Mrs. Behn.    

POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS: WITH A VOYAGE TO THE Island of Love.  
By Mrs. A. BEHN.  
LONDON, Printed for R. Tonson and I. Tonson, at Gray's-Inn-Gate next Gray's-inns Lane, and at the Judges-Head at Chancery Lane end near Fleetstreet. 1684.   

TO The Right Honourable, JAMES, EARL of SALISBURY, VISCOUNT CRAMBORN, AND BARON of ISLINGTON.  
MY LORD,  
WHO should one celebrate with Verse and Song, but the Great, the Noble and the Brave? where dedicate an Isle of Love, but to the Gay, the Soft and Young? and who amongst Men can lay a better claim to these than Your Lordship? who like the Sun new risen with the early Day, looks round the World and sees nothing it cannot claim an interest in (for what cannot Wit, Beauty, Wealth and Honour claim?) The violent storms of Sedition and Rebellion are hushed and calmed; black Treason is retired to its old abode, the dark Abyss of Hell; the mysterious Riddles of Politic Knaves and Fools, which so long amused and troubled the World's repose, are luckily unfolded; and Your Lordship is saluted at Your first coming forth, Your first setting out for the glorious and happy Race of Life, by a Nation all glad, gay and smiling; and you have nothing before you but a ravishing prospect of eternal joys, and everlasting inviting Pleasures, and all that Love and Fortune can bestow on their darling Youth, attend You in the noble pursuit; and nothing can prevent Your being the most happy of her Favourites, but a too eager slight, a two swift speed o'er the charming slowry Meads and Plains that lie in view, between Your setting out and the end of Your glorious Chase. A long and illustrious race of Nobility has attended Your great Name, but none I believe ever came into the World with Your Lordship's advantages; amongst which, my Lord, 'tis not the least that You have the glory to be truly Loyal, and to be adorned with those excellent Principles, which render Nobility so absolutely worth the Veneration which is paid 'em; 'tis those, my Lord, and not the Title that make it truly great: Grandeur in any other serves but to point 'em out more particularly to the World, and show their Faults with the greater magnitude, and render 'em more liable to contempt and that Reward which justly pursues Ingratitude; nor is it, my Lord, the many unhappy Examples this Age has produced that has deterred you from herding with the busy Vnfortunates, and bringing Your powerful aid to their detestable cause, but a noble Honesty in Your Nature, a Genorosity in Your Soul. That even part of Your Education had the good fortune not to be able to corrupt; no Opinion could bias You, no Precedent debauch You; though all the fancied Glories of Power were promised You, though all the Contempt thrown on good and brave Men, all the subtle Arguments of the old Serpent, were used against the best of Kings and his illustrious Successor, still You were unmoved; Your young stout Heart with a Gallantry and Force unusual resisted and defied the gilded Bait, laughed at the industrious Politics of the busy Wise, and stubbornly Loyal, contemned the Counsels of the Grave. Go on, my Lord, advance in Noble resolution, grow up in strength of Loyalty, settle it about Your Soul, root it there like the first Principles of Religion, which nothing ever throughly defaces, and which in spite of even Reason the Soul retains, whatever little Debaucheries the Tongue may commit; You that are great, are born the Bulwarks of sacred Majesty, its defence against all the storms of Fate, the Safety of the People in the Supporters of the Throne; and sure none that ever obeyed the Laws of God and the Dictates of Honour ever paid those Duties to a Sovereign that more truly merited the Defence and Adorations of his People than this of ours; and 'tis a blessing (since we are obliged to render it to the worst of Tyrant Kings) that we have one who so well justifies that entire Love and Submission we ought to pay him. You, my Lord, are one whom Thousands of good Men look up to with wondrous Veneration and joy, when 'tis said Your Lordship amongst Your other Virtues is Loyal too, a true Tory! (a word of Honour now, the Royal Cause has sanctified it,) and though Your Lordship needs no encouragement to a good that rewards itself, yet I am confident You are not only ranked in the esteem of the best of Monarches, but we shall behold you as one of our Preservers, and all England as one of its great Patrons, when Ages that shall come shall find Your noble Name enrolled amongst the Friends to Monarchy in an Age of so villainous Corruption: Yes, my Lord, they will find it there and bless You. 'Tis this, my Lord, with every other Grace and Noble Virtue that adorns You, and gives the World such promises of Wonders in You, that makes me ambitious to be the first in the Crowd of Your Admirers, that shall have the honour to celebrate Your great Name. Be pleased then, my Lord, to accept this Little Piece, which lazy Minutes begot and hard Fate has obliged me to bring forth into the censuring World, to which if any thing can reconcile it, 'twill be the glory it has to bear Your Noble Name in the front, and to be Patronised by so great and good a Man: Permit but my Zeal for Your Lordship to atone for the rest of my Faults, and Your Lordship will extremely oblige,  
My Lord, Your Lordship's most Humble, and most Obedient Servant, A. Behn.   

TO Mrs. BEHN, ON THE PUBLISHING HER POEMS.  
Madam,  
LOng has Wit's injured Empire been oppressed  
By Rhyming Fools, this Nations common Jest,  
And sunk beneath the weight of heavy staffs,  
In Tory Ballads and Whig Epitaphs;  
The Ogs and Doegs reigned, nay Baxter's zeal,  
Has not been wanting too in writing Ill;  
Yet still in spite of what the dull can do,  
'Tis here asserted and adorned by you.  
This Book come forth, their credit must decay,  
Ill Spirits vanish at th'approach of day:  
And justly we before your envied feet,  
There where our Hearts are due our Pens submit;  
Ne'er to resume the baffled things again,  
Unless in Songs of Triumph to thy Name;  
Which are outdone by every Verse of thine,  
Where thy own Fame does with more lustre shine,  
Than all that we can give who in thy Praises join.  
Fair as the face of Heaven, when no thick Cloud  
Or darkening Storm the glorious prospect shroud;  
In all its beauteous parts shines thy bright style,  
And beyond Humane Wit commedns thy skill;  
With all the thought and vigour of our Sex  
The moving softness of your own you mix.  
The Queen of Beauty and the God of Wars  
Embracing lie in thy due tempered Verse,  
Venus her sweetness and the force of Mars.  
Thus thy luxuriant Muse her pleasure takes,  
As God of old in Eden's blissful walks;  
The Beauties of her new Creation viewed,  
Full of content She sees that it is good.  
Come then you inspired Swains and join your Verse,  
Though all in vain to add a Fame to hers;  
But then your Song will best Apollo please,  
When it is fraight with this his Favorite's praise.  
Declare how when her learned Harp she strung,  
Our joyful Island with the Music rung;  
Descending Graces left their Heavenly seat,  
To take their place in every Line she writ;  
Where sweetest Charms as in her Person smile,  
Her Face's Beauty's copied in her style.  
Say how as she did her just skill improve  
In the best Art and in soft Tales of Love.  
Some well sung Passion with success she crowned,  
The melting Virgins languished at the sound.  
And envying Swains durst not the Pipe inspire,  
They'd nothing then to do but to admire.  
Shepherds and Nymphs, to Pan direct your Prayer.  
If peradventure he your Vows will hear,  
To make you sing, and make you look like her.  
But, Nymphs and Swains, your hopes are all in vain▪  
For such bright Eyes, and such a tuneful Pen.  
How many of her Sex spend half their days,  
To catch some Fool by managing a Face?  
But she secure of charming has confined  
Her wiser care t' adorn and dress the Mind.  
Beauty may fade, but everlasting Verse  
Exempts the better portion from the Hearse.  
The matchless Wit and Fancy of the Fair,  
Which moves our envy and our sons despair.  
Long they shall live a monument of her Fame,  
And to Eternity extend her Name;  
While Aftertimes deservedly approve  
The choicest object of this Ages Love.  
For when they read, guessing how far she charmed,  
With that bright Body with such Wit informed;  
They will give heed and credit to our Verse,  
When we the Wonders of her Face rehearse.  
I. Cooper. Buckden, Nou. 25. 1683.   

