my Soul than any other living Charmer. To make some Application of this natural digression, to my present purpose, I shall confess, without a Blush, I have loved indeed, loved with all the Fondness and with all the Passion that any Poet can Express. Why should I be ashamed of what was unavoidable? The Folly seized me Young, and Love and Poetry grew up together. But I'll neither praefix the time, nor oblige myself to the continuance of either, by making Vows to the contrary: Lovers and Poets keep equally their Resolutions; or good or ill Success sets them on edge again. To Love I own Poetry, to Poetry all the Misfortunes of my Life. I Loved— that brings me again to what I have left already twice unmentioned where I had designed it; I loved— I felt all I writ, and thence conclude I have writ naturally on the Subject, if naturally where I talk of my own Passion, then may I hope too I have write Artificially on others, for to others I have Copied out my own Original. I have felt Love, and I think, he who has felt it, can best teach others how to feign it. I am positive, he who never felt it, can never Feign it well, can never grow Naturally Artificial in it. He who never knew what Gold was, can never gild a Counterfeit. Pygmalion, doubtless, had been in Love, or he had never fraimed his Maid of Ivory; my fancy has not been unlike Pigmalion's, for my Amasia is my lv'ry Maid. O happy Artist! But I shall ne'er be the Pygmalion here. His Art was the Reverse of mine; his Statue grew a perfect Woman; his Art was the Cause of very Nature, but mine is the Effect. But to return to Ovid; Ovid is my Friend, my Favourite, I admire him in his way of Writing, as much as I can any Author; I admire him, and I love him, but still my Passion for him is like the blushing, virtuous Virgin's for her Lover, and I must quarrel with him when he grows too free in his familiarity: He is here and there lose in all his Writings, but the very Design of his Poem called De arte Amandi is not only lose but lewd. Some Precepts there are Modest in't, 'tis true; for what Man can at all times play the Libertine? Where they are so, I have sometimes imitated him, and as far as Modesty allows, I may say, with Modesty, my Poem is Ovidian. 'Twill not be kind in me to Attribute the Misfortune of his Banishment to the looseness of his Writings, tho' in one of the Elegies of his De Tristibus inscribed to Caesar, he seems to imagine That the Cause; (I say, imagine, for, to me he seems not to have been fully satisfied in the Cause of it himself.) Nor would it look friendly in me to recite some of the losest of his Lines; I shall content myself at present, (since 'tis my business to prove him immodest in his Poem of Amandi) only with a Verse or two where he speaks of his own Work. Before he enters on his Precepts, he says— Este procul vittae tenues, insigne pudoris, Quaeque tegis medios, instita longa, pedes. herein he plainly says that Modesty has nothing to do in his Art, and that those who are chaste must shun it. by this Advice, and the Confession in the following Line,— Nos venerem tutam, concessaque Furta canemus. he seems to own himself a Criminal; but when he Writes de Remedio Amoris, he does not only confess, but he seems to boast his Crime.— Thais in art mea est: Lascivia libera nostra est: Nil mihi cam vitta est: Thais in art mea est. all I have said amounts to only this; if any modest Man attempts to translate Ovid de arte Amandi, he must both alter and omit, if he would still be thought a modest Man; and when he has done so, the Poem will be his, not Ovid's. if literally he translates him, and makes him chaste, let his next Undertaking be to wash an Aethiopian. This Poem, I have ventured to call The Art of Love, if it Succeeds, 'twill be necessary the Remedy should follow. Achilles' Lance can Cure as well as Wound. THE ART OF LOVE. LET Lovers now bless their perplexing Chains, And smile serenely amidst all their Pains, No weight hence forth their amorous Bands shall bear, And they shall choose what Fetters They will wear; I by my Art shall set their Passions free, The God of Love shall have his Eyes from me: All shall Success from these my Precepts find, Nor Love, nor Lovers shall continue blind. Whilst like the Sun in my high Sphere I move, And Lighten all the World with Rays of Love. Ovid for Aid, did to bright Venus run, For Rome was here's, since founded by her Son, The Queen of Love that Artful Swain did choose; Well do his Writings prove his charming Muse: So I for Succour to Amasia fly, My Venus, She, and Love's new Ovid, I. Typhis for Steering Ships vast Honours claimed, For Chariots swift Automedon was famed. Whilst I with skill guide Cupid, I shall prove The Typhis, the Automedon of Love. Dear purchased Knowledge I shall here impart, And what I know by Nature, teach by Art, I on myself have practised, and can tell, By my own ills, how to make others well. Let all observe my Precepts, and Commands, I'll bind the little God in his own amorous Bands. The Poet's Ambition. WELL may great Dryden lasting Fame receive, 'Tis all the dull, ingrateful World can give. His high raised Works shall through all Ages stand, The noblest Fabric in the Muses Land. Beauty and Strength at once his Buildings show, Above, delightful, and secure below, The high raised Congreve with successful Powers, On strong Foundations builds Immortal Towrs. Long as his mighty Monarch may he fly, And spread as wide, for he has Soared as high. Let Sacred Dryden's Laurels Crown his Head, But let me sit beneath, and see them spread; The Lover only seeks the peaceful Shade. Nor Wit, nor Power, nor Fame to me are Charms, I scorn all Wreaths, but my Amasia's Arms. Me my Ambition does not vainly move, I covet Praise, but 'tis to purchase Love. Not that my Name may deathless Honours find, Forget— forget me all, make but my Mistress kind. Me shall the Swains young Cupid's Master see, If the Boy's blind, he shall be led by me. And whilst I teach the World experienced Things, The Flames of Love shall be my Muse's Wings. Elective Love. FIRST, You, fond Youth, who Beauty's Charms adore, Choose one alone to Love, and wish no more. That amorous Swain can feel no real Fires, Who, at first sight, each Face he sees, admires. You may perhaps my skilful Rules abuse, And think I err, because I bid you choose. 'Tis our freewill does our desires Improve, And raises liking to the height of Love. An Infant Passion by one glance may rise, But if not nourished by Consent, it dies. You must some time, to find a Mistress rove, She won't Descend from the bright Skies above, And like a gaudy Metor, Court thy Love. If, when you meet her, she be truly fair, She will reward your utmost Pains and Care. Blest were that Youth, who with my Eyes could see, Whose Mistress might like my Amasia be, But kinder far than her, all Charms as she. Well, 'tis enough, if she be fair believed, Tho' you yourself, are by yourself deceived, Sweet is the cheat, and thence true Joys may flow, For he that thinks he's blessed is surely so. London abounds with Virgins brightly Fair, Such Crowds of Beauty in its Streets appear, As if the Charms of the whole World were there. Plays. FRequent the Theatre, you there may find, Some beauteous Charmer to allure your Mind While on the Stage the feigning Lover dies. You may feel real Wounds from bright victorious Eyes Romulus first Invented Plays at Rome, With those allured, the Sabine Virgins come. For some short time pleased with the Show, they smile, But lose those Pleasures in a little while. Seized by the Roman Youth, they rashly tear, Their beauteous Faces, rend their lovely Hair, And on themselves Revenge the wrongs they bear. With fruitless Shrieks the Neighbouring Air they wound, From Groves and pitying Rocks their Cries rebound, The rougher Men, unmoved, resist the sound. ere since that time, all Theatres remain, Renowned for kill Eyes, and Lovers slain. Place yourself there, close nigh the charming Maid, To her let all your Services be paid. With transient Words you may begin Discourse, Obliging always, offer nought by force. If the Dust chance to fall upon her Gown, Be sure, be ready still to shake it down. Neglect not this, this may be worth your while, Perhaps she thanks you, and returns a smile. Such little Offices must needs be done, Pretend Dust fallen, tho' well you know there's none. Or if her Train fall loosely to the floor, Do thou the Train to her fair Hands restore. Be careful to, and your best Service lend, Lest ruder Knecs her tender Sides offend. Such little Things as these make way for Love, And Courtly done, can never fail to move. The Fair, soft Sex will such attendance cost, Not Words, but Actions woo the Virgin most. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced Skill, And go on Conquering, and to Conquer still. Rally the Masks, who nigh the Charmer sit, And so, divert her with Satiric Wit. Be cautious here; for Theatres are full Of empty Fops, Conceited, Loud, and Dull, If with quick Wit you can't the Hours beguile, At least show humour, and when silent, smile. With a mild Air, an awful Homage show, Look fond at her, and then smile anew. Submit to her, still in Submission brave; Maids hate the low, obsequious, cringing Slave. Women are gained by little, taking Wiles; Play with her Fan, and ask her why she Smiles; Soon may that Toy, thus used, inflame her more, Than e'er it cold her, with its blasts before. Feasts. AT public Feasts oft charming Beauties shine, There may the Youth be warmed with more than Wine. Wine heightens Courage, Wine inflames desire, Join Wine and Love, and you add Fire to Fire. Gardens. FRequent fair Gardens, and delightful Groves, To wanton there the sportive Cupid Loves. There, all the flowers in lovely bloom appear, Fond, growing Love shall spring, and flourish there. Here, Nature does her sweetest sweets impart, Here, Nature flourishes, here flourish art. Here, every fragrant blossom feels the bloom, Here, Beauty's self fresh beauties shall assume. Cupid the Wanderer. Cupid, once wand'ring through fair Gardens, found A Hive of Bees, and hurled it to the ground. Whilst the waxed walls he hastens to destroy, The winged assailants buzz about the Boy. As now to spoil their City he prepares, He claps his own glad Wings, and minds not theirs. Drawing his shafts, he dips them in, and tastes, And to the golden plunder, ravished, hasts. Claps now, o'er joyed his little silver Wings, Down by the hive, his darts, his quiver flings, Disarmed himself of his own piercing stings. Now with his little hands he's busied more, To plunder thence the sweet, the luscious store, Than even the Bees, when hoarding it before. Now more and more by his success grown bold, He breaks their forts, and ravishes their Gold. But as he thus their Citadel confounds, The raging foes buzz with redoubled sounds, And warring at the Boy, strike, and fix deep their wounds. Now fiercely bold, with pointed Stings they fly, And will reyenge, tho' so revenging dye; Raging aloud, aloud proclaim their wrong, With vexing murmurs, as themselves were stung. Their noisy wings their furious wars declare, Their wings both whet, and urge the spears they bear. Incensed they view the ruins of their Town, And like brave Citizens, when desperate grown, Charge him with shafts, unerring as his own. The wounded Boy, swift as his Arrows, flies, With blubbered cheeks to his fair Mother cries; For Love himself has ever weeping eyes. Before her stands with honey dropping wings, His little hands in sad complaints he wrings, And sobbing, shows her, here, and there, his stings. No balmy tears will the fair Queen allow; Asks what fierce foes had wounded him, and how; Then, cries, informed, just such a wasp art thou. Hence, Cupid feircest is in Gardens found, And to revenge his wounds, seeks there to wound. From blooming Maids he gathers amorous powers, As Bees draw Honey from the blooming flowers. Seeking sweet Love, we, like the Boy grow blind, And feel the sting, as we the Honey find. Tho' dipped in Honey Maids his Arrows meet, Sweet as they are, yet they are sharp, as sweet. Sadly may Silvius of his Arrows sing. Deep in my Breast rages their torturing sting. The Vision. YOung, Infant Love is in fair Gardens nursed, Amasia charmed me in fair Gardens first. Roving through flowery Gardens, fragrant Bowers, I first beheld her on a Bed of Flowers. All over surprised, all ravished with the view, Soft, Infant sighs with painful rise flew, My Blood thrilled quick, and lightnings pierced me through. My panting Heart did with short tremble move, In all the longing Agonies of Love. Her blooming Beauties did my wonder raise, The more I gazed, the more I wished to gaze. I gazed, and sighed, then, sighing