To ASTRAEA, on her Poems.  
'TIS not enough to read and to admire,  
Thy sacred Verse does nobler thoughts inspire,  
Striking on every breast Poetic fire:  
The God of Wit attends with cheerful Rays,  
Warming the dullest Statue into praise.  
Hail then, delight of Heaven and pride of Earth,  
Blest by each Muse at thy auspicious birth;  
Soft Love and Majesty have framed thy Mind,  
To show the Beauties of both Sexes joined:  
Thy Lines may challenge, like young David's face,  
A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace;  
Thy tender notions in loose numbers slow,  
With a strange power to charm where e'er they go:  
And when in stronger sounds thy voice we hear,  
At all the skilful points you armed appear.  
Which way soe'er thou dost thyself express,  
We find thy Beauty out in every dress;  
Such work so gently wrought, so strongly fine,  
Cannot be wrought by hands all Masculine.  
In vain proud Man weak Woman would control,  
No Man can argue now against a Woman's Soul.  
I. C.   

To the excellent Madam Behn, on her Poems.  
'TWas vain for Man the Laurels to pursue,  
(Even from the God of Wit bright Daphne slew)  
Man, Whose course compound damps the Muses fire,  
It does but touch our Earth and soon expire;  
While in the softer kind th'etherial flame,  
Spreads and rejoices as from Heaven it came:  
This Greece in Sapph, in Orinda knew  
Our Isle; though they were but low types to you;  
But the faint dawn to your illustrious day,  
To make us patient of your brighter Ray.  
Oft may we see some wretched story told,  
In ductile sense spread thin as leaves of Gold.  
You have engrossed th'inestimable Mine;  
Which in well polished Numbers you refine,  
While still the solid Mass shines thick in every Line.  
Yet neither sex do you surpass alone,  
Both in your Verse are in their glory shown,  
Both Phoebus and Minerva are your own.  
While in the softest dress you Wit dispense,  
With all the Nerves of Reason and of Sense.  
In mingled Beauties we at once may trace  
A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace.  
No wonder 'tis the Delphian God of old  
Would have his Oracles by Women told.  
But oh! who e'er so sweetly could repeat  
Soft lays of Love, and youths delightful heat?  
If Love's Misfortunes be your mournful Theme,  
No dying Swan on fair Cayster's stream,  
Expires so sweet, though with his numerous Moan,  
The fading Banks and suffering Mountains groan.  
If you the gentle Passions would inspire,  
With what resistless Charms you breathe desire?  
No Heart so savage, so relentless none,  
As can the sweet Captivity disown:  
Ah, needs must she th'unwary Soul surprise,  
Whose Pen sheds Flames as dangerous as her Eyes.  
I. adam's.   

To the Author, on her Voyage to the Island of Love.  
TO speak of thee no Muse will I invoke,  
Thou only canst inspire what should be spoke;  
For all their wealth the Nine have given to thee,  
Thy rich and slowing stream has left them dry:  
Cupid may throw away his useless Darts,  
Thou'st lent him one will massacre more Hearts  
Than all his store, thy Pen disarms us so,  
We yield ourselves to the first beauteous Foe;  
The easy softness of thy thoughts surprise,  
And this new way Love steals into our Eyes;  
Thy gliding Verse comes on us unawares,  
No rumbling Metaphors alarm our Ears,  
And puts us in a posture of defence;  
We are undone and never know from whence.  
So to th' Assyrian Camp the Angel slew,  
And in the silent Night his Millions slew.  
Thou lead'st us by the Soul amongst thy Loves,  
And bindest us all in thy enchanting Groves;  
Each languishes for thy Aminta's Charms,  
Sighs for thy fancied Raptures in her Arms,  
Sees her in all that kill posture laid,  
When Love and fond Respect guarded the sleeping Maid,  
Pursues her to the very Bower of Bliss,  
Times all the wrecking joys and thinks 'em his;  
In the same Trance with the young pair we lie,  
And in their amorous Ecstasies we die.  
You Nymphs, who deaf to Love's soft lays have been,  
Read here, and suck the sweet destruction in:  
Smooth is the stream and clear is every thought,  
And yet you cannot see with what you're caught;  
Or else so very pleasing is the Bait,  
With careless heed you play and leap at it:  
She poisons all the Flood with such an art,  
That the dear Philter trickles to the Heart,  
With such bewitching pleasure that each sup  
Has all the joys of life in every drop.  
I see the Banks with Lovesick Virgins strowed,  
Their Bosoms heaved with the young fluttering God;  
Oh, how they pant and struggle with their pain!  
Yet cannot wish their former health again:  
Within their Breasts thy warmth and spirit glows,  
And in their Eyes thy streaming softness flows;  
Thy Raptures are transfused through every vein,  
And thy blessed hour in all their heads does reign;  
The Ice that chills the Soul thou dost remove,  
And meltest it into tenderness and Love;  
The flints about their Hearts dance to thy lays,  
Till the quick motion sets 'em on a Blaze.  
Orpheus and you the stones do both inspire,  
But only you out of those flints strike fire,  
Not with a sudden Spark, a short lived Blaze,  
Like women's Passions in our Gilting days;  
But what you fire burns with a constant flame,  
Like what you write, and always is the same.  
Rise all ye weeping Youth, rise and appear,  
Whom gloomy Fate has damned to black Despair;  
Start from the ground and throw your Mourning by,  
Loves great Sultana says you shall not die:  
The dismal dark half year is over past,  
The Sea is opened, the Sun shines out at last,  
And trading free, the storms are hushed as death,  
Or happy Lovers ravished out of breath;  
And listen to Astraea's Harmony,  
Such power has elevated Poetry.  
T. C.   

To the Lovely Witty Astraea, on her Excellent Poems.  
OH, wonder of thy Sex! Where can we see,  
Beauty and Knowledge joined except in thee?  
Such pains took Nature with your Heavenly Face,  
Formed it for Love, and moulded every Grace;  
I doubted first and feared that you had been  
Unfinished left like other She's within:  
I see the folly of that fear, and find  
Your Face is not more beauteous than your Mind:  
Whoever beheld you with a Heart unmoved,  
That sent not sighs, and said within he loved?  
I gazed and found, a then, unknown delight,  
Life in your looks, and Death to leave the sight.  
What joys, new Worlds of joys has he possessed,  
That gained the sought-for welcome of your Breast?  
Your Wit would recommend the homeliest Face,  
Your Beauty make the dullest Humour please;  
But where they both thus gloriously are joined,  
All Men submit, you reign in every Mind.  
What Passions does your Poetry impart?  
It shows th'unfathomed thing a Woman's Heart,  
Tells what Love is, his Nature and his Art▪  
Displays the several Scenes of Hopes and Fears,  
Love's Smiles, his Sighs, his Laughing and his Tears▪  
Each Lover here may read his different Fate,  
His Mistress kindness or her scornful hate.  
Come all whom the blind God has led astray,  
Here the bewildered Youth is showed his way:  
Guided by this he may yet love and find  
Ease in his Heart, and reason in his Mind.  
Thus sweetly once the charming W—lr strove  
In Heavenly sounds to gain his hopeless Love:  
All the World listened but his scornful Fair,  
Pride stopped her ears to whom he bent his prayer.  
Much happier you that can't desire in vain,  
But what you wish as soon as wished obtain.   

Upon these and other Excellent Works of the Incomparable Astraea.  

YE bold Magicians in Philosophy,  
That vainly think (next the Almighty three)  
The brightest Cherubin in all the Hierarchy  
Will leave that Glorious Sphere  
And to your wild enchantments will appear;  
To the fond summons of fantastic Charms,  
As Barbarous and inexplicable Terms:  
As those the trembling Scorcerer dreads,  
When he the Magic Circle treads:  
And as he walks the Mystic rounds,  
And mutters the detested sounds,  
The Stygian fiends exalt their wrathful heads;  
And all ye bearded Drudges of the Schools,  
That sweat in vain to mend predestined fools,  
With senseless Jargon and perplexing Rules;  
Behold and with amazement stand,  
Behold a blush with shame and wonder too,  
What Divine Nature can in Woman do.  
Behold if you can see in all this fertile Land  
Such an Anointed head, such an inspired hand▪   

II.  
Rest on in peace, ye blessed Spirits, rest,  
With Imperial bliss for ever blest:  
Upon your sacred Urn she scorns to tread,  
Or rob the Learned Monuments of the dead:  
Nor need her Muse a foreign aid implore  
In her own tuneful breast there's wondrous store.  
Had she but flourished in these times of old,  
When Mortals were amongst the Gods enrolled,  
She had not now as Woman been Adored,  
But with Diviner sacrifice Implored;  
Temples and Altars had preserved her name  
And she herself been thought Immortal as her fame.   

III.  
Cursed be the baleful Tongue that dares abuse  
The rightful offspring of her Godlike Muse:  
And doubly Cursed be he that thinks her Pen  
Can be instructed by the best of men.  
The times to come, (as surely she will live,  
As many Ages as are past,  
As long as Learning, Sense, or wit survive,  
As long as the first principles of Bodies last.)  
The future Ages may perhaps believe  
One soft and tender Arm could ne'er achieve  
The wondrous deeds that she has done  
So hard a prize her Conquering Muse has won.  
But we that live in the great Prophetesses days  
Can we enough proclaim her praise,  
We that experience every hour  
The blessed effects of her Miraculous power?  
To the sweet Music of her charming tongue,  
In numerous Crowds the ravished hearers throng▪  
And even a Herd of Beasts as wild as they  
That did the Thracian Lyre obey,  
Forget their Madness and attend her song.  
The tuneful Shepherds on the dangerous rocks  
Forsake their Kind's and leave their bleating Flocks,  
And throw their tender Reeds away,  
As soon as e'er her softer Pipe begins to play.  
No barren subject no unfertile soil  
Can prove ungrateful to her Muse's Toil,  
Warmed with the Heavenly influence of her Brain,  
Upon the dry and sandy plain,  
On craggy Mountains covered over with Snow,  
The blooming Rose and fragrant Jes'min grow:  
When in her powerful Poetic hand,  
She waves the mystic wand,  
Straight from the hardest Rocks the sweetest numbers slow.   

IV.  
Hail bright Urania! Erato hail!  
Melpomene, Polymnia, Euterpe, hail!  
And all ye blessed powers that inspire  
The Heavenborn Soul with intellectual fire;  
Pardon my humble and unhallowed Muse,  
If she too great a veneration use,  
And prostrate at your best loved Darling's feet  
Your holy Fane with sacred honour greet:  
Her more than Pythian Oracles are so divine,  
You sure not only virtually are  
Within the glorious Shrine,  
But you your very selves must needs be there.  
The Delian Prophet did at first ordain,  
That even the mighty Nine should reign,  
In distant Empires of different Clime;  
And if in her triumphant Throne,  
She rules those learned Regions alone,  
The famed Pyerides are outdone by her omnipotent Rhyme.  
In proper Cells her large capacious Brain  
The images of all things does contain,  
As bright almost as were th'Ideas laid,  
In the last model e'er the World was made.  
And though her vast conceptions are so strong,  
The powerful eloquence of her charming tongue  
Does, clear as the resistless beams of day,  
To our enlightened Souls the noble thoughts convey;  
Well chosen, well appointed, every word  
Does its full force and natural grace afford;  
And though in her rich treasury,  
Confused like Elements great Numbers lie,  
When they their mixture and proportion take,  
What beauteous forms of every kind they make!  
Such was the Language God himself infused,  
And such the style our great Forefather used,  
From one large stock the various sounds he framed,  
And every Species of the vast Creation named.  
While most of our dull Sex have trod  
In beaten paths of one continued Road,  
Her skilful and well managed Muse  
Does all the art and strength of different paces use:  
For though sometimes with slackened force,  
She wisely stops her fleetest course,  
That slow but strong Majestic pace  
Shows her the swiftest steed of all the chosen Race.   

V.  
Well has she sung the learned Daphnis praise,  
And crowned his Temples with immortal Bays;  
And all that read him must indeed confess,  
Th' effects of such a cause could not be less.  
For ne'er was (at the first bold he●t begun)  
So hard and swift a Race of glory run,  
But yet her sweeter Muse did for him more,  
Than he himself or all Apollo's sons before;  
For should th' insatiate lust of time,  
Root out the memory of his sacred Rhyme.  
The polished armour in that single Page  
Would all the tyranny and rage  
Of Fire and Sword defy,  
For Daphnis can't but with Astraea die.  
And who can dark oblivion fear,  
That is coeval with her mighty Works and Her?  
Ah learned Chemist, 'tis the only can  
By her almighty arm,  
Within the precious salt collect,  
The true essential form,  
And can against the power of death protect  
Not only Herbs and Trees, but raise the buried Man.   

VI  
Wretched O Enone's inauspicious fate,  
That she was born so soon, or her blessed Muse so late!  
Could the poor Virgin have like her complained,  
She soon her perjured Lover had regained,  
In spite of all the fair Seducers tears,  
In spite of all her Vows and Prayers;  
Such tender accents through his Soul had run,  
As would have pierced the hardest heart of Man.  
At every Line the fugitive had sworn  
By all the Gods, by all the Powers divine,  
My dear O Enone, I'll be ever thine,  
And ne'er behold the flattering Grecian more.  
How does it please the learned Roman's Ghost  
(The sweetest that th' Elysian Field can boast)  
To see his noble thoughts so well expressed,  
So tenderly in a rough Language dressed;  
Had she there lived, and he her Genius known,  
So soft, so charming, and so like his own,  
One of his Works had unattempted been,  
And Ovid ne'er in mournful Verse been seen;  
Then the great Caesar to the Scythian plain,  
From Rome's gay Court had banished him in vain,  
Her plenteous Muse had all his wants supplied,  
And he had flourished in exalted pride:  
No barbarous Getans had depraved his tongue,  
For he had only listened to her Song,  
Not as an exile, but proscribed by choice,  
Pleased with her Form, and ravished with her voice.  
His last and dearest part of Life,  
Free from noise and glorious strife,  
He there had spent within her softer Arms,  
And soon forgot the Royal Julia's charms.   

VII.  
Long may she scourge this mad rebellious Age,  
And stem the torrent of Fanatic rage,  
That once had almost overwhelmed the Stage.  
O'er all the Land the dire contagion spread,  
And even Apollo's Sons apostate fled:  
But while that spurious race employed their parts  
In studying stratagems and subtle arts,  
To alienate their Prince's Subjects hearts,  
Her Loyal Muse still tuned her loudest strings,  
To sing the praises of the best of Kings.  
And, O ye sacred and immortal Gods,  
From the blessed Mansions of your bright abodes,  
To the first Chaos let us all be hurled,  
E'er such vile wretches should reform the World,  
That in all villainy so far excel,  
If they in sulphurous flames must only dwell,  
The Cursed Caitiffs hardly merit Hell.  
Were not those vile Achitophel's so loved,  
(The blind, the senseless and deluded Crowd)  
Did they but half his Royal Virtues know,  
But half the blessings which to him they owe,  
His long forbearance to provoking times,  
And Godlike mercy to the worst of crimes:  
Those murmuring Shimei's, even they alone,  
Could they bestow a greater than his own,  
Would from a Cottage raise him to a Throne.   

VIII.  
See, ye dull Scribblers of this frantic Age,  
That load the Press, and so overwhelm the Stage,  
That even the noblest art that e'er was known,  
As great as an Egyptian Plague is grown:  
Behold, ye scrawling Locusts, what ye've done,  
What a dire judgement is brought down,  
By your cursed Doggerel Rhimes upon the Town;  
On Fools and Rebels hangs an equal Fate,  
And both may now repent too late,  
For the great Charter of your Wit as well as Trade is gone.  
Once more the famed Astraea's come;  
'Tis she pronounced the fatal doom,  
And has restored it to the rightful Heirs,  
Since Knowledge first in Paradise was theirs.   

IX.  
Never was Soul and Body better joined,  
A Mansion worthy of so blest a Mind;  
See but the Shadow of her beauteous face,  
The precious miniatures of every Grace,  
There one may still such Charms behold,  
That as Idolaters of old,  
The works of their own hands adored,  
And Gods which they themselves had made implored;  
jove might again descend below,  
And, with her Wit and Beauty charmed, to his own Image bow.  
But oh, the irrevocable doom of Nature's Laws!  
How soon the brightest Scene of Beauty draws!  
Alas, what's all the glittering Pride  
Of the poor perishing Creatures of a day,  
With what a violent and impetuous Tide,  
E'er their flowed in their glories ebb away?  
The Pearl, the Diamond and Saphire must  
Be blended with the common Pebbles dust,  
And even Astraea with all her sacred store,  
Be wrecked on Death's inevitable Shore,  
Her Face ne'er seen and her dear Voice be heard no more.  
And wisely therefore e'er it was too late,  
She has reversed the sad Decrees of Fate,  
And in deep Characters of immortal Wit,  
So large a memorandum's writ,  
That the blessed memory of her deathless Name  
Shall stand recorded in the Book of Fame;  
When Towns interred in their own ashes lie,  
And Chronicles of Empires die,  
When Monuments like Men want Tombs to tell  
Where the remains of the vast ruins fell.    