gazed again, And was at once all ecstasy, and pain. Methinks, I see her, as she then was laid, With careless Charms on the fair, painted Bed. Her fragrant breath perfumed the Neighbouring air, And all the Flowers spread more than usual fair. With her lose Robes did wanton Zephirs play, And flew in whistlings, as if pleased, away. One Snowy Hand did in her Bosom lie, The other thrown, as if neglected, by; On that she leaned her Head in soft repose, While her dear Breasts with swelling motions risen. At awful distance did I wondering stand, ere I approached to kiss her Beauteous Hand. Softly I moved to the Celestial Maid, As if not she, but I the Thief had played. Gently I kneeled, afraid to wake the fair, And viewed the wondrous charm of Beauty there. My courage quite forsaken my sickly Soul, And hopes and fears did in my fancy roll. Through tedious struggle of my thoughts I broke, And kissed her Hand, before she yet awoke. Thus, with short tremble still I fond pressed, And kissed, and sighed, and then again I kissed. Assaults too fierce at last my flames did make, Too much I Loved her, now too soon awake. In haste, the frighted Virgin trembling rose, Nor looked behind, fled me, and fled repose. Silent I stood, and saw her haste away, No power was left me but the power to stay, And fall all ravished, where the charmer lay. Baths and Wells. TO the famed Baths, or Tunbridge Wells retreat, Where Beauty fires more than the scorching heat. Beauty's bright beams o'er all their waters play, Radiant as those which light the glowing day. Venus at first rose from the Ocean's tides, From floods she risen, and still o'er floods presides. The Sea, 'tis said, produced one beauteous Queen, But at these Springs there are a thousand seen. He, who Diana naked had descried, He, who beheld that Goddess bathing, died. Here, less severe bright Deities appear, You gaze secure from sprinkled surges here. Safe from Actaeon's fate you may retire, From fatal waters safe, exposed to fire. Whilst in the Youth his growing passion reigns, Falsely those Baths he charges with his pains. The Swain no cause of his distemper knows, Thinks not that Love along those Fountains flows. The racking pangs fond wishing Souls endure, Those Medicinal Waters cannot cure. There, Beauty gathers from those Springs new Rays, Like Sol made brighter rising from the Seas. Strange! that fierce Fires proceed from Chilling Streams, And Waters kindle, which should quench our Flames! In vain from Conquering, kill Charms we turn, Where are we safe, if Springs have power to burn? There are a thousand places where to meet; The Park, the Mall, or in the open Street. None lives Recluse, who are but fancied fair, Beauty's a Goddess, that reigns every where. So vast her train, which all retirements flee, That if you would not Love, you must not see. Beauty. IN British Maids all sparkling glories smile, Beauty, the plenteous product of our Ifle. Not her own Paphos, could Love's Queen detain, In Britain now does Cytharea Reign. Like Albion's Cliffs, fair are her Daughters born, numerous, as Waves, by which those Cliffs are torn. Albion, herself, whom all her floods obey, Appear the Rising Venus of the Sea. Such Charms this Isle does to her race dispense, That half the World may be supplied from hence. Thrice happy Albion! in thy Offspring blest, Fairest of all the Universe Confessed. The Universe thy Conquering Charms approve, Thy Men for Valour, and thy Maids for Love. Venus in Albion claims a right to dwell, Albion in Arms does the whole World excel. Drawn by her Swans, along her Thames she glides; Where should she dwell, but where her Mars resides? The British Venus. BOld, bravely fierce glows each great Hero's Breast, But Nassaw's Soul surpasses all the rest. Thus, every Radiant British Beauty warms; Yet still beyond the rest bright Grafton Charms, She strikes all Eyes, all Senses she alarms. Every bright Goddess does Immortal shine, Some less, some more, yet are they all Divine. juno and Pallas have Illustrious Eyes, Yet there's a Venus still— Transcendent Venus must receive the prize. The prize above let Cytharea bear, Here Grafton claims: the Cytharea here. Albion's fair Daughters are the warrior's prize, Bright as the Hero's Swords, the Virgin's Eyes. Those Conquering chiefs, who triumphed in the Field, To these far more Victorious Beauties yield. Dangers and Death in dusty Plains are found, But Love Wounds deeper, with a surer Wound. Who can resist, when British Nymphs engage? Love always Conquers, when his Wars they wage. Let Neighbouring Nations dread our Isle's alarms, All must surrender, when soft Beauty Charms, Beauty shall Edge our Swords, and Point our Arms Beauty! which every Noble Act inspires, Beauty! which Poets, and their Heroes fires. Beauty! which stirs the Martial Soul to Fight, Beauty! which moves the Artless Swain to write. To those I Sing, those who have born the Shield, Those, who have fought, and vanquished in the Field Those would I teach how to make Beauty yield. Love is a kind of Warfare, and a Maid, Like a Walled Town, you must by Art Invade; Pitch then: Let me, your Gen'ral, be Obeyed. Pitch here your Tents; as I direct, begin, Lay but close Siege, and be assured you win. Already told where the bright Nymphs repair, Informed already where to find the fair; Let me advise, with awful Homage bow, And you, who used to Storm, Surrender now. Methinks I hear the blustering Soldier Swear, I now may seize her, shall I now forbear? If Maids, like Towns besieged, are to be won, What hinders? Now I'll spoil, and sack the Town. Must I Surrender, Captive to my Foe? Are these your precepts, shall I Conquer so? If Maids by force alone were to be gained, Experienced Warriors need not now be trained. The Shafts of Love fly not like those of War, Soft are the Plumes, which bear his Arrows far. Women, like Troy, resist the Warlike Field, But Troy, itself, must to devices yield. Thus, whilst in show no Hostile Arms you bear, Thus, as the Greeks did Troy, o'ercome the fair. This one Important Resolution hold, Be bold, but yet, be very humbly bold. Had I been bold, I had successful proved, But ah! too true, too tenderly I Loved. Where Strength alone, or where soft Prayers may fail, Together joined, they must, they will prevail. Entreat admission, but the Guards suppressed, Disdain and Pride, Guards to the Female Breast, Conquer by force, by force maintain the rest. Force, Grateful force the Charming Sex beguiles, By wiles deceiving those, who practice wiles; Thus, Beauty Wounds the most, when most it Smiles. Mistake not, Hero, here the Poet's aim, My airy Songs fann but a Lambent Flame. chaste is my Art, nourishing Virgin Fires, chaste, like Amasia, who my Song inspires. Verse, Sacred Verse, like Phoebus' beamy Rays, May kindle Vestals to a Lambent blaze. I teach Besiegers Beauteous Towns to win, But not to Plunder, when they enter in. Warriors, who spoil those Cities they obtain, May quickly lose, what, by long Siege, they gain Towns, which on terms, Surrender to your Power, Still in their own maintain the strongest Tower. Insulted Forts their Forces will exert, And Maids, entreated ill, preserve their Heart. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced skill, And Conquering gently, you shall Conquer still. Small, trivial favours, are like Outworks, won, You must, by gentle usage, gain the Town, Remember, Cupid Flies with Wings of Down. Force I prescribe, but such as suits the fair, Feathers require not Storms, they rise with Air. Sighs, like a gentle breeze, fan Amorous Fires, But with rude blasts Love's kindled Torch expires. That force prescribed, which in my Laws you find, Is not the force of Arms, but force of Mind. My Muse delights to glide in purest Streams, Those Swans, which draw my Venus, Winged with Flames, Move their soft course, like those on Silver Thames. Like Wanton Ovid I forbear to Rove, I Sing of Virgins, and of Virgin Love. His Muse, like Icarus, unbounded Flies, And with Waxed Plumes, Soars, and Insults the Skies. Wantoness, like him with pure, Celestial Air, Attempting Flights, which she wants Wings to bear. No Swain so sweet of Love's soft Passion Sings, But here, on purpose, has he Waxed his Wings. Towering too high, soon as he strikes the Clouds, Wildly he falls, Drowned in the rolling Floods. With Chaster purpose are my numbers laid; Charm he the Roman, I the British Maid. Resolution. AGain be bold, I urge this precept still, For, without confidence, you dash my skill, Be but assured that you shall gain, you will. Let then your soft Addresses be begun, And Build on this— all Women may be won. The Coyest Nymph, she, who disdains the most, When once she knows how dear her Scorn has cost, pities the Youth, by her ill usage lost. By secret shists his Visits would restore, And now would grant, would he but now Adore, Maids will deny, who more than Men desire. Affecting Coldness most, when most on Fire. Here must I now unpractized precepts teach, Prescribe you Flights myself could never reach Dissimulation. LIke them, dissemble, while you feircest burn, Fond of their Love, yet seem to slight their Scorn. Can I have put a lose indiff'rence on, Amasia's Self I might at last have won. But she too deep had fixed my Ravished Heart, My Love was Nature, but let yours be Art. Where Ten Years Siege, and force continued failed, A seeming Flight, a feigned Despair prevailed. The subtle Sex seems tied to such restrint, That each Denial is in part a Grant. To understand some things by Woman said, Her Words, like Hebrew, must be backwards read. Sometimes, like Heathen Oracles of Old, In odd, Ambiguous terms their Minds are told. So that those truths they seem to have revealed, By such relation are the more concealed. In secret intricacies all perplexed, With doubtful thoughts, and various notions vexed, You think all true this moment, false the next. Remember this, and be this truth believed, He, who knows Woman best, may be deceived. In Infant times, the Sex was once betrayed; By subtle wiles, and close devices laid, The Cunning Serpent had deceived the Maid. Now every Fair has his deceits discerned, His Artful turns, and all his wind learned. Secret from them he has reserved no wile, Woman could now the Serpent's self beguile. Now with joined Powers she can the World deceive, At once the Serpent, and at once the Eve. Believe them not, trust not the Gaudy Snare, For every Maid is false, as she is fair. The more deceit the inward Woman bears, The more the Varnish in her Face appears. False as they are, seem not at all to doubt, Dissembling Ignorance, you trace them out. Can they be true, yet false believe them still, Where ill may come, stand guarded from the ill. Let your Addresses still these colours bear, Excessive Love, faint hopes, and doubting fear, And let her sometimes think you quite despair, Interpret all in the severest Sense, But choose yourself the softest meaning thence. Of her unkindness to the Nymph complain; Whatever sound bears a more pleasing strain, Seem not to hear, and beg that breath again. Hence mighty Pleasures flow, hence Joys improve, And hence arises sweet endearing Love. Charge her Remember what she kindly said, And seem all Ravished with the Charming Maid. Now is the time to press her Hands, and Vow, Now is the time, urge fast your Conquests now. Sigh sadly oft, with gentle struggle start. As if she seized, against your Will, your Heart. Oft tho' you sigh, your breath must smothered rise, Believe me, Youth, there is an Art in sighs. Doubt not, thus smothered they will reach her Ear, She hears them all, but will not seem to hear. Let your heaved Breast raise but imperfect sounds, Thence she infers how inwardly she Wounds. Love is a Passion, and where words may fail, The inward workings of the Soul prevail. The Soul's Emotion best her truth assures, From that she thinks you here's, and thence grows yours. Maids, like young Conjurers, that Charm have raised, That spirit, fond Love, by which themselves are seized. He, who to Maids dissembles, must excel, You cheat yourself, if you perform not well. 