To the excellent Astraea.  
WE all can well admire, few well can praise  
Where so great merit does the Subject raise:  
To write our Thoughts alike from dulness free,  
On this hand, as on that from flattery;  
He who would handsomely the Medium hit,  
Must have no little of Astraea's Wit.  
Let others in the noble Task engage,  
Call you the Phoenix, wonder of the Age,  
The Glory of your Sex, the Shame of ours,  
Crown you with Garlands of Rhetoric Flowers;  
For me, alas, I nothing can design,  
To render your soft Numbers more divine,  
Than by comparison with these of mine:  
As beauteous paintings are set off by shades,  
And some fair Ladies by their dowdy Maids;  
Yet after all, forgive me if I name  
One Fault where, Madam, you are much to blame,  
To wound with Beauty's fight on the square,  
But to overcome with Wit too is not fair,  
'Tis like the poisoned Indian Arrows found,  
For thus you're sure to kill where once you wound.  
I. W.   


To Madam A. Behn on the publication of her Poems.  
WHen the sad news was spread,  
The bright, the fair Orinda's dead,  
We sighed, we mourned, we wept, we grieved,  
And fond with ourselves conceived,  
A loss so great could never be retrieved.  
The Ruddy Warrior laid his Truncheon by,  
Sheathed his bright sword, and glorious Arms forgot,  
The sounds of Triumph, brags of Victory,  
Raised in his Breast no emulative thought;  
For pondering on the common Lot,  
Where is, said He the Difference in the Grave,  
Betwixt the Coward and the Brave?  
Since She, alas, whose inspired Muse should tell  
To unborn Ages how the Hero fell,  
From the Impoverished Ignorant World is fled,  
T'inhance the mighty mighty Number of the dead.   

II.  
The trembling Lover broke his tuneless Lute,  
And said be thou for ever mute:  
Mute as the silent shades of night,  
Whither Orinda's gone,  
Thy music's best instructress and thy music's song;  
She that could make  
Thy inarticulated strings to speak,  
In language soft as young desires,  
In language chaste as Vestal fires;  
But she hath ta'en her Everlasting flight:  
Ah! cruel Death,  
How short's the date of Learned breath!  
No sooner does the blooming Rose,  
Dressed fresh and gay,  
In the embroideries of her Native May,  
Her odorous sweets expose,  
But with thy fatal knife,  
The fragrant flower is cropped from off the stalk of life.   

III.  
Come, ye Stoics, come away,  
You that boast an Apathy,  
And view our Golgotha;  
See how the mourning Virgins all around,  
With Tributary Tears bedew the sacred ground;  
And tell me tell me where's the Eye  
That can be dry,  
Unless in hopes (nor are such hopes in vain)  
Their universal cry,  
Should mount the vaulted sky,  
And of the Gods obtain,  
A young succeeding Phoenix might arise  
From Orinda's spicy obsequies.  
In Heaven the voice was heard,  
Heaven does the Virgin's prayers regard;  
And none that dwells on high,  
If once the beauteous Ask, the beauteous can deny.   

IV.  
'Tis done, 'tis done, th' imperial grant is past,  
We have our wish at last,  
And now no more with sorrow be it said,  
Orinda's dead;  
Since in her seat Astraea does Appear,  
The God of Wit hath chosen her,  
To bear Orinda's and his Character.  
The Laurel Chaplet seems to grow  
On her more graceful Brow;  
And in her hand  
Look how she waves his sacred Wand:  
Loves Quiver's tide  
In an Azure Mantle by her side,  
And with more gentle Arts  
Than he who owns the Aureal darts,  
At once she wounds, and heals our hearts.   

V.  
Hark how the gladded Nymphs rejoice,  
And with a graceful voice,  
Commend Apollo's Choice.  
The gladded Nymphs their Guardian Angel greet,  
And cheerfully her name repeat,  
And cheerfully admire and praise,  
The Loyal music of her lays;  
Whilst they securely sit,  
Beneath the banners of her wit,  
And scorn th'ill-mannered Ignorance of those,  
Whose Stock's so poor they cannot raise  
To their dull Muse one subsidy of praise,  
Unless they're dubbed the Sex's foes,  
These squibbs of sense themselves expose.  
Or if with stolen light  
They shine one night,  
The next their earthborn Lineage shows,  
They perish in their slime,  
And but to name them, would defile Astraea's Rhyme   

VI.  
But you that would be truly wise,  
And virtues fair Idea prize;  
You that would improve  
In harmless Arts of not indecent Love:  
Arts that Rome's famed Master never taught,  
Or in the Shops of fortune's bought.  
Would you know what Wit doth mean,  
Pleasant wit yet not obscene,  
The several garbs that Humours wear,  
The dull, the brisk, the jealous, the severe?  
Would you the pattern see  
Of spotless and untainted Loyalty,  
Decked in every graceful word  
That language can afford;  
Tropes and Figures, Raptures and Conceits that lie,  
Dispersed in all the pleasant Fields of poesy?  
Read you then Astraea's lines,  
'Tis in those new discovered Mines,  
Those golden Quarries that this Ore is found  
With which in Worlds as yet unknown Astraea shall be crowned.   

VII.  
And you th' Adventurous sons of fame,  
You that would sleep in honour's bed  
With glorious Trophies garnished;  
You that with living labours strive  
Your dying Ashes to survive;  
Pay your Tributes to Astraea's name  
Her Works can spare you immortality,  
For sure her Works shall never die.  
Pyramids must fall and Mausolean Monuments decay,  
Marble Tombs shall crumble into dust,  
Noisy Wonders of a short lived day,  
That must in time yield up their Trust;  
And had e'er this been perished quite  
Ith' ruins of Eternal night,  
Had no kind Pen like here's,  
In powerful numbers powerful verse,  
Too potent for the gripes of Avaricious fate,  
To these our ages lost declared their pristine State.   

VIII.  
But time itself, bright Nymph, shall never Conquer thee,  
For when the Globe of vast Eternity;  
Turns up the wrong-side of the World,  
And all things are to their first Chaos hurled,  
Thy lasting praise in thy own lines enrolled,  
With Roman and with the British Names shall Equal honour hold.  
And surely none 'midst the Poetic Choir,  
But justly will admire  
The Trophies of thy wit,  
Sublime and gay as e'er were yet  
In Charming Numbers writ.  
Or Virgil's Shade or Ovid's Ghost,  
Of Ages past the pride and boast;  
Or Cowley (first of ours) refuse  
That thou shouldst be Companion of their Muse.  
And if 'twere lawful to suppose  
(As where's the Crime or Incongruity)  
Those awful Souls concerned can be  
At any sublunary thing,  
Alas, I fear they'll grieve to see,  
That whilst I sing,  
And strive to praise, I but disparage thee.   
By F. N. W.   

To Madam Behn, on her Poems.  
WHEN th' Almighty Powers th' Universe had framed,  
And Man as King, the lesser World was named,  
The Glorious Consult soon his joys did bless,  
And sent him Woman his chief happiness.  
She by an afterbirth Heaven did refine,  
And gave her Beauty with a Soul divine;  
She with delight was Nature's chiefest pride,  
Dearer to Man than all the World beside;  
Her soft embraces charmed his Manly Soul,  
And softer Words his Roughness did control:  
So thou, great Sapph, with thy charming Verse,  
Dost here the Soul of Poetry rehearse;  
From your sweet Lips such pleasant Raptures fell,  
As if the Graces strove which should excel.  
Th'admiring World when first your Lute you strung,  
Became all ravished with th' immortal Song;  
So soft and graceful Love in you is seen,  
As if the Muses had designed you Queen.  
For thee, thou great Britannia of our Land,  
How does thy Praise our tuneful Feet command?  
With what great influence do thy Verses move?  
How hast thou shown the various sense of Love?  
Admired by us, and blest by all above.  
To you all tribute's due, and I can raise  
No glory but by speaking in your praise.  
Go on and bless us daily with your Pen,  
And we shall oft return thee thanks again.  
H. Watson.   

POEMS UPON Several OCCASIONS.  

The Golden Age. A Paraphrase on a Translation out of French.  

I.  
Blessed Age! when every Purling Stream  
Ran undisturbed and clear,  
When no scorned Shepherds on your Banks were seen,  
Tortured by Love, by Jealousy, or Fear;  
When an Eternal Spring dressed every Bough,  
And Blossoms fell, by new ones dispossessed;  
These their kind Shade affording all below,  
And those a Bed where all below might rest.  
The Groves appeared all dressed with Wreaths of Flowers,  
And from their Leaves dropped Aromatic Showers,  
Whose fragrant Heads in Mystic Twines above,  
Exchanged their Sweets, and mixed with thousand Kisses,  
As if the willing Branches strove  
To beautify and shade the Grove  
Where the young wanton Gods of Love  
Offer their Noblest Sacrifice of Blisses.   

II.  
Calm was the Air, no Winds blew fierce and loud,  
The Sky was darkened with no sullen Cloud;  
But all the heavens laughed with continued Light,  
And scattered round their Rays serenely bright.  
No other Murmurs filled the Ear  
But what the Streams and Rivers purled,  
When Silver Waves o'er Shining Pebbles curled;  
Or when young Zephirs fanned the Gentle Breeze,  
Gathering fresh Sweets from Balmy Flowers and Trees,  
Then bore 'em on their Wings to perfume all the Air:  
While to their soft and tender Play,  
The Gray-plumed Natives of the Shades  
Unwearied sing till Love invades,  
Then Bill, then sing again, while Love and Music makes the Day.   

III.  
The stubborn Plough had then,  
Made no rude Rapes upon the Virgin Earth;  
Who yielded of her own accord her plenteous Birth,  
Without the Aids of men;  
As if within her Teeming Womb,  
All Nature, and all Sexes lay,  
Whence new Creations every day  
Into the happy World did come:  
The Roses filled with Morning Dew,  
Bend down their loaded heads,  
T'Adorn the careless Shepherds Grassy Beds  
While still young opening Buds each moment grew  
And as those withered, dressed his shaded Couch a new;  
Beneath who's boughs the Snakes securely dwelled,  
Not doing harm, nor harm from others felt;  
With whom the Nymphs did Innocently play,  
No spiteful Venom in the wantoness lay;  
But to the touch were Soft, and to the sight were Gay.   

IV.  
Then no rough sound of Wars Alarms,  
Had taught the World the needless use of Arms:  
Monarches were uncreated then,  
Those Arbitrary Rulers over men;  
Kings that made Laws, first broke 'em, and the Gods  
By teaching us Religion first, first set the World at Odds:  
Till than Ambition was not known,  
That Poison to Content, Bane to Repose;  
Each Swain was Lord o'er his own will alone,  
His Innocence Religion was, and Laws.  
Nor needed any troublesome defence  
Against his Neighbour's Insolence.  
Flocks, Herds, and every necessary good  
Which bounteous Nature had designed for Food,  
Whose kind increase o'er spread the Meads and Plains,  
Was then a common Sacrifice to all th' agreeing Swains.   

V.  
Right and Property were words since made,  
When Power taught Mankind to invade:  
When Pride and Avarice became a Trade;  
Carried on by discord, noise and wars,  
For which they bartered wounds and scars;  
And to Enhance the Merchandise, miscalled it ' Fame,  
And Rapes, Invasions, Tyrannies,  
Was gaining of a Glorious Name:  
Styling their savage slaughters, Victories;  
Honour, the Error and the Cheat  
Of the Ill-natured Bus'ey Great,  
Nonsense, invented by the Proud,  
Fond Idol of the slavish Crowd,  
Thou wert not known in those blessed days  
Thy Poison was not mixed with our unbounded Joys;  
Then it was glory to pursue delight,  
And that was lawful all, that Pleasure did invite,  
Then 'twas the Amorous world enjoyed its Reign;  
And Tyrant Honour strove t' usurp in Vain.   

VI  
The flowery Meads the Rivers and the Groves,  
Were filled with little Cay-winged Loves:  
That ever smiled and danced and Played,  
And now the woods, and now the streams invade,  
And where they came all things were gay and glad:  
When in the Myrtle Groves the Lovers sat  
Oppressed with a too fervent heat;  
A Thousand Cupids fanned their wings aloft,  
And through the Boughs the yielded Air would waste:  
Whose parting Leaves discovered all below,  
And every God his own soft power admired,  
And smiled and sanned, and sometimes bend his Bow;  
Where e'er he saw a Shepherd uninspired.  
The Nymphs were free, no nice, no coy disdain,  
Denied their Joys, or gave the Lover pain;  
The yielding Maid but kind Resistance makes;  
Trembling and blushing are not marks of shame,  
But the Effect of kindling Flame:  
Which from the sighing burning Swain she takes,  
While she with tears all soft, and down-cast-eyes,  
Permits the Charming Conqueror to win the prize.   

VII.  
The Lovers thus, thus uncontrolled did meet,  
Thus all their Joys and Vows of Love repeat:  
Joys which were everlasting, ever new  
And every Vow inviolably true:  
Not kept in fear of Gods, no fond Religious cause,  
Nor in Obedience to the duller Laws.  
Those Fopperies of the Gown were then not known,  
Those vain those Politic Curbs to keep man in,  
Who by a fond mistake Created that a Sin;  
Which freeborn we, by right of Nature claim our own.  
Who but the Learned and dull moral Fool  
Could gravely have foreseen, man ought to live by Rule?   

VIII.  
Oh cursed Honour! thou who first didst damn,  
A Woman to the Sin of shame;  
Honour! that robbest us of our Gust,  
Honour! that hindered mankind first,  
At Love's Eternal Spring to squench his amorous thirst.  
Honour! who first taught lovely Eyes the art,  
To wound, and not to cure the heart:  
With Love to invite, but to forbid with Awe,  
And to themselves prescribe a Cruel Law;  
To Veil 'em from the Looker's on,  
When they are sure the slave's undone,  
And all the Charmingest part of Beauty hid;  
Soft Looks, consenting Wishes, all denied.  
It gathers up the flowing Hair,  
That loosely played with wanton Air.  
The Envious Net, and stinted order hold,  
The lovely Curls of Jet and shining Gold,  
No more neglected on the Shoulders hurled:  
Now dressed to Tempt, not gratify the World,  
Thou Miser Honour hordest the sacred store,  
And starv'st thyself to keep thy Votaries poor.   

IX.  
Honour! that puttest our words that should be free  
Into a set Formality.  
Thou base Debaucher of the generous heart,  
That teachest all our Looks and Actions Art;  
What Love designed a sacred Gift,  
What Nature made to be possessed,  
Mistaken Honour, made a Theft,  
For Glorious Love should be confessed:  
For when confined, all the poor Lover gains,  
Is broken Sighs, pale Looks, Complaints, & Pains.  
Thou Foe to Pleasure, Nature's worst Disease,  
Thou Tyrant over mighty Kings,  
What mak'st thou here in Shepherd's Cottages;  
Why troublest thou, the quiet Shades & Springs  
Be gone, and make thy Famed resort  
To Prince's Palaces;  
Go Deal and Chaffer in the Trading Court,  
That busy Market for Fantastic Things;  
Be gone and interrupt the short Retreat,  
Of the Illustrious and the Great;  
Go break the Politician's sleep,  
Disturb the Gay Ambitious Fool,  
That longs for Sceptres, Crowns, and Rule,  
Which not his Title, nor his Wit can keep;  
But let the humble honest Swain go on,  
In the blessed Paths of the first rate of man;  
That nearest were to Gods Allied,  
And formed for love alone, disdained all other Pride   

X.  
Be gone! and let the Golden age again,  
Assume its Glorious Reign;  
Let the young wishing Maid confess,  
What all your Arts would keep concealed:  
The Mystery will be revealed,  
And she in vain denies, whilst we can guests,  
She only shows the Jilt to teach man how,  
To turn the false Artillery on the Cunning Foe.  
Thou empty Vision hence, be gone,  
And let the peaceful Swain love on;  
The swift paced hours of life soon steal away:  
Stint not ye Gods his short lived Joy.  
The Spring decays, but when the Winter's gone,  
The Trees and Flowers a new comes on  
The Sun may set, but when the night is fled,  
And gloomy darkness does retire,  
He rises from his Watery Bed:  
All Glorious, Gay, all dressed in Amorous Fire.  
But Sylvia when your Beauties fade,  
When the fresh Roses on your Cheeks shall die,  
Like Flowers that whither in the Shade,  
Eternally they will forgotten lie,  
And no kind Spring their sweetness will supply.  
When Snow shall on those lovely Tresses lie  
And your fair Eyes no more shall give us pain,  
But shoot their pointless Darts in vain.  
What will your duller honour signify?  
Go boast it then! and see what numerous Store  
Of Lovers, will your Ruined Shrine Adore.  
Then let us Sylvia yet be wise,  
And the Gay hasty minute's prize:  
The Sun and Spring receive but our short Light,  
Once set, a sleep brings an Eternal Night.    