'Tis not enough you can two Faces show, Both wear the Mask, and seem to want it too. Let all be plausible whate'er you tell, 'tis no deceit if you deceive her well. When at a loss sometimes for Amorous lies, The naked truth may be the best disguise. So, by the Nymph, who had but now complied, And spoke kind words, those words are now denied. As in this Breath she uttered truth, the next With double Errors has that truth perplexed. As you would have her mean, interpret so, Unwary truth will in soft Passion Flow. Regard not, Youth, what she shall now deny, But cut that Gordian Knot you can't untie. Perhaps, through modest, bashful Virgin fears, She, cries, that Speech a double meaning bears. Or at the most, if you believe it kind, It slipped unlicens'd from her tender Mind. So soft she Breathes kind Accents to your Ear, As if the Bashful Creature could not bear That she herself should her own fondness hear. Tho' with design some moving Accent breaks, Yet she appears unknowing what she speaks. Here smiles the shining Season of your Reign, But for a while let us remove the Scene, View Cloudy Skies, Proud Frowns, and Cold Disdain. Observe my Rules, drawn from Experienced skill, And tho' she Thunders, you shall Conquer still. Constancy. PErhaps the Haughty Nymph thy Presence shun's, And Daphne like from the pursuer runs. Bold, like the Youthful Phoebus, follow, you, Swift tho' she flies, do thou as swift pursue. Entreat, like him, like him, maintain thy way, Stay, Phoebus cried, my Charming Daphne, stay, The Winds bore her, and his lost Prayers away. Yet, as he followed fast the Flying Maid, The more he saw her Fleet, the more he Prayed. A long, long Course the Virgin had maintained, But what he followed long, at last he gained. He gained that Fair, who did his Passion flee, Not now a Virgin, yet he clasped her Tree. Let not her change in thee suspicion raise, There are not Daphne's in these kinder Days. All that she could, she did; her Laurel bowed, At his each gentle Breath, to thank the God. The Muse. HEnce am I moved to warn thee of the fate, Which does on most Poetic Lovers wait. Enervate here the Poet owns his Charm, Numbers, which once could Fire, now hardly warm Verse, slighted Verse, will but with few prevail; How shall we hope, if Phoebus' self could fail? If thou thy racking sufferings wouldst rehearse, In Numbers sweet and softly sliding Verse. All thou wilt gain, the Maid shall be admired, Adored by all, who has thy Songs inspired. Thou, the Nymphs Fame shall't by thy Numbers raise, Lose Daphne, certain, for uncertain Bays. Thy hard ill-fated Error shall't thou see, And Sing at last, a hopeless Swain like me. Amasia first made me in Numbers write, Love gave me Verse, and Verse gave Love delight. From all my Songs this only could I find, They soothed my Passion, and bewitched my Mind Verse fanned my Love, made my own wishes blaze, But no sost kindle in her Breast could raise. Love taught me Notions for soft Numbers fit, If I had never Loved, I ne'er had Writ. As Passion first did Artless Songs improve, More Artful now, my Songs shall teach to Love. The Charming Sex my moving Songs shall Read, The Swains shall Weep, the Ravished Virgins Bleed. If Verse has Charms, my flowing lines shall move, And every Sighing Maid confess I Love. Amasia's self, when all my Passion's known, Spite of her Pride, that fatal truth shall own. Despised myself, let no sad Swain despair, All Virgins are not, like Amasia, fair, Nor feels an other Youth those pangs I bear. I Love too feircly, Love to such excess, I can't even wish my raging Passion less. So fierce those Fires, which ravage all my Breast I should run mad, should I at last be blest, So lose Amasia most when most possessed. If happier you would more successful be, Love not! no, never fond dote like me. Like friendly Sea-marks, warning from the Coast, I stand, to show you where myself was lost. Observe my precepts, fill you bosomed Sails, And Steer a happy course with prosperous gales. In Ovid's Days soft Numbers were admired, Poetic lays the Ravished Virgins Fired. The wishing Maids by tuneful measures moved, The Song was valued, and the Poet Loved. Now, Sacred Verse no more its Charms can hold, But Beauty, Mercenary grown, is sold, And every Danae may be bribed with Gold. jove, decked in all the Ensigns of his Power, In the full Pride of Godhead, Storms the Tower, But enters only in his Golden Shower. Yet some there are, sure yet some Maids remain, Some generous Maids, who scorn such fordid gain, If then these Noble, Generous Nymphs you find, Writ in soft Verse, in Verse reveal your Mind. Still with an Air of Love your lines must roll, That in your Numbers she may read your Soul. If you attempt in Poesy, writ well, He's cursed in Verse, whose Genius can't excel. Thus, tho' my flames may Daphnis flames surpass, Yet am not I inspired, as Daphnis was. Daphnis may Sing, none can like Daphnis Sing, Whilst all his Numbers from his Passion Spring; His softest Muse does in soft measures rise, His Muse may Soar to his bright Delia's Eyes. So, Soars the Lark, in airy measures born, So Sings, when Springing from the smiling Corn, And in sweet tuneful airs salutes the Morn. Yet Daphnis self, for sweetest strains renowned, Even Daphnis self was not by Delia Crowned. At first, perhaps, unread your Note's returned, Your Person slighted, and your Passion scorned. Despair not yet, thus nicest Maids will slight, But Writ again, and yet again still Writ. Now more, and more your cruel pangs display, Say all the fondest wishes bid you say. Tell her those Eyes should not so much despise, Such Flames as kindled at those Charming Eyes. Device. SEnd now unsealed thy Letter to her hands, Cupid will fly, when you unloose his bands. By secret slight your amorous lines convey, But let no Servant for her Answer stay. She will, retired, peruse what so you send, Her curiosity shall stand your friend. In the same place, where she was so betrayed, The Paper's thrown by the regardless Maid, Unnoticed left, and as neglected, laid. This, for some time, practice with subtle skill, What she, unmarkt, may read, be sure, she will. Let a fond note, thus dropped, at length declare Your pangs are known to the ingrateful fair, Say she has Read, and you must now despair. Tell her no farther shall her Slave presume, He only begs she will pronounce his doom. When next she's seen, the Charmer's Eyes shall show, Whether your lines have been perused, or no. In her fair Eyes as plain her thoughts you note, As she did yours, when reading what you wrote. Not Coyest Nymphs shall such Devices eat; Acontius thus the fair Cydippe won. An Apple, blushing like her Cheeks, he threw, The Golden Vow in Golden Letters drew, Then, hurled it rolling in the Charmer's view. The tempting Fruit the smiling Virgin bore, Read what he Writ, and, in the Reading, Swore. Too late the amorous subtlety descried, She Vowed herself the Young Acontius Bride. With like success may you deceive the Fair, They fly, like Birds, to the well painted Snare. When by those Rules, which I prescribe you, taught, You may perceive them willing to be caught. Hovering sometime will they avoid the Gin, But at the last— With gentle, modest fluttring, venture in. The careless Fair seems, as at first, unmoved, Seems not to think how tenderly she's Loved. Or frowns perhaps, exerts her cold disdain, For Maids are Tyrants, and when wooed, they Reign If Proud, she Scorns, then has she read your Flames, And flies resenting to the last extremes. Despair not now, yet seem as you despaired, Be all your forces for the Storm prepared. Believe me Youth, the hardest may be won, The Artist gained that Maid he framed of Stone. What she resents so high, she most desires, In Frosty Woods rage ever scorching Fires. Aetna, whose Surface is eternal Snow, Does at the Heart with inward burn glow; Above, all coldness, all on Fire below. The weakest Virgins still their prowess boast, As timorous Cowards ever bluster most. With a false show a while maintain the Field, But when you press them hard, how soon they yield? Soft are their Breasts, urge your addresses oft, Feel then, their Souls are as their Bosoms soft. Indifference. SHE scorns you not perhaps, but what is worse, indifferent seems; Indiff'rence is a curse. Alas! her lose indiff'rence can't be born, You think Indiff'rence the severest scorn. She thinks so too, and as she fancies so, Resolves the utmost rigour she will show: Maids thence pretend they can our Passions know. Am I the Mater of my Art believed, If so, most certain they are far deceived. 'Tis as their tempers in the Lover's Reign, Some disdain haughty Nymphs, as they disdain, And tho' unforced would follow, break their chain. Such be thy humour, or if that's too much, Feign it at least, let her believe it such. As she has seemed regardless of your Prayer, Seem you unthoughtful of the feigning fair. With your Companions, as you pass along, Smile, be all Air, tune some indifferent Song, Thence shall she Judge your Passion now not strong. If her drawn Window you by chance pass by, Darting that way let her not mark your Eye. If you will look, cast not a side-long glance, But seem to see her, as if seen by chance. If she perceive you looking steadfast on, My Art is lost, She's lost, and you undone. From lasting views straight will the Maid remove, Such are the practice of a mutual Love. As you pass by give her a plain salute, Perhaps she Sings, touches perhaps her Lute. Pass on regardless still and let her Sing, Tho' thy Heart shake more than the trembling String Ah! be not foolishly bewitched as I, My struggling sight would at her Window fly, And I should gaze, tho' for that gazing dye. Stop not to hear her airs, too dear 'twill cost, Straight would her tunes her height'ned triumphs boast To loftier strains would her soft Music rise, And while she acts the Conquests of her Eyes, The Maid insults, the Ravished Lover dies. Your Flames more force shall from such airs assume, Whilst she, as Nero once, plays o'er her burning Rome. Stand not to fight, too powerful is the Foe, Like Parthians fly, and you may Conquer so. Like Parthians fly, but flying, seem to slight, Dart not one glance in the deluding flight. Fond you wish to know the Charmer's mind, You fancy now her glances may be kind; And dearly long to cast one glimpse behind. Orpheus, when climbing from the Stygian Coast, Looked but once back; what blessings could he boast? He lost Eurydice, for ever lost, Lost by one look, so dear, so loved a prize, Lost what he valued far beyond his Eyes. Beyond those Eyes, which hated thence the light, Preferring rather her Eternal Night. That fatal loss he did for ever mourn, And would again to Stygian shades return. Can he once more receive the lovely prize, He would, in change, part with his fatal Eyes. Let Orpheus fate thy happy warning be; That Love is blindest which would always see. If the restraint be such you cannot brook, But you will venture yet to steal a look, To mark her Eyes, and gather thence her flames; For there I know your pointed fancy aims. Your loser Glove, as if unnoticed, drop, Then, turn in haste, glance quick, and take it up. If now you find her from the Window gone, Ten thousand anxious doubts come rolling on. Hence is it best you should from looks forbear All cannot dive into the subtle fair, Now Fire, now Ice, and now again She's Air. In all their Breasts Agues and Fevers Reign, Now fixed, now fickle, and then fixed again, Now all o'er fondness, now all o'er disdain. Let none success from feigned indiff'rence doubt, A little time will turn the Wheel about, The Scene will shift, Poison drive Poison out. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced skill, Tho' now you Fly, yet shall you Conquer still. Near her abode watch in some secret Street. And, as by chance, the passing Virgin meet. With Ceremonial Compliments salute, Stand not to talk, to argue or dispute; But as your waving Hat salutes her now, If she looks smiling on you, smiling bow. Those smiles she gives, the Maid, as Envoys, sends, And be assured, you are at last grown friends. Writ then again, again your Suit renew, For Maids expect Men should for ever Woo, Even those, I know, who most deny us, do. Tell her what Flames rage in your burning Breast, Tell her your Passion cannot be expressed, From what she reads, say she may Judge the rest. Beg but one Visit, that you so may show Your real Passion, she believe it so. Your Letters Read, no answer she returns, She Smiles, perhaps, and cries, poor Youth! he burns▪ Laughs with her Maids, and plays upon your Style, Whilst in compliance too the Maids shall Smile, No matter, you, who raise her Mirth so fast, Shall have the Power to raise her Tears at last. The Mistress Reads; the Maids attentive wait, The grand affair some little time debate, Then, cry— but Madam, has he an Estate? Gold. CUrse on your Hellish Tongues, ye impious hence▪ The Youth has Love, the Youth has wit and Sense. Constant in Truth, and moving in Address, And shall this Lover be denied Access? It will be so.