A Farewell to Celladon, On his Going into Ireland. Pindaric.  

FArewell the Great, the Brave and Good,  
By all admired and understood;  
For all thy virtues so extensive are,  
Writ in so noble and so plain a Character,  
That they instruct humanity what to do,  
How to reward and imitate 'em too,  
The mighty Cesar found and knew,  
The Value of a Swain so true:  
And early called the Industrious Youth from Grooves  
Where unambitiously he lay,  
And knew no greater Joyces, nor Power then Loves;  
Which all the day  
The careless and delighted Celladon Improves;  
So the first man in Paradise was laid,  
So blest beneath his own dear fragrant shade,  
Till false Ambition made him range,  
So the Almighty called him forth,  
And though for Empire he did Eden change;  
Less Charming 'twas, and far less worth.   

II.  
Yet he obeys and leaves the peaceful Plains,  
The weeping Nymphs, and sighing Swains,  
Obeys the mighty voice of jove.  
The Dictates of his Loyalty pursues,  
Business Debauches all his hours of Love;  
Business, whose hurry, noise and news  
Even Nature's self subdues;  
Changes her best and first simplicity,  
Her soft, her easy quietude  
Into mean Arts of cunning Policy,  
The Grave and Drudging Coxcomb to Delude  
Say, mighty Celladon, oh tell me why,  
Thou dost thy nobler thoughts employ  
In business, which alone was made  
To teach the restless Statesman how to Trade  
In dark Cabals for Mischief and Design,  
But ne'er was meant a Curse to Souls like thine.  
Business the Check to Mirth and Wit,  
Business the Rival of the Fair,  
The Bane to Friendship, and the Lucky Hit,  
Only to those that languish in Dispair;  
Leave then that wretched troublesome Estate  
To him to whom forgetful Heaven,  
Has no one other virtue given,  
But dropped down the unfortunate,  
To Toil, be Dull, and to be Great.   

III.  
But thou whose nobler Soul was framed,  
For Glorious and Luxurious Ease,  
By Wit adorned, by Love inflamed;  
For every Grace, and Beauty Famed,  
Formed for delight, designed to please,  
Give Give a look to every Joy,  
That youth and lavish Fortune can invent,  
Nor let Ambition, that false God, destroy  
Both Heaven and Nature's first intent.  
But oh in vain is all I say,  
And you alas must go,  
The Mighty Caesar to obey,  
And none so fit as you.  
From all the Envying Crowd he calls you forth,  
He knows your Loyalty, and knows your worth;  
He's tried it oft, and put it to the Test,  
It grew in Zeal even whilst it was oppressed,  
The great, the Godlike Celladon,  
Unlike the base Examples of the times,  
Could never be Corrupted, never won,  
To slain his honest blood with Rebel Crimes.  
Fearless unmoved he stood amidst the tainted Crowd,  
And justified and owned his Loyalty aloud.   

IV.  
Hybernia hail! Hail happy Isle,  
Be glad, and let all Nature smile.  
Ye Meads and Plains send forth your Gayest Flowers;  
Ye Groves and every Purling Spring,  
Where Lovers sigh, and Birds do sing,  
Be glad and gay, for Celladon is yours;  
He comes, he comes to grace your Plains.  
To Charm the Nymphs, and bless the Swains,  
Echoes repeat his Glorious Name  
To all the Neighbouring Woods and Hills;  
Ye Feathered Choir chant forth his Fame,  
Ye Fountains, Brooks, and Wan'dring Rills,  
That through the Meadows in Meanders run,  
Tell all your Flowery Brinks, the generous Swain is come.   

VI  
Divert him all ye pretty Solitudes,  
And give his Life some softening Interludes:  
That when his wearied mind would be,  
From Noise and Rigid Business free;  
He may upon your Mossey Beds lie down,  
Where all is Gloomy, all is Shade,  
With some dear She, whom Nature made,  
To be possessed by him alone;  
Where the soft tale of Love She breathes,  
Mixed with the rushing of the windblown leaves,  
The different Notes of Cheerful Birds,  
And distant Bleating of the Herds:  
Is Music far more ravishing and sweet,  
Then all the Artful Sounds that please the noisy Great.   

VII.  
Mix thus your Toils of Life with Joys,  
And for the public good, prolong your days:  
Instruct the World, the great Example prove,  
Of Honour, Friendship, Loyalty, and Love.  
And when your busier hours are done,  
And you with Damon sit alone;  
Damon the honest, brave and young;  
Whom we must Celebrate where you are sung.  
For you (by Sacred Friendship tied,)  
Nor Love nor Fate can ne'er divide;  
When your agreeing thoughts shall backward run,  
Surveying all the Conquests you have won,  
The Swains you'ave left, the sighing Maids undone;  
Try if you can a fatal prospect take,  
Think if you can a soft Idea make:  
Of what we are, now you are gone,  
Of what we feel for Celladon.   

VIII.  
'Tis Celladon the witty and the gay,  
That blest the Night, and cheered the world all Day:  
'Tis Celladon, to whom our Vows belong,  
And Celladon the Subject of our Song.  
For whom the Nymphs would dress, the Swains rejoice,  
The praise of these, of those the choice;  
And if our Joys were raised to this Excess,  
Our Pleasures by thy presence made so great:  
Some pitying God help thee to guests,  
(What Fancy cannot well Express.)  
Our Languishments by thy Retreat,  
Pity our Swains, pity our Virgins more,  
And let that pity haste thee to our shore;  
And whilst on happy distant Coasts you are,  
Afford us all your sighs, and Cesar all your care.    

On a Juniper-Tree, cut down to make Busks.  
WHilst happy I Triumphant stood,  
The Pride and Glory of the Wood;  
My Aromatic Boughs and Fruit,  
Did with all other Trees dispute.  
Had right by Nature to excel,  
In pleasing both the taste and smell:  
But to the touch I must confess,  
Bore an Ungrateful Sullenness.  
My Wealth, like bashful Virgins, I  
Yielded with some Reluctancy;  
For which my value should be more,  
Not giving easily my store.  
My verdant Branches all the year  
Did an Eternal Beauty wear;  
Did ever young and gay appear.  
Nor needed any tribute pay,  
For bounties from the God of Day:  
Nor do I hold Supremacy,  
(In all the Wood) o'er every Tree.  
But even those too of my own Race,  
That grow not in this happy place.  
But that in which I glory most,  
And do myself with Reason boast,  
Beneath my shade the other day,  
Young Philocles and Cloris lay,  
Upon my Root she leaned her head,  
And where I grew, he made their Bed:  
Whilst I the Canopy more largely spread.  
Their trembling Limbs did gently press,  
The kind supporting yielding Grass:  
Ne'er half so blest as now, to bear  
A Swain so Young, a Nymph so fair:  
My Grateful Shade I kindly lent,  
And every aiding Bough I bent.  
So low, as sometimes had the bliss,  
To rob the Shepherd of a kiss,  
Whilst he in Pleasures far above  
The Sense of that degree of Love:  
Permitted every stealth I made,  
Unjealous of his Rival Shade.  
I saw 'em kindle to desire,  
Whilst with soft sighs they blew the fire:  
Saw the approaches of their joy,  
He growing more fierce, and she less Coy,  
Saw how they mingled melting Rays,  
Exchanging Love a thousand ways.  
Kind was the force on every side,  
Her new desire she could not hide:  
Nor would the Shepherd be denied.  
Impatient he waits no consent  
But what she gave by Languishment,  
The blessed Minute he pursued;  
While Love and Shame her Soul Subdued.  
And now transported in his Arms,  
Yields to the Conqueror all her Charms,  
His panting Breast, to hers now joined,  
They feast on Raptures unconfined;  
Vast and Luxuriant, such as prove  
The Immortality of Love.  
For who but a Divinity,  
Could mingle Souls to that Degree?  
Now like the Phoenix, both Expire,  
While from the Ashes of their fire,  
Sprung up a new, and soft desire.  
Like Charmers, thrice they did invoke,  
The God and thrice new vigour took.  
Nor had the Mystery ended there,  
But Cloris reassumed her fear,  
And chid the Swain, for having pressed,  
What she alas could not resist:  
Whilst he in whom Loves sacred flame,  
Before and after was the same,  
Fond implored she would forget  
A fault, which he would yet repeat.  
From Active Joys with some they hast,  
To a Reflection on the past;  
A thousand times my Covert bless,  
That did secure their Happiness:  
Their Gratitude to every Tree  
They pay, but most to happy me;  
The Shepherdess my Bark carest,  
Whilst he my Root, Love's Pillow, kissed;  
And did with sighs, their Fate deplore,  
Since I must shelter them no more;  
And if before my Joys were such,  
In having heard, and seen too much,  
My Grief must be as great and high,  
When all abandoned I shall be,  
Doomed to a silent Destiny.  
No more the Charming strife to hear,  
The Shepherd's Vows, the Virgin's fear:  
No more a joyful looker on,  
Whilst Loves soft battle's lost and won.  
With grief I bowed my murmuring Head,  
And all my Crystal Dew I shed.  
Which did in Cloris Pity move,  
(Cloris whose Soul is made of Love;)  
She cut me down, and did translate,  
My being to a happier state.  
No Martyr for Religion died  
With half the Unconsidering Pride;  
My top was on that Altar laid,  
Where Love his softest Offerings paid:  
And was as fragrant Incense burned,  
My body into Busks was turned:  
Where I still guard the Sacred Store,  
And of Love's Temple keep the Door.   