— This fatal Maxim hold; Fleering Attendants must be bribed with Gold. What can't the Maid that's voluble of Tongue? False, she shows true, and right she renders wrong▪ For shame, ye British Maids! your Thrones maintain, Reign all yourselves; for thus your Servants Reign. Through ways too Thorny does that Swain pursue, Who serves the Mistress, and the Servants too. All have not Gold, by which the Sex is won, At least I'm sure that I myself have none. Thus Beauty does a sordid Traffic hold, Sordid indeed, tho' thus it deals in Gold, Whilst Love, more precious Love, is bought, and sold. How shall I heal, poor Swain! these fatal woes? For Love and Poverty are mortal Foes. Curse on those Sulphurous Mines which feed the Oar, Curse on those Miser's Eyes, which said it more, And gave it first that value, which it bore. Vows a Disease for which I know no Cure, Those Swains will still be slighted, who are poor. Fond expectation may the Maids deceive, Perhaps, your Passion may on promise live, Promise hour ' though you want Gold to give. Nought should to needy Lovers seem to hard, Promise vast Golden Mountains for reward. What you request, if they believe, they grant, Never, no never let them know your want. Their expectation then their Aid excites; Aloud the Lady reads your amorous flights, And the Maids cry,— how prettily he Writes! But if you still are giving, much have given, They stretch your Bounty and your Praise to Heaven. Brave, Handsome, Great, they term the Youth that's free; Thus bribed with Gold, they would extol even me. Inspiring Phoebus! Let some Cause be told, Why thy Beams make not for thy offspring Gold. Falsely attribute we thy guilded praise, Gold is not sure the Product of thy Rays. If Gold be thine, thy Sons are Minors still, And you, severest Parent! Use them ill. Hence with thy ill famed Laurel's useless Tree, Its spreading Branches bear no Fruits for me. Too plain its fatal barrenness is seen, It never blossoms, tho' 'tis ever Green. Wrire yet again, fond Youth! and by the Maid, Let the soft, secret Letter be conveyed. With guilded edges let thy Note be laced, 'Tis fit thou give her all the Gold thou hast. The Maid's assistance in kind words implore, Gain her, She soon shall gain your Mistress more By that Epistle, than by all before. Now shall She practise all her closest Wiles, She meets the smiling Charmer, than She smiles. The Maid commends each flourish of your Pen, Vows 'tis the prettiest Letter She has seen. Entreats an Answer from the gentler Fair, Again entreats, renews again her prayer, And cries, how can you let the Youth despair? In all his Lines such melting Accents move, Madam, I'm sure he does sincerely love. Writ, tho' your Letter bear the hardest strain, Bid him desist, tell him his Suit is vain; Better to kill, than let him live in pain. Charge him, command him, give his Passion o'er, Command the dying Youth to love no more. Perhaps She Writes, but that's a large advance, Who trusts her Pen, leans on a yielding Lance. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced Skill. Lie now in Ambush, and so Conquer still. Waiting not far the trembling Lover stands, Receives the Letter from the Servants hands, And seems Distracted at the hard Commands. Disturb not, Youth! Your anxious bosom so, For She would have you come, who bids you go. Passion. KISS the dear Seal, lean in a pensive mood, And softly say, scarce to be understood, Tell me— Ah! Tell me, are your Tidings good. Wait not, expecting what the Maid replies, Just look with languishing, with watery Eyes, Breath some soft Accents, some abortive Sighs. Then cry with shivering starts, as in some Fit, Ah! Are you sure, 'tis She herself has Writ? Haste, break the Seal, with doubtful Joy peruse, Then, seem distracted at the dismal News. See her, no more!— What Man the Thought can bear? Rave, and grow mad, tear your disordered Hair, Tear the dear Note, and toss it to the Air. Into a thousand Pieces be it torn, And on the Ground its trampled Ruins spurn. Thus while you Rage, the Maid will needs be gone, But now, let gentle Calmness be Put on. Stay her a while, pick the dear Papers up, And in her Hand prevailing Guineas drop. Now is the Time, if you have Gold, to give, And Vow, if scorned again, you will not live. The simpering Maid gives all the hopes She can, Cries,— be not so dejected, play the Man. Protests She will her utmost Powers exert, Use all endeavours, practice every Art, To raise soft Love in the obdurate Heart. In a short time, the kind, industrious Maid, Instructs you how a Visit may be paid. Tells you the Fair will condescend to hear, And know the utmost meaning of your Prayer. Perhaps, informs you only of some Walk, Cries,— meet her there, there may you freely talk. Courage, young Hero! Towns will quickly yield, When once they Treat with the beseiging Field. Address. LET your Address the humblest boldness show, So gain your Conquests, and maintain them so. Breath at her Feet the Triumphs of her Eyes, That Love stoops lowest, which sublimest flies, Sweet is the sound, when she shall bid you rise. With eager shiv'rings let her Hands be pressed, Enervate force speaks the fond Soul the best, Let words urge all you can, and Murmurs breathe the rest. From your fond Eyes let hasty glances roll, Like troubled notions from the Poet's Soul. The speaking Eyes the fondest thoughts declare; Charmed by her looks, yours must all sweetness wear, Your Visage guilded with a smiling air. Pressing her Hands, while you approach more nigh, She backward leans, disdainful, coily shy. Forbear, she cries, what mean you, Sir, forbear; Obey her now, but now bend yet more near. Love is a Theft, and you must softly Steal, Obtain the favour first, and then conceal. Whatever advances in your Suit are got, Seem as if you yourself perceived them not. Whilst fondest Lovers such devices find, From hence it grows Love is reputed blind. Thus may your Hands glide gently to her Breast, Thus may those swelling softnesses be pressed. Thus by kind art thou on Love's Thrones shalt Reign, But if you can't your Conquests still maintain, Back let your Hands softly be drawn again. Again approach within a little while, That Sky which thunders now, e'er long will smile; These favours flow not from first Visits paid, The soft rewards of long addresses made. Sometimes, the fair puts on a clouded Brow, And what but late was granted, is not now. The Charming Sex, still on new trials bend, Show that their favours are not given, but lent. Humour her present Coyness, seem reserved, Maids must sometimes by your neglect be served, Feed their disdain, tho' their desires be starved. Now, sondly gaze, as her heaved Bosom pants, And press that breast, which your soft presses wants, Against her will, what pleases her, she grants. With struggling hands let the dear Charm be pressed, Tell her your Heart dwells in her panting Breast. Some saint Essays she makes, lays soft Commands, And gently strives, and with the gentlest hands. The short efforts she makes are never strong, Her Eyes entreat you, and her melting Tongue, But all their soft entreaties last not long. To her own Breasts her wandering Hands repair, Which when you feel, receive, and press them there; Forbear she cries, but hopes you won't forbear. Her tender Hands remove not yours, but stay, Alas! neglected in her lap they lay. Why does her Breast her Charming Hand receive? 'Tis to touch yours, which such endearing give. Let not her Snowy Fingers now be blamed; They would press too, but that she's yet ashamed. Whilst your each touch, soft wishing thoughts impart, Your Hand runs through her to the very Heart. Much tho' they please, they must at last remove, I teach not still the same continued Love. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced skill, Now Fight, now Fly, so shall you Conquer still. Earnest resentments now she seems to show, And cries you hurt her, who have Charmed her so. How dares your Hand into her Breast intrude? Your Love's ill breeding, and your Passion rude. Dissembling fair! who almost sense surpass, You would not for the World he thought it was. Submission. TRembling attention to her Anger lend; Own the offence, you may again offend. Whilst under soft correction Lovers live, Maids feel a certain Pride, when they forgive. Seem half distracted with the racking guilt, She feels in earnest what you feigning felt. Display, in all your troubled homage, pain, Protest sincere in this repentant strain, Never, no, never will you Sin again. Keep then, she cries, what you have vowed so deep. And seems to doubt your want of power to keep. Cries, with the sweetest, most deluding skill, She fears you will not, while she fears you will; Admires, to what new freedom you presume, And wonders whence that liberty should come. You, like some Sentenced Criminal appear, Your very guilt shall bribe the Justice here. Whilst, thus dejected, you forbear to touch, She cries, she did not think your boldness such; Some small allowance given, you take too much. Sadness. THE more your sad Humility is seen, The more, She cries, has your assurance been▪ Sunk in offence, whilst thus the Lover lies, He but submits, to Conquer; knelt, to rise, She pities now your Melancholy air, And cannot drive you to so deep Despair. Grows kinder still, since the soft calm began, Calls you the fondest,— most desiring Man— As in some fit, seem fainting to the ground, And sigh, as tortured with some inward wound. From your sad mood, whatever arts it cost, She charms you now, nor shall her charms be lost. Fear. NOW she permits, now may your hands ascend, Seem you yet doubtful, lest you yet offend. Half heaved to rise, let them again fall down; This shall your utmost, softest wishes crown. Thy hands her own shall to those seats restore, By which so late they were repulsed before. Here seems Possession of the Charmer given, And the fault's thine, if thou wilt thence be driven. Blessed in these blooming, flowery Gardens dwell, Thy Senses shall grow ravished with the smell. Her Bosom will a scent more grateful yield, Than Roses glowing in the blushing Field. Ah! do not now this kindest Charm abuse, Desire not fruits forbidden by the Muse, Longing for those, this Paradise you lose. Breath amorous murmurs there, breath tender sighs, And kiss her Breasts, as you perceive them rise. Fondness. PLay with thy Fingers twining in her Hair, In every curl Cupid has pitched his snare, Thy fondness, dallying in such wiles, shall show, The well pleased Virgin more ensnared than you, Clasp now her Waste, clasp fast the slender Maid, Close to her glowing Cheek let yours be laid, Speak now in whispers, tho' no Soul be nigh, Sigh, and now hear the yielding Maid shall sigh▪ Ask from what Cause that tender sigh could flow, Strait, the Effect the charming Cause shall show, She sighs again, and cries she does not know, In a soft Tone pursue your soft Addrefs, Play with her Hand, and her dear Fingers press, And seem disturbed you can't her Sorrows guests. Her sighs, she says, no known Afflictions move; The Cause not Grief, victorious Youth! 'tis Love. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced Skill, Yield more and more, so shall you conquer still. With wishing Eyes, cry, can it, can it be, That those dear sighs in pity risen for me? Modesty. NOw, in her Cheeks spreads the soft, bashful Blush▪ And mantling Streams in modest slushing rush. Silent she sits, with downcast Eyes a while, Nor knows to frown, nor does she know to smile. Her yielding Visage now appears to wear A Virgin shame mixed with a thoughtful Air. Thus look you too, seem bashful, and ashamed, As if the Question you proposed, were blamed. That shamefaced Air, her Mein shall then express Becomes her well, nor would become you less. Think it not strange, Rules for your looks are laid; The change of Visage charms the wishing Maid. Link her fair Fingers in the gentlest Bands, And print soft Kisses on her snowy Hands. Still between while renewing your Address, Now fond kiss them, and now fond press ' Now, with descending Lips the Charm maintain, Now rising, raise it to those Lips again. On her blue Veins let rising sighs be spread, Fire thus the Veins of the desiring Maid. Desire, NOw gazing, fix on here's your wishing Eyes, Look longing, languishing with fond surprise, And sighing, seem as you would hid your sighs. Now with a trembling fear her Lips approach, Steal to her balmy Lips, and gently touch. Tho' at the first attempt your Aim you miss, Yet snatch the pieces of the broken Kiss. Rise by degrees, till the first fears are gone, And rush at last with gentle Transports on. Lean on her Breasts; thus on your guard beneath, Catch every breath you see the Charmer breath. Doubt not, such fondness will the Virgin please; In Ambush lie, and as She Salleys, seize. Now, in warm Raptures rush upon the Foe, Rush on that fragrant Breath, which Charms thee so, And spread long Kisses there— Long press her close, and scarce at last let go. Tho' thou hast snatched a thousand from her Store, Spread still her Cheeks with roving Kisses o'er, And still complain, desirous still of more. Kiss, tho' your Lips with their long kissing smart, Seem thus dissatisfied, and bless my Art. Ye tender Maids! How can you blame my Song; I raise your Joys, yet not your Honour's wrong. No fatal Mischief in my Art is found, I hurt not much, who but with Kisses wound. If, Youth, you hear the injured Nymph complain, Those Kisses which you robbed, restore again. By me no wrong to the soft Sex is done, Return an Hundred, tho' you snatched but one. If there be any Fair my Art offends, My Art, (if known,) shall make her large amends. Love is a Child, that Love thy Poet sings Is ever born on in-offensive Wings. Cupid, not Venus, shall my numbers raise, The Infant Cupid hurts not, when he plays. Now, happy Youth! Thy Tutor's Art confess, That certain Art, which can thy Wishes bless. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced Skill Charge not too far, so shall you conquer still. Thus far advanced in the endearing strain, What thou may'st yet desire, does yet remain; As you embrace, to be embraced again. Crown me with Roses, and with Myrtles Crown, The Charmer's Heart, her Soul shall be your own. But first, before to this request you move, Urge the dear Fair; your utmost Arts improve, Till you have heard her Breath those Words— I love. Whilst now, fond Youth! As I prescribe, you do, You shall gain Conquests, and maintain them too, Yes, you shall triumph, and your Spoils grow new. Fonder, and fonder let your Suit be moved, Convince her throughly She's entirely loved. Zeal. A Precept, yet untaught, I teach you now, Vow very rarely, but then warmly Vow. They who swear oft, should not be oft believed, For if they be, the Nymph may be deceived. Work up your Passion to the last excess, Great as it is, let it appear not less. Let Love on all its Wings, extended, fly, And feel, if possible, when soared so high, Feel all you Act, almost run Mad, and die. He who expects the Nymph should Crown his pains. Should, for the time, feel every Thing he feigns. So on the Stage the purple Emperor stands, His fancied Throne propped by applauding Hands. Thus raised, imaginary Worlds he sways, And thinks himself that Monarch which he Plays. On him the Subject Audience fix their Eyes, The very Poet Credits his own Lies, And the Fair weep, when with false Wounds he dies. Be bold, and but believe you shall excel, There's none so dull, but may dissemble well. Study no Form, but as D— s Pray, Speak with warm Zeal, no matter what you say, You can't Dissemble half so well as They. If you complain in a too Charming strain, She may delight to hear you still complain. Still let your Thoughts imperfect Accents break, And mingle melting Kisses, as you speak. When e'er she sighs, her rising Breasts observe, Take them as yours, and vow how true you serve Soon as she grants some favour you implore, With Words and Kisses thank her o'er, and o'er; One favour given, is a new Grant for more. Pursue her close, and she will give so fast, That she shall kindly give herself at last. In your Discourse let amorous reasonings move, A real Passion shall your Thoughts improve, Your Sense shall less instruct you than your Love. Reason, she cries, no such request demands; Reason avaunt;— urge, these are Love's commands, And speaking sigh, and press more close her hands. Then, if she smiles, that smile the Grant insures, By all my Art, if I have Art, She's yours. Sorrow. WEep, if thou canst, or if thou canst not, feign, The Sun shines warmest after Showers of Rain. When She perceives you gaze with watery Eyes, She thinks those dewy Drops from Fires arise. By some feigned Story first the Maid must know, You can't believe Tears from your Eyes can flow; She the remembrance in her Mind shall keep: You saw your Mother die, yet could not weep. Then when She sees you weeping at each Breath, She thinks Love's power beyond the power of Death. Straight, the kind Nymph in your fond weakness shares; For there's a soft Infection lodged in Tears. Thus even by Tears you shall the Virgin fire, Like Oil, such Waters make Love's flames aspire. Tho' you weep not, for Tears uncertain rise, Bending aside, yet seem to wipe your Eyes. Now is the time your Blessings to improve, Now is the time for happy mutual Love. Urge now the Fair her Passion to confess, Her Eyes speak Love, nor let her Tongue speak less. Fond, tender Words, soft as her Tears, shall glide, Love ever flows in Sorrow's gentle Tide. Pity. PErhaps, at first She shall kind Pity own, And cry, you cannot think She's perfect Stone▪ If once She Pities, let all Fears be past, For none e'er pitied, but She loved at last. Pity, Love's gentle Usher, smooths her way; Love after Pity makes no long delay. Now are all Dangers past, all Storms blown over, The bounding Vessel Gains the wished-for Shore. When most you see her kindness, most seem blind, And call her Cruel, tho' you know her kind. Almost possessed, seem wholly to Despair, Your Visits now for some short time forbear; Feigning distracted Doubts, you gain the Fair. By secret Wiles, seem, as your Soul were moved By other Charms; as you some other loved. jealousy. LOve, like Religion, can no Rival brook; By this Device She shall be fastest took, She only waits that you should draw the Hook. Land, spared a while, returns the vaster Gain, The cleaving Earth, that gapes, and thirsts for Rain, Drinks greedier deep, when Showers fall again. You may, you must, from Visits now desist, You shall be Charmed, when charged from being mist. Long, long Experience this great Truth assures, Believing you some others, She grows yours. Money, nor Health, we value, while possessed, But when once lost, oft have sad Sighs expressed, Can we again obtain, how much should we be blest! Thus 'tis with Love, the best, the dearest Wealth, The truest Blessing, and the sweetest Health. Thus, whilst vain coyness in the Virgin reigns, What most She values, She the most disdains. So will the peevish Child, that Toy despise, For which, when once hurled crossly down, he cries. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced skill, And go off Conquering, so to Conquer still. Absence. AS I must teach your Presence how to Fire, Not less your absence does my Art require. For some short time keep wholly from her sight, Writ not in haste, tho' you at last may Write. Now, at each turn cross by her in the Street, At every Corner the dear Charmer meet. Before her move, and now behind her stay, And seem, as chance, not purpose, led your Way. Let your Eyes languish, your Head droop, look pale, Seem sickly, She may ask you what you ail. You not true Cause of your feigned Sickness tell, Bow, as She speaks, and Answer you are Well. In some sad Posture, heavy Sadness show, Say you are Well, or hope will soon be so. If She without this Notice passes by, Salute her only with your glancing Eye. Let no weak fondness on your Soul intrude, Love's more than civil, when it thus seems rude. Give not the common Compliments in use, Yet oft sail softly by the Charmer's House. Pride. AS you pass by, perhaps, She laughs aloud, Seems, of those Trophies She has lost, grown proud; Wave you your hand, your neck be humbly bowed. False are those Triumphs, Fair One! Which you boast, You cannot slight those Conquests you have lost. As I direct, salute her seeming slight, Appear to thank her for her fleering Spite. Amongst her Maids, might the true Cause be guest, What moved her laughter was some trifling Jest. Whilst She jocosely her feigned Scorn shall show, Seem to conceive She made the Jest at you. Half Mad walk on, amend your tardy pace, And as you turn some Corner, turn your Face, Give a short scorning glance, but stand not, do not gaze. Now shall her laughter vex the Charmer more, As She believes it angered you before. You, past from sight, She and her Maids a while, Again shall laugh, and at that Laughter smile. On let their Mirth still in new Thunders roll, Inward She's racked, and tortured to the Soul. I know thy subtlest Wiles, deceitful Fair! Nor will be cheated with thy guilded Air. Now dost thou Wish his Visits were renewed, And wish with Pain thou mightst again be wooed. Thus have I seen the sportive Children stand, Pulling some Rope with their enervate Hand; All their Collected little Strength they try, And draw, and strain; but if you Conquer, cry, Let fly the end, they smile, and are in pain, Till they have given it you to pull again. Coldness. NOw She walks oft abroad to take the Air. Frequents those Groves frequented by the Fair, The Park, the Mall, where the fond Sparks repair. You, seen at distance, known, yet still She asks, Cries, is that he? and e'er She's answered, masks. Why this Device? ye subtle masking Fair! Ye best dissemble with your Faces bare; A double Mask is too, too much to wear. Why must those Clouds obscure your radiant Eyes? From such Deformity can Beauty rise? Why are you hid, when longing to be known, Dare you not Fight without your Armour on? As you pass by, the subtle Fair shall turn, She hopes you know her noted Garments worn. Seem not to know, let no Salute be paid, But Rally, mildly sharp, the masking Maid. Perhaps, the kind Attendant shall display Her waving Handkerchief, to Court your stay. If the White Flag flies waving to the Field, The Warrior knows the Charming Fort will yield. The Maid, perchance, with an alluring Grace, Grants some quick Scetches of her simpering Face. Whilst her spread Fan, held cunningly, is born, That very Fan you had so lately torn. Becks with her Hand, and now turns short, now stands; Do you return her Beckons with your Hands. Oft She allures you with well-shifted Scenes, While you still seem unknowing what She means. Beauty's a Feast, to which you should be pressed, Invited oft to be a welcome Guest, Who seems to shun the Blessing, most is blest. He who of each Advantage will take hold, Fearful appears, Designing, but not bold. Catching at all, who every Scent pursues, Shall follow Shadows, and the Substance lose. Thus, by lose Play soft Squires are soon drawn in, Gamesters stand ever longest out, who win. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced Skill. And stand off Conquering, so to Conquer still. Reading perhaps in the obscurest Grove The Fair One sits, some Bock that treats of Love. Even Silvius, Numbers may perhaps be read, Tho' not myself, my Verse may charm the Maid. With folded Arms pass Melancholy by, Now softly Murmur, and now softly sigh. Pass back again, and yet again return, And seem the loss of some dear Friend to Mourn. Your languid Arms cross your sad Breast be thrown, You press her Heart, whilst thus you press your own. Enter at last, made by your Passion fleet, And throw yourself beneath the Charmer's Feet. Your struggling Lips abortive Accents break, Seem much to strive, but do not, do not speak. As frighted, out She rushes like the Wind; You must expect you will a Tempest find; Perhaps, She leaves my slighted Book behind. So high her raised Resentment may be born, Perhaps, not slighted only, 'twill be torn. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced Skill Go on repulsed, yet so to Conquer still. Lift up my Lines, pursue her as She flies, Persent them humbly to her angry Eyes. Let my soft Verse be to her Hands restored, Tell her, scorned Love inspired each flowing word, Tell her this satal Truth— None ever loved like Silvius, none adored. Tell her, for this I know you long to tell, And I allow it,— Vow you love as well. If to receive my Book you find her free, Sigh then, and speak, as if you envied me. The Reward. SUccess sufficient in this Charm I boast, This only gained, my Labours are not lost. Who would not Write, while Love commanding stands? Who would not love? Held in such tender bands; She clasps my living numbers in her Hands. In her fair Hands my tuneful Numbers roll, And if She reads, they flow into her Soul. Tuneful indeed is all my Artful Song, And like a silver Current glides along, Whilst warbled sweetly from her fluent Tongue. As my soft Verse the moving Virgin speaks, Not I, but She, the melting Numbers makes. Thus Orpheus played, thus at his tuneful call, Saw the charmed Stones in Artful measures fall; Thus played Amphion too— Thus built his Fame, building the Theban Wall. Close is my Book pressed by the angry Maid, Nor you, nor I, can hope She now shall read. Blessed be those Hands which press my Numbers so, My melting Soul does in those Numbers flow. Beyond myself I find my Verses blest, Their Author may not by those Hands be pressed. Fate of Poets. MY Book fair bound perhaps the Maid receives, For guilded Cover, and for golden Leaves. Cursed be the Artist, who the pains shall take; No golden Present to the Fair I make. I charge you cease, your impious hands withhold, Against my Will must I present her Gold? The Sex would Midas golden Wish restore, And turn whate'er they touch to shining Oar. As Midas did, may such fair Misers thrive; For golden Verse is all I have to give. The cheating Trades-Man's senseless Son swells great With Titles puffed, supported with Estate, Whilst his guilt Chariot thunders through his Gate▪ Of his new Pageantry, new Honours proud, The lolling Brute ore-looks the nobler Crowd. Raised on strong Brass, slighting the Powers above, Salmoneus like, he fancies he's some jove; But more, far more, he claims a right to Love. Long, powdered wigs show Swarthy S— l Fair, Dress shall adorn the Awkward, Rustic Heir. He who has Gold, each Charmer's heart commands, Tho' dull as Hinds, who plough his Father's Lands; Whilst at each word he offers shining Oar. I must confess my boasted Art but poor. He, in that Word, more charming Force displays, Than I in all my Numbers, all my Lays. The flippant Lawyer, canting, gains Supplies, Gets Gold by noisy bawling, lives by Lies. If at the thundering Bar he knows to plead, His Suit goes still successful with the Maid. The struting H—s of his Feathers proud, Is, without fight, constant pay allowed, For wearing gaudy clothes, and swearing loud. But Poets with the love of Courts are Cursed, Which leaves them Poets, as it found them first; Thought wholly for the smallest Trust unfit, And reckoned useless for their very Wit. By some strange whirl of Fate confusedly hurled, At once above, and yet beneath the World. Like the doomed Wretch, whom in the Floods they Paint, Exalted o'er those Blessings which they want. Perseverance. ADdress the Maid, your Resolution hold. You yet shall Conquer, tho' you have not Gold. Tho' She would fly, persuade her yet to stay, And scatter blushing Roses in her way. With gentle Force let her a while be held; By gentle Force maids love to be compelled. Desist not Youth till thou hast gained the Field; For you must Conquer, or She cannot yield. Prayers on repeated Prayers be still renewed; Maids ever fly, in hopes to be pursued. Still tho' She frowns, give not your Courtship o'er, Still tho' She frowns, press harder than before, Entreat a thousand times, ten thousand more. Think not I here impose too hard a Task, The grant Charms most, yet much it Charms to ask. After denials on denials past, What long She Vows She won't, She will at last. Ten thousand, thousand times has She replied, Oft as you asked, has She as oft denied? Yet at the last shall you your Suit obtain, When She believes you will not ask again. Tho' She protests, do not her Vows believe; The fair Deceiver shall herself deceive. Her Actions, and her Words shall ne'er agree, Her Words are Air, like that to which they flee, Her Vows dissolved, shall in the Air be free. If now, enraged, She wears a cloudy Brow, She's only fearful lest She kind should grow. Quit her however, be my late Truths forgot, And knowing well, yet seem to know them not. Sigh sadly now, and pressing, lose her Hand; Then bow— She flies, you still dejected stand. Quit not the Place, till out of sight She flies, And as She fleets, pursue her with your Eyes. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced skill For, if She flies, so shall you Conquer still. Writ now again, feign Sickness and Despair, And let some Friend the dismal Tidings bear. If thus some Friend be trusted to attend, Be well assured he be indeed your Friend. Friendship, like Coin, a Royal Image bears, Like Coin, made currant by the Stamp it bears. With both Men Traffic, as their Interest move, And Gold and Friendship are exchanged for Love. As fainter Fires before the stronger Dye. Friendship expires, when Beauty's Flames blaze high. He whom you venture in this dangerous Post, Should be himself bound for some other Coast, Else both your Mistress and your Friend are lost. About her House in silent Moonlight wait, Pass like some Ghost by her obdurate Gate. Thus Ghosts glide on, thus the fond Phantom flies, And haunts that Place, where the dear Treasure lies Rise, Porter, haste, be the hard doors unbarred, O Porter! Harder than the Posts you guard. The wishing Youth beneath her Window stands, The wishing Youth waits for the blessed Commands▪ And curses oft the rugged Porter's Hands. Ill, cruel Fair, is such Attendance paid, Too cold you treat the Lover, cruel Maid! Why thus severe, ingrateful, feigning Fair! Why to thy Lover, and thyself severe; Admit, admit the Youth— Admit him to thy Breast, already there. In pinching Cold, by starry glimmering Light, Oft have I wandered the whole Winter Night. Guiltless of Thought myself, my Feet would stray, My conscious Feet found of themselves the way. At loved Amasia's Doors, as in some Trance, Oft have I lain, like Nero's in Romance. Like Iphis, oft on the hard Pavement laid, I seemed the Guardian of the sleeping Maid. The Mastiffs, conscious that the Gates are barred, Bark not, but fawning meet their fellow Guard. Of all the Stars my gazing Eyes could see, I marked not one whose Influence smiled on me. Sighted like me, yet must you patiented wake, Tho' Night reign now, the Day at length will break. Now with soft Music Serenade the Maid, And let the gentlest, sweetest Tunes be played. Some Maid, some wakeful Servant may behold, Then, be assured your Services are told. Feasts. IF to some Feast the Virgin shall repair, Do thou contrive to be invited there. Courteous to all, compliant Words let fall, But whom She favours, favour most of all. Treat all her Friends without the least constraint, Her wrinkled Guardian, or her aged Aunt. Smile on the Maid that whispers in her Ear; You must treat well your very Rival here. Above the rest, to him commend the Wine, Drink to him ofr, discourse him as you Dine. Place, if you can, your Rival near the Maid, Let no Addresses, but soft Looks, be paid. Fronting the Fair, let some lose glances fly, But gaze not on her with your constant Eye. Drink to those Beauties which the Maid surround, But let no Goblet with Her Health be Crowned. Soon as her Hands the sparkling Glass restore, Call you, and drink just where She drank before. Eat very sparingly, and seem to prove, Your best loved Food, your nourishment is Love. Affect no Fast, yet so contrive to Eat, As if you relished not, but forced the Meat. Some smiling Fair, perhaps, with laughing Eyes, Shall ask the Cause, and make her own Replies. Love— Love— she Vows, she reads it in your Face? And now plays on you with Satiric grace. Pretends the sad Distemper she can see, And cries, Sir, are you not in love with me? Perhaps, the Fair, loved Charmer's self is moved, The Charmer's self seems conscious that She's loved. Offers you Meat, with careless, lose reserve; Accept the offer, when the Maid shall Carve. Tho' at her Chair the ready Servant stands, 'tis offered you by her own charming Hands. Meet on the sudden her extended Arm, Starting surprised, as Soldiers in Alarm. By feigned confusion thus o'erreach the Plate, And sliding, touch her Hands, as yours Retreat. Gaze on her Eyes with Eyes confessing Flames, And glance new Rays fast on her glancing Beams. ere from the room the hastening Fair be passed, Fast, tho' She moves, move you, unmarked as fast, Or if She stays, attend her to the last. If with her Maids She passes in the throng, Brush gently by her, as you sail along. In some close entrance if She crowded stands, Approach her nigh, and press by stealth her hands Now, as you move into the spacious Hall, Let your Addresses at some distance fall, Whilst the Fair mingles in the shining Ball. Praise. LEt her each step your Admiration move, And as She Dances, in your Eyes dance Love. Let her each Motion ravished wonder raise, And Praise her now, for now She Courts your Praise. The stronger Gale of Praises you bestow, More beauteous Charms shall her each Movement show. Thus flies the Vessel with auspicious Gales, And as the Winds increase, more swift She Sails. Thus Juno's Bird spreads wide his starry Train, But hides, unpraised, his gaudy Wealth again. The Poet thus in Praises feels delight, And, paid with Fame alone, grows fond to Write, Fear not to Praise, whatever Form they bear, There lives not one but fancies that She's Fair. High in Conceit, Women, like Authors sit, These proud of fancied Beauty, those, of Wit. Tho' some pretend their want of Charms to know ' While from themselves their real failings flow, If you but softly Vow they are deceived, How sure, how soon is the Deceit believed? Thus every Maid to her own wants grows kind, And Woman's Pride, like Woman's Love is blind. Whilst now you see the glowing virgin move, At every airy step She measures Love. The Ball broke up, before her bowing stand, And offer humbly your conducting Hand. If coy She turns, with slights your service paid, Led off before her Eyes some other Maid. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced Skill Engaging there, here shall you Conquer still. Theatre. IF in the Theatre the Maid be found, Thence may your Passion with success be Crowned. Whilst now She Mourns the fancied Hero's Fate, Whilst in her Eyes her ready Sorrows wait, Attend their fall; claim all her Tears your due, The fancied Lover never loved like you, Claim not her Tears alone,— But claim the charming Eyes which shed them too. Strange Contradiction reigns in Woman's mind, Only to show, and false appearance, kind. Mind not the Action, nor the Author's strain, 'Slight gaudy Shows, and make her Face thy Scene. Raise no ill-natured Hiss to Damn the Play, But Criticise on what dull Critics say. Let those who by't the Poet, so be bit, Thus whilst you show good Nature, show your Wit. Alike with you the Author's Sense they bear, Alike with you, who did not see, nor hear. The modest Fop daubs his nice Nose with Snuff, Damn me, than cries, 'tis wretched, wretched stuff. Glance on such Fops with a disdainful Eye, And let a sleering Smile give such proud Fools the Lye. The Curtain fallen, press to the Charmer's side, And claim her Hand, nor be at last denied. Entreat her oft, nor give entreaties o'er, And Vow you will conduct her to her Door. Force is but weak, Entreaty has the Odds, Tho' we can't force, we may entreat the Gods. Through tedious importunity She moves, She can't deny the pressing Youth She loves. Enter her House, your fond Address renew, And Vow you was, and ever will be true. The Charmer now at distant coldness stands, And you must quit her from your clasping Hands. The kinder warmth your Courtship shall impart, She seems more Cold, more Frozen in her Heart. Feign all the Lover, all the Hero feign, And in your Looks transported Passion reign. In different Strains Both with dissembling move, She feigning Anger, and you feigning Love. With your drawn Sword, rush with a hasty Vow, And now just striking, She prevents you now. Fast to your Arms the frighted Maid shall flee, And cry, so striking you had wounded me. Now to the unmost pitch your Flames must rise, Now She's your own, clasp fast the lovely prize. Great is your fondness, nor shall here's be less. She gives you Kiss for Kiss, and Press for Press. Whilst mutual Love flows strong with mutual Powers, Her Hand, her Heart, her Life, her Soul are yours. Observe my Rules, drawn from experienced skill, Still tho' you Conquer, Conquer yielding still. Go on triumphant so, and Triumph,— at your Will. Crown me, each Lovesick Youth, each Lovesick Maid, Your mutual Flame, as my Reward, be paid. Whisper each other, in your Bridals blest, Thus far Art taught— Let Nature teach the rest. FINIS. THE ART OF LOVE: The Second Book. Written to the LADIES. A NEW POEM. Hoc mihi, si quando; puer et Cytharea, favete: Nunc Erato; nam tu Nomen amoris habes. LONDON: Printed for joseph Wild, at the Elephant at Charing-Cross, 1700. Where Gentlemen and Ladies may pick Novels at 6 s. per Does. And be, furnished with most Sorts of Plays. TO THE AUTHOR, ON HIS ART of LOVE. IF Numbers can immortalize a Name, And to descending Times transmit the Poet's Fame. Then, happy Youth! Thy sweet, harmonieus Lays, Fix the Foundations of a lasting Praise. Thou, Love's Physician! Thou canst best impart, The Souraign Balm to Cure the bleeding Heart. Of Love's Maeanders with such skill you Writ, Sure, Cupid's wings sustained your Muse's Flight. If Transmigration more than fancy be, The Soul of Ovid is transfused in thee. Love was a Labrynth▪ like the Cretan Maze, Its Paths untrod, a Wilderness its Ways; Till Araidne's kind conducting Clue, Your Muse, disclosed it; Love's best Thescus You What Gallus, nor Propertius could express, What greater Ovid touched with ill Success, With lustre sparkles in an English Dress. No Thought unchaste thy melting Muse affords, But charming Sense dressed in as charming Words. The British Maids shall read thy Verse and smile, Imploring Venus to reward the toil Of thee, the lost Columbus of her Isle. Whilst Cytharea on Love's Throne shall sit, Whilst Phoebus Reigns the Lawrelled God of Wit, Envy nor Time shall blast what you have writ. Let Dryden, Prince of all, in satire Reign, Let Congreve Charm, with his rich, Comic Vein, Love be thy Charge, do thou Love's Cause maintain. A. S. To the Author, on his Art of Love. 'TIS Art, all Art; yet 'tis all Nature too! What wonders cannot Love and Fancy do? Thy Muse has made each slighted Youth amends, And shows that Wit and Chastity are Friends; Venus, as Gay as when by Paris seen, She Paints; She Paints her Love's and beauty's Queen, Yet with a modest Air, and with a Virgin Mein: She Paints her like Diana in the Chase, With Chastity triumphant seated in her Face. With Charms like those Amasia has put on▪ Only, She Paints her, that She may be Won. Who reads your Verse, must wonder and approve; Your Lines are modest, yet your Subject, Love. With Charms so chaste your Numbers are endued, (For you teach others as yourself has Wooed,) 'Tis pity any Poet should be Lewd. Such charming Laws on Lovesick Youths you lay, That all, who would be Happy, must Obey. Soft as Amasia's Bosom is thy Song, And in its flowing Tides it bears our Souls along. With Wings untired, thy soaring Cupid flies, With ease he mounts, and does with Pleasure rise. May conquered Beauty be the Poet's Spoil, And Woman, glorious Woman, Crown thy Toil. P. M. To the Ingenious AUTHOR, of the Art of Love. NAture has often Played the Artist's Part, But ne'er was Nature so displayed by Art. Never before was Woman naked shown, Yet modest still as when with Garments on. Such Pleasure we in your soft Rules discern, Instruction Charms, 'tis ravishment to learn. 'Tis such Delight to read your Numbers o'er▪ We think the Practice scarce can give us more. By thee the bleeding Lovesick Youth is shown, To make the scornful, haughty Fair his own. The tender Maid, taught by thy charming Pen, May scape the Wiles, of false Designing Men. The Virgin's taught to Love, the Youth to Woo; At once you Ravish and Instruct us too. Each Sex must own, to make a just return, Thou, charming Youth, were't Britain's Ovid born. C. L. THE ART of LOVE, THE SECOND BOOK Armed at all Points, Men to the Field are gone, Now, Venus, fight the Battle of thy Son. Assist me Beauty, for thy Fame I Writ, Art shall teach Charming Nature to delight, And thou shalt gain the Trophies of the Fight. To you the secrets of that Art i'll show, Nor leave you Naked to so fierce a Foe; I'll teach you all, you shall know all my skill, And Men shall Love, while you shall smile and kill▪ The Arms. YE Female Warriors, haste, to Arms, to Arms, Put on▪ your Smiles, your Glances, and your Charms, Paint, Patches, Pins, and all the little rest, Which must be done e'er Beauty can be dressed, Flames in your Eyes, and Coldness in your Breast. Put on a modest mildness with your dress, Put on those somethings which I can't express. Let all with Artful negligence be done, Yet put each Charm, put the whole Woman on. Then softly sweet let Cupid's Trumpet sound, Let Flags of streaming Ribbons wave around, And with a Heart be every standard Crowned. Each bearded Arrow bears a Bleeding Heart; For Cupid's Standard is a Golden Dart. Let a soft Blush, the Ensign, be displayed, The Charming Ensign of the Charming Maid. Thus Armed, ye Amazons, insult the Field, Sighs be your Swords, and silence be your shield. Trust to my skill, in spite of Precepts past, And you shall Conquer, tho' to yield at last. Believe me Maids, who never yet deceived, Through me, none e'er repent she believed, Interest in Love draws on a Cloud of Woes; For Love and Interest are eternal Foes. No fatal Rules my Numbers shall unfold▪ For those mean things, who sell themselves for Gold In Spheres more bright my richer Precepts move, My Song's composed of Beauty and of Love. Woman the Dissemblers. SHall Waves be bid to Roll, when Tempests roar? Shall Calms succeed, when the loud Storm Blow over? Shall Poets live Dejected, Proud and Poor? Shall Ice be Cold? Shall Fire be bid to Burn? Shall Darkness vanish at the Sun's return? Shall Silvius Love, and shall Amasia Scorn? Shall I teach Misers to embrace their store? Shall they teach me bright Beauty to adore? Shall I bid Gods, who are Immortal, Live? Shall I bid Women, all deceit, deceive? Women and Kings alike their sway maintain, And by dissembling what the feel, they Reign. Blameless, your Sex does in this art excel; 'Tis no deceit, if you deceive us well. Dissemble on, Shoot your devices far, Be every Charm, yet be but what you are. Be all, that Man, unsinning would adore. Be Woman— Woman! can a Name be more? You are of those whom all the World admire, The Hearts of Mortals, and of Gods you Fire. Men, to be Blest, retires to Shades with you, And when you please we grow Immortal too. In Beauteous Spheres, more bright than ours, you move, You give us Paradise, you give us Love. For you, bright Maids, I draw my conquering Pen, To fix your Empire o'er presuming Men. The Prostrate. Lo! there, before your Feet the Victim lies, Whilst victory laughs within your smiling Eyes; See how the Prostrate Captive, Sighs, and Dies. Believe him not, he's Man, and will deceive; What have I said? Ye Maids, believe, believe. All are not false, tho' the sincere be few, At least, Amasia knows her Silvius true. But my Amasia has my suit denied, And none can e'er deceive, who is not tried. But Oh! that Charmer does such Charms improve, That 'tis impossible I should not Love. Can I but show you how Amasia Charms, There were no need of Amor'us Arts and Arms. She's all o'er Charm, all Ravishing in Youth, She's Love itself, She's Beauty and She's Truth. But Oh! She must not all your Actions guide, She's all o'er Woman too, all over Pride. I teach you how to make the Lover Burn, I teach you Love, but Nature teaches Scorn. Trust to my skill, in spite of precepts past, I'll teach you conquest, so you yield at last. Turn there, the Swain does on his Knees implore, He only begs permission to adore, Begs you would but believe, and hopes no more. O treacherous Man! Who can so falsely press, He hope no more! O no, he doubts no less. Believe him not, command him to forbear, He must not speak, protest you will not hear. Check each attempt he makes to prove his Flame, Yet still new hints for new addresses frame. Seem all suprize, all Coyness, all a Frown, Then let your Eyes shed soft compassion down. He hopes and fears, he Freezes and he Burns, And still protests, when e'er the Fit returns. Let him not Kneel, but as his Fires rage on, Say he must Rise, or you must else be gone. Divert the talk, forbidden him to adore, But so forbidden as to engage him more. Farewell, at length the parting Lover cries; Bid him farewell, but with relenting Eyes. He goes but to return; why let him go; He's yours— or if you please he may be so, Attire. COnsult your Glass what Garments to put on, The Man's retired, but not the Lover gone. Take counsel what attire becomes you best, And with a Charming negligence be dressed. If negligence becomes not your Attire, Then in the Pride of Pompous Garments Fire. Show your fair Neck, your tempting Bosom bare, And let Gems deck your Ornamental Hair. Retired, unseen, the lovely Warriors Arm, When dressed, at once with new surprise you Charm. As lightning, Flashing fast from Pole to Pole, striketh quick the Eye, so Beauty strikes the Soul. With glancing Light, the subtle Flashes fly, Yet are they tempered in the gloomy Sky. We know not whence they Issue, but we know, We must admire whatever strikes us so. You may in splendid theatres behold, The guilded Columns show like massy Gold. The Men, who act for Bread, talk loud, grow vain, And three big Hours of empty greatness reign. Yet till this Pomp of folly be prepared, The longing Guests are of all view debarred. Love's Warfare. NOw ye are Armed, ye Charming Maids, repair To Beauty's Camps, and Fight, and Conquer there▪ In martial Fields the bold successful prove; You must seem timorous, if you gain in Love. Beauty, as cowardice, sometimes prevails; False flights oft conquer, when true courage fails. Let Looks and Smiles in subtle ambush lie, Seem always Flying, yet scarce ever Fly. Sing, Dance, be Airey, put on all your Airs, Your easy Mirth shall cause the Lover's cares. Thus shall you give those Wounds your Eyes ne'er meant; The Bow of Cupid never stands unbent. The random Arrow, strikes with more surprise, More force, when Winged with negligence it flies. When on the Rock Andromeda was bound, She waited Death, yet there her Lover found, Wounding him first, who did the Monster wound. Modest Pride. SEem Proud, yet humble too; let never Pride, Shown in the silent Face, the softness hid. To Minds too haughty Love has seldom bowed, Be near at distance, modestly be Proud. Trust to my skill, in spite of precepts past, And you shall conquer, tho' to yield at last. Sometimes, soft things in Tragedies rehearse, And make the Poet happy in his Verse. Smiling sometimes, in whispering accents bear Some Trifling saying, to some Neighbouring fair, The Lover then, unknowing what you said, Smiles too, and fancies some fine Jest was made. You, from your own impertinences know, He makes the Jest, when e'er he fancies so. Read Poetry, the mighty Dryden Read, Let Congreve next, and Wicherly succeed. Read Cowley Living still, Read Otway, Lee, Read Elder Hopkins with those lofty three, And if you please, at leisure Hours,— Read me. The Muse's works may shorten tedious Days, And when the Evening calls, repair to Plays. Retired at home, be oft, and oft denied, And let indiff'rence act the part of Pride. The easy grant the price of bliss destroys, Man ever lest esteems what he enjoys. Repulse sometimes makes Love more fierce rebound, As Balls rise highest struck on Stony Ground. Let the fond Lover, curse the cruel Door, Do humbly much, but in his threats much more; The taste of bitter things can Sweets renew; Winds sink that Ship sometimes, by which it flew. The Visit. REceive the Visit, which the Youth shall make, Be seen, as if by chance, or by mistake. Play with your Fan, call for your Coach, your Chair, Be just a going out to take the Air. Pretend some Visits, which must needs be made, And his you can't receive, till those be paid. Business pretend, or Sickness, seem in haste, Have many things to do; some Minutes past, 'Tis late you know, you may do none at last. You think the Wether dull, 'tis Cold, if not, But you would change it spite of Heaven,— 'tis hot. Say any thing impertinence can move, Inquire the news; he answers you, 'tis Love. Hear all he says, sit in some distant place, While his Eyes fasten on your Charming Face. Silence. ALtho' you hear, seem not at all to heed, So while you wound him, he shall inward Bleed. Thus while you muse, the Youth shall softly press, Nearer, and nearer to a close address. Whilst in your Thoughts you seem yourself to lose, You find your Lover there, who tells his News; On weightier things, your solid Mind was bend, You heard not what he said, you know not what he meant. Let him talk on, and ask, and answer too, He need not hope to have a word from you. Yet you may smile, when next you hear him speak▪ And let some tune in thoughtless accents break. Now, you may Sigh, as he approaches near, Now shall he press, now shall you cry, forbear, You Frown, he Loves, you Laugh, and he shall Swear. O Love! O Folly! O dissembling Maid! O Man! whose Strength by Weakness is betrayed, Caught in those Nets for subtle Women laid. Trust to my skill, in spite of precepts past, And you shall Conquer, but to yield at last. He asks you now, what 'tis employs your thought, And wonders what has such deep silence wrought. Inward he struggles, not resolved by you. Longing to know, yet he grows silent too; With Burning Pains, now makes his Passion known, Racked with your silence long, and with his own. He Loves, he Loves, again, again he cries, Consults you oft, but you make no replies. The Answer. WHen grown by long, long repetition dull, Thus at the last, you answer him in full. What is this strange request which you have made? What is it Sir, I know not what you said? O Blessed dissimulation of the Sex! Who can Mankind by carelessness perplex, O Glorious Sense, of Ignorance in show! Which makes us Fools, while you act Folly so. O happy Art of Nature! Which can wind, And turn ten Thousand ways the changing Mind. Your folly thus, Man's Wisdom can confound, And cast his baffled Eyes and Senses on the Ground. Happy that Wit, which is in silence shown, More than in all the works of Poets known. Amasia thus received her Lover's suit, Thus did her silence my weak words confute, And when she spoke, all Sense, but Love was mute. Even Love itself by silence was expressed, I only Vowed I Loved, and looked the rest. Against himself his Foes the Poet Arms, Like Beauty seen, silence in Beauty Charms. Beauty's described only by being seen, And silence speaks, lodged in the Beauteous Mien. When importunity at last prevails, The charming turn of answers never fails; When forced to answer thousand Queries past, You can rely with questions at the last. The Penalty. WEll, 'tis supposed you have confessed you heard, Let now the Lover be of speech debarred. Lock up his Lips, lock up thy injured Ear, He has said things a Virgin should not hear. He must be silent, you must else remove; For he grew Impudent and talked of Love. The Youth stands Speechless, nor dares think of Bliss, His Lips are Sealed, but Sealed without a Kiss. Trust to my skill, in spite of Precepts past, And you shall Conquer, so to yield at last. The Lover now believes his Passion cursed, And he will speak, for he has felt the worst. His fears now urge him most, when most they awe; As Cowards from despair can Courage draw. Use him like Cowards, all his rage control, And wound him, wound the Rebel to the Soul. Tell him, himself alone he must deceive, For 'tis impossible you should believe. 