On the Death of Mr. Grinhil, the Famous Painter.  

I.  
WHat doleful cries are these that fright my sense,  
Sad as the Groans of dying Innocence?  
The kill Accents now more near Approach,  
And the Infectious Sound,  
Spreads and Inlarges all around;  
And does all Hearts with Grief and Wonder touch.  
The famous Grinhil dead! even he,  
That could to us give Immortality;  
Is to the Eternal silent Groves withdrawn,  
Those sullen Groves of Everlasting Dawn;  
Youthful as Flowers, scarce blown, whose opening Leaves,  
A wondrous and a fragrant Prospect gives,  
Of what its Elder Beauties would display,  
When they should flourish up to ripening May.  
Witty as Poets, warmed with Love and Wine,  
Yet still spared Heaven and his Friend,  
For both to him were Sacred and Divine:  
Nor could he this no more than that offend.  
Fixed as a Martyr where he friendship paid,  
And Generous as a God,  
Distributing his Bounties all abroad;  
And soft and gentle as a Lovesick Maid.   

II.  
Great Master of the Noblest Mystery,  
That ever happy Knowledge did inspire;  
Sacred as that of Poetry,  
And which the wondering World does equally admire.  
Great Nature's work we do contemn,  
When on his Glorious Births we meditate:  
The Face and Eyes, more Darts received from him,  
Then all the Charms she can create.  
The Difference is, his Beauties do beget  
In the enamoured Soul a Virtuous Heat:  
While Nature's Grosser Pieces move,  
In the course road of Common Love:  
So bold, yet soft, his touches were;  
So round each part's so sweet and fair.  
That as his Pencil moved men thought it pressed,  
The Lively imitating rising Breast,  
Which yield like Clouds, where little Angels rest:  
The Limbs all easy as his Temper was;  
Strong as his Mind, and manly too;  
Large as his Soul his fancy was, and new:  
And from himself he copied every Grace,  
For he had all that could adorn a Face,  
All that could either Sex subdue.   

III.  
Each Excellence he had that Youth has in its Pride,  
And all Experienced Age could teach,  
At once the vigorous fire of this,  
And every virtue which that could Express.  
In all the heights that both could reach;  
And yet alas, in this Perfection died.  
Dropped like a Blossom with a Northern blast,  
(When all the scattered Leaves abroad are cast;)  
As quick as if his fate had been in haste:  
So have I seen an unfit Star,  
Outshine the rest of all the Numerous Train,  
As bright as that which Guides the Mariner,  
Dart swiftly from its darkened Sphere:  
And ne'er shall light the World again.   

IV.  
Ah why should so much knowledge die!  
Or with his last kind breath,  
Why could he not to some one friend bequeath  
The Mighty Legacy!  
But 'twas a knowledge given to him alone,  
That his eternised Name might be  
Admired to all Posterity,  
By all to whom his grateful Name was known.  
Come all ye softer Beauties, come;  
Bring Wreaths of Flowers to deck his tomb;  
Mixed with the dismal Cypress and the Yew,  
For he still gave your Charms their due:  
And from the injuries of Age and Time,  
Preserved the sweetness of your Prime:  
And best knew how t' adore that Sweetness too;  
Bring all your Mournful Tributes here,  
And let your Eyes a silent sorrow wear,  
Till every Virgin for a while become;  
Sad as his Fate, and like his Picture's Dumb.    

A Ballad on Mr. J. H. to Amoretta, ask why I was so sad.  

MY Amoretta, since you must know,  
The Grief you say my Eyes do show:  
Survey my Heart, where you shall find,  
More Love than for yourself confined.  
And though you chide, you'll Pity too,  
A Passion which even Rivals you.   

Amyntas on a Holiday  
As fine as any Lord of May,  
Amongst the Nymphs, and jolly Swains,  
That feed their Flocks upon the Plains:  
Met in a Grove beneath whose shade,  
A Match of Dancing they had made.   

His Cassock was of Green, as trim  
As Grass upon a River brim;  
Untouched or sullied with a spot,  
unpressed by either Lamb or Goat:  
And with the Air it loosely played,  
With every motion that he made.   

His Sleeves a-many Ribbons ties,  
Where one might read Love-Mysteries:  
As if that way he would impart,  
To all, the Sentiments of his Heart,  
Whose Passions by those Colours known,  
He with a Charming Pride would own.   

His Bonnet with the same was Tied,  
A Silver Scrip hung by his Side:  
His Buskins garnished A-la-mode,  
Were graced by every step he Trod;  
Like Pan a Majesty he took,  
And like Apollo when he spoke.   

His Hook a Wreath of Flowers did Braid,  
The Present of some Lovesick Maid.  
Who all the morning had bestowed,  
And to her Fancy now composed:  
Which fresher seemed when near that place,  
To whom the Giver Captive was.   

His Eyes their best Attracts put on,  
Designing some should be undone;  
For he could at his pleasure move,  
The Nymphs he liked to fall in Love:  
Yet so he ordered every Glance,  
That still they seemed but Wounds of Chance.   

He well could feign an Innocence,  
And taught his Silence Eloquence;  
Each Smile he used, had got the force,  
To Conquer more than soft Discourse:  
Which when it served his Ends he'd use,  
And subtly through a heart infuse.   

His Wit was such it could control  
The Resolutions of a Soul;  
That a Religious Vow had made,  
By Love it ne'er would be betrayed:  
For when he spoke he well could prove  
Their Errors who dispute with Love.   

With all these Charms he did Address  
Himself to every Shepherdess:  
Until the Bagpipes which did play,  
Began the Business of the day;  
And in the taking forth to Dance,  
The Lovely Swain became my Chance.   

To whom much Passion he did Vow,  
And much his Eyes and Sighs did show;  
And both employed with so much Art,  
I strove in vain to guard my Heart;  
And ere the Night our Revels crossed,  
I was entirely won and lost.   

Let me advise thee, Amoretta,  
Fly from the Baits that he has set  
In every grace; which will betray  
All Beauties that but look that way:  
But thou hast Charms that will secure  
A Captive in this Conqueror.    

Our Cabal.  
COme, my fair Cloris, come away,  
Hast thou forgot 'tis Holiday?  
And lovely Silvia too make haste,  
The Sun is up, the day does waste:  
Dost thou not hear the Music loud,  
Mixed with the murmur of the Crowd?  
How can thy active Feet be still,  
And hear the Bagpipes cheerful Trill?   