'Tis time to Visit now, you must not stay Send him once more with kinder looks away. He goes but to return; why, let him go; He's yours,— or if you please, he may be so. Deportment. THe Day grows fair, your Coach, or may wait, And you may walk, if graceful in your Gate. See how R—h displays her stately Mind, How, in the Pride of Steps, the haughty Wind Swells her lose Robes before her, and behind. I— n there, trips nimbly o'er the Park. As if she feared to disappoint some spark. C— l demurely on the Ground does look, As if she measured every Step she took. That hasty H— there Walks, as if she ran, And whisks her Eyes, and brandishes her Fan. The Tall Walk slowly, others Walk apace, Each movement, every gesture has its grace, Men are not always Charmed with but a Face. Consult that Gate, which suits your Stature best, Walk to please yourself, nor doubt the rest. Humour. YOu who have change of Garments changes wear, And Daily deck in various forms your Hair. Change too your Humours as your Dress you change, The Lion always does not furious Range. Let your mild Air sometimes compassion move, Sometimes disdain, yet ever mingling Love. Now Pleased, now Vexed, now Airy, and then Sad, Now very thoughtful, and now very Mad. A thousand Humours move a thousand ways, For most of all, Variety must please. The Charmer. AMasia thus could every Passion wear, She wore all Charms in her expressive Air, But Love— fond Love, alas! was never there, Her every Passion did my sense control, But Love alone possessed her Lover's Soul. Love and Dispair in me one Passion grew, I ne'er knew Love but when Despair I knew. She Smiled,— yet while that Sunshine was displayed, Despairing Love gloomed in a thicker Shade. She Smiled— and straight my hopes like Phantoms flee. For Oh! she never, never Smiled on me. Smiles. SMile Charming Beauty, change from Smiles to Smiles, A thousand Glories Gilled the tempting Wiles. Smile on, Aerial Beauties we shall Trace, While Paradise sits Blooming in your Face. Whilst Charms thus Lovely all your Features Crown, Thus whilst you Smile, Ah! Who can bid you Frown? Frowns. THe Sun's o'er cast, the sullen gloom's displayed, Awful she Frowns, behold the Frowning Maid. jove dwells not ever in the Skies serene, But Storms sometimes in a Tempestuous scene. The Light'ning first Flash from the shining Cloud, But as the Light'ning fly, Heaven Thunders loud. Tempests at Sea serve to endear the Shore; If Gods ne'er Thundered, Men would scarce adore. But now, 'tis time your fury were appeased, The Youth shall offer incense, You be pleased. In Tears he comes to pacify your Rage, And falling Showers even Thunder can assuage. Belief. SEe how he Weeps, I know the Youth sincere He Loves, he Vows, and offers up his Prayer, He's True; believe him True, as you are Fair. He begs you would his Racking Pains relieve, Believe— how can it hurt you to believe? 'Tis no uncommon, no new Suit he moves, He only begs you would believe he Loves. Grant the request he does so oft implore, But let him know he must expect no more. Inwards he's Ravished that you think him true, The Coast of Love he does more swift pursue; For still one Grant prepares the way for New. Now fresh desires spread full his Passion's Sails, He Sighs, and Steers his Passage through the Gales. Trust to my skill, in spite of Precepts past, And you shall Conquer, tho' to yield at last. If you are full convinced he does not feign, If the Youth Loves, he should be Loved again. A thousand, thousand ways there are to try, One word implies them all— Deny, Deny. Grant, or Denial, in succession, Burns, Like the twin Stars, that mount the Skies by turns Grants and Denials the amour improve, Whatever Star shall Shine, the Youth shall Love, Tho' your last Breath owned you believed his Vow. Yet, now he Vows again, deny it now, Till he such protestations shall renew, The Youth must Damn himself twho is not true. Favours. PErmit him now, sometimes your Hands to press, And Sigh, but seldom, and in warm address. Yet while his presses rise too fierce, too fast, Withdraw your Hands, those favours must not last seem serious now, while now you hear him Court, That he may know you make not Love your Sport. Attend, and Answer every thing he says, Such soft attention must the Lover please. Whilst now more fierce, more Passionate he Woos, He Love's, Believe, seem Sorry that he does. Seem much concerned to see the Lover Burn, Seem much concerned you can't his Love Return. Let your Eyes kindly with compassion move, Yet say you hate the Sex, and cannot Love. 'Tis your aversion; Monstrous! Love a Man! Say, vow you cannot, when you know you can. He leaves you now, half desperate as before, Bids you farewell; but Vows he must adore. He goes but to return; why let him go, He's yours,— Or if you please he may be so. Letters. HE Writes, perhaps, peruse what he has Writ, And if the bearer waits, extol his Wit. Say, 'tis above your reach, and you implore, That he would Write, you know not what, no more Give your cold Service, and the Note return, Or if some Fire be near, the Letter Burn. Say, it requires no Answer, so remove; For Maids should never Answer Notes of Love: Trust me, 'tis dangerous; for if Virgins Writ, They lose the noblest Trophies of the Fight. Some Men boast Favours which they never knew, Yet some are secret still, tho' very few, For Men feel vanity— as much as you. Those maids, whose Sparks, their Loving Notes expose, The ills they find in Writing can disclose Writ not, tho' most in Letters you excel, Writ not to show your Lover you Writ well, No, be not tempted, tho' you know to Spell. Writ not, no never, never Writ to Men, We cannot take denials from your Pen, 'Tis ours to Write, and Writ, and Writ again. Silence in you, shall all our thoughts deceive, You make reply sufficient, to receive. Distance. THe Youth returns, your Silence makes him come. From your dear Lips he must receive his doom. Receive him coily, ask him what he meant, By the unwelcome compliment he sent, Seem more and more reserved, and for a while, Till he protests and vows, you must not Smile. Keep him at distance while he talks of Love, Nor let his Hands around your Bosom Rove▪ Thus shall you raise more Passion in his Mind, As Flames rage's highest, when a while confined. He calls you cruel, most unhuman now, Who will no favours for such Love allow. Kindness WHen to the last excess of Fondness grown, He longs for all, will you afford him none? Yes, grant a little, now a little more And yet a little greater than before, Heaven must be giving still, if Men adore. Life of Love. YEt here be cautious favour not too fast, Give not too much, yet give yourself at last. Love should have moderate fuel, 'tis like Fires, Which too much, damps; yet slighted, it expires. All have not Souls deserving Virgin Flame, Some vainly think all Women are the same. Keep still your favours now, let none be lost, And give so little that no Youth may boast. Men are but Men, Maids are but mortal too, Give and Refuse, thus you grow ever new. Else will the Youth, continued fondness flee▪ For every Lover does not Love like me. What Flames had I for my Amasia Born, Had she been kind, when I so Loved her Scorn. Beauty like here's, whole Ages might deny, When Men pursue like me, Maids, ever fly. But Oh! no Man like Silvius can adore, No Woman like Amasia Charm— No Woman— (Maids forgive me) she was more Consent. COnsent at last, and send the Youth away, Let him go now that he may ever stay. The Advice. HE goes but to return; why let him go, He's yours,— but be advised, and make him so. Trust to my Skill, observe my precepts past, And as you now have Conquered, Yield at last. Both Men and Maids, Fight in Cupid's Field, Both Men and Maids, if you would Conquer, Yield. The Conclusion. BOth Men and Maids, whilst in your Bridals Blest, This, my reward, be for a truth confessed, Art has done all can be by Art expressed. FINIS. A Catalogue of BOOKS Printed for, and Sold by joseph Wild, at the Elephant at Charing-Cross▪ Where Gentlemen and Ladies may be furnished with Novels and Plays of all sorts. Newly Published. A Collection of Novels viz. The secret History of the Earl of Essex, and Queen Elizabeth. The Happy Slave, and the Double Cuckold; to which is added the Art of Pleasing in Conversation; by the famous Cardinal Richlieu. A Collection of Pleasant Modern Novels Vol. II. viz. The Heroine Musqueteer or the Female Warrior, in Four Parts. Incognita, or Love and Duty reconciled, by Mr. Congreve. The Pilgrim, in Four Parts. Collier's Essay's on several Moral Subjects in two Parts, the Fourth Edition. Reflections on Learning by a Gentleman, the Third Edition: The Certainty of a Future State; or a Discourse concerning Apparitions, Written by I. Roe. A. M. Chaplain to the Right Honourable the Earl of Burlington. The Second Edition, Price Stitched Is. A Sermon at the Funeral of Mrs. Bullivant, who was Murdered by Edmond Audley, in St Martin's Legrand. Preached by B. Crook A. M. Rector of St. Michael Woodstreet. A Brief and full Account, of the New Version of the Psalms, by N. Tate, and N. Brady. The Spanish Decameron, or ten Novels viz. The Rival Ladies, The Mistakes, the Generous Lover, the Libertine, The Virgin Captive, The Perfidious Mistress. The Metamorphosed Lover The Imposture out-witted, the Amorous Miser, and the Pretended Alchemist, the Second Edition. All the Histories and Novels, Written by the late ingenious Mrs. Behn, in one entire Volume, together with the Life and Memoires of Mrs. Behn, never before Printed, the Fourth Edition with large Addition. Familiar Letters: Written by john late Earl of Rochester, to the Honourable Henry Savil Esq: And other Persons of Quality▪ with Love Letters Written by the late ingenious Mr. Otway, Sir George Etehredge, and the late Duke of Buckingham. The Wise and Ingenious Compainon, French, and English, or a Collection of Wits of the Illustrious Persons, both Ancient, and Modern containing, their Wise say, Noble sentments, Witty Repartees etc. By Mr Boyer. The Crucified Saviour, or a Preparation to a worthy receiving the Holy Sacrament of the Lord's Supper in Meditations and Prayers for every Day in the Week▪ for the use of the Societies in and about London. A Catalogue of some single Novels, Printed and sold by joseph Wild, at the Elephant at Charing-Cross, for six Shillings per Dozen: Where you may be furnished with most sorts of Plays, THe Amours of Count Teckely. The Character of Love. The Court secret in two Parts. The intrigues of Christina Queen of Sweeden. Count Amboise, or generous Lover. Count Soisions. Dialogues of the Dead. Disorders of Love. Don Sebastian. Fatal Beauty. Fatal Prudence. Woman's Malice. Gallant Ladies or the Mutual Confidents. Virtue Betrayed or the Irish Princess. Hattige. Homais Queen of Tunis. Revived Fugitive Unhappy Lovers. eraglian, Chasts Humours of the Town. Ibrahim. Duke of Lorraine. Love Victorious. Rival Princess. Rival Mother. Agiatis Queen of Sparta. The History of Nicerotis. The secret History of the Duke of Alancon and Queen Elizabeth. Empire Betrayed. Relign Laici, by Mr. Dryden Lisarda, or the Travails of Love and Jealousy The Revengful Mistress, a Romance, by Philip Ayres Esq. Princess of Cleve, a Romance. Love Letters from a Nun to a Cavalier, Englshed by Sir R. L.