Mr. V. U.  
Vrania's dressed as fine and gay,  
As if she meant t' outshine the day;  
Or certain that no Victories  
Were to be gained but by her Eyes;  
Her Garments white, her Garniture  
The springing Beauties of the Year,  
Which are in such nice Order placed,  
That Nature is by Art disgraced:  
Her natural Curling Ebon Hair,  
Does loosely wanton in the Air.   

Mr. G. V.  
With her the young Alexis came,  
Whose Eyes dare only speak his Flame:  
Charming he is, as fair can be,  
Charming without Effeminacy;  
Only his Eyes are languishing,  
Caused by the Pain he feels within;  
Yet thou wilt say that Languishment  
Is a peculiar Ornament.  
Decked up he is with Pride and Care,  
All Rich and Gay, to please his Fair:  
The price of Flocks he has made a Prey  
To th' Usual Vanity of this day.   

My dear Brother J. C.  
After them Damon Piping came,  
Who laughs at Cupid and his Flame;  
Swears, if the Boy should him approach,  
He'd burn his Wings with his own Torch:  
But he's too young for Love t' invade,  
Though for him languish many a Maid.  
His lovely Air, his cheerful Face,  
Adorned with many a Youthful Grace,  
Beget more Sighs then if with Arts  
He should design to conquer Hearts:  
The Swains as well as Nymphs submit  
To's Charms of Beauty and of Wit..  
He'll sing, he'll dance, he'll pipe and play,  
And wanton out a Summer's day;  
And wheresoever Damon be,  
He's still the Soul o'th' Company.   

My dear Amoretta, Mrs. B.  
Next Amoretta, the true Delight  
Of all that do approach her sight:  
The Sun in all its Course ne'er met  
Aught Fair or Sweet like Amoretta.  
Alone she came, her Eyes declined,  
In which you'll read her troubled Mind;  
Yes, Silvia, for she'll not deny  
She loves, as well as thou and I.  
'Tis Philocles, that Proud Ingrate,  
That pays her Passion back with Hate;  
Whilst she does all but him despise,  
And clouds the lustre of her Eyes:  
But once to her he did address,  
And dying Passion too express;  
But soon the Amorous Heat was laid,  
He soon forgot the Vows he'd made;  
Whilst she in every Silent Grove,  
Bewails her easy Faith and Love.  
Numbers of Swains do her adore,  
But she has vowed to love no more.   

Mr. J. B.  
Next Jolly Thirsis came along,  
With many Beauties in a Throng.   

Mr. Je. B.  
With whom the young Amyntas came,  
The Author of my Sighs and Flame:  
For I'll confess that Truth to you,  
Which every Look of mine can show.  
Ah how unlike the rest he appears!  
With Majesty above his years!  
His Eyes so much of Sweetness dress,  
Such Wit, such Vigour too express;  
That 'twould a wonder be to say,  
I've seen the Youth, and brought my Heart away.  
Ah Cloris! Thou that never wert  
In danger yet to lose a Heart,  
Guard it severely now, for he  
Will startle all thy Constancy:  
For if by chance thou dost escape  
Unwounded by his Lovely Shape,  
Tempt not thy Ruin, lest his Eyes  
Join with his Tongue to win the Prize:  
Such Softness in his Language dwells,  
And Tales of Love so well he tells,  
Shouldst thou attend their Harmony,  
Thou'dst be Undone, as well as I;  
For sure no Nymph was ever free,  
That could Amyntas hear and see.   

Mr. N. R. V.  
With him the lovely Philocless,  
His Beauty heightened by his Dress,  
If any thing can add a Grace  
To such a Shape, and such a Face,  
Whose Natural Ornaments impart  
Enough without the help of Art.  
His Shoulders covered with a Hair,  
The Sunbeams are not half so fair;  
Of which the Virgin's Bracelets make,  
And wear for Philocless' sake:  
His Beauty such, that one would swear  
His Face did never take the Air.  
On's Cheeks the blushing Roses show,  
The rest like whitest Daisies grow:  
His Lips, no Berries of the Field,  
Nor Cherries, such a Red do yield.  
His Eyes all Love, Softening Smile;  
And when he speaks, he sighs the while:  
His Bashful Grace, with Blushes too,  
Gains more than Confidence can do.  
With all these Charms he does invade  
The Heart, which when he has betrayed,  
He slights the Trophies he has won,  
And weeps for those he has Undone;  
As if he never did intend  
His Charms for so severe an End.  
And all poor Amoretta can Gain,  
Is pity from the Lovely Swain▪  
And if Inconstancy can seem  
Agreeable, 'tis so in him.  
And when he meets Reproach for it,  
He does excuse it with his Wit.   

Mr. E. B. and Mrs. F M.  
Next hand in hand the smiling Pair,  
Martillo, and the Lovely Fair:  
A Bright-eyed Phillis, who they say,  
Ne'er knew what Love was till to day:  
Long has the Generous Youth in vain  
Implored some Pity for his Pain.  
Early abroad he would be seen,  
To wait her coming on the Green,  
To be the first that t' her should pay  
The Tribute of the Newborn Day;  
Presents her Bracelets with their Names,  
And Hooks carved out with Hearts and Flames.  
And when a straggling Lamb he saw,  
And she not by to give it Law,  
The pretty Fugitive he'd deck  
With Wreaths of Flowers around its Neck;  
And gave her every mark of Love,  
Before he could her Pity move.  
But now the Youth no more appears  
Clouded with Jealousies and Fears:  
Nor yet dares Phillis softer Brow  
Wear Unconcern, or Coldness now;  
But makes him just and kind Returns;  
And as He does, so now She burns.   

Mr. J. H.  
Next Lysidas, that haughty Swain,  
With many Beauties in a Train,  
All sighing for the Swain, whilst he  
Barely returns Civility.  
Yet once to each much Love he Vowed,  
And strange Fantastic Passion showed.  
Poor Doris, and Lucinda too,  
And many more whom thou dost know,  
Who had not power his Charms to shun,  
Too late do find themselves Undone.  
His Eyes are Black, and do transcend  
All Fancy e'er can comprehend  
And yet no Softness in 'em move,  
They kill with Fierceness, not with Love:  
Yet he can dress 'em when he list,  
With Sweetness none can e'er resist.  
His Tongue no Amorous Parley makes,  
But with his Looks alone he speaks.  
And though he languish yet he'll hide,  
That grateful knowledge with his Pride;  
And thinks his Liberty is lost,  
Not in the Conquest, but the Boast.  
Nor will but Love enough impart,  
To gain and to secure a heart:  
Of which no sooner he is sure,  
And that its Wounds are passed all Cure.  
But for New Victories he prepares,  
And leaves the Old to its Despairs:  
Success his Boldness does renew,  
And Boldness helps him Conquer too▪  
He having gained more hearts then all,  
Th' rest of the Pastoral Cabal.   

Mr. Ed. Bed.  
With him Philander, who ne'er paid  
A Sigh or Tear to any Maid:  
So innocent and young he is,  
He cannot guests what Passion is.  
But all the Love he ever knew,  
On Lycidas he does bestow:  
Who pays his Tenderness again,  
Too Amorous for a Swain to a Swain.  
A softer Youth was never seen,  
His Beauty Maid; but Man, his Mein:  
And much more gay than all the rest;  
And but Alexis finest Dressed.  
His Eyes towards Lycidas still turn,  
As sympathising Flowers to the Sun:  
Whilst Lycidas whose Eyes dispense  
No less a grateful Influence,  
Improves his Beauty, which still fresher grows:  
Who would not under two such Suns as those?  
Cloris you sigh, what Amorous grown?  
Pan grant you keep your heart at home:  
For I have often heard you Vow,  
If any could your heart subdue,  
Though Lycidas you ne'er had seen,  
It must be him, or one like him:  
Alas I cannot yet forget,  
How we have with Amyntas sat  
Beneath the Boughs for Summer made,  
Our heated Flocks and Us to shade:  
Where thou wouldst wondrous Stories tell,  
Of this Agreeable Infidel.  
By what Devices, Charms and Arts,  
He used to gain and keep his Hearts:  
And whilst his Falsehood we would Blame,  
Thou wouldst commend and praise the same.  
And did no greater pleasure take,  
Then when of Lycidas we spoke;  
By this and many Sighs we know,  
thou'rt sensible of Loving too.  
Come Cloris, come along with us,  
And try thy power with Lycidas;  
See if that Virtue which you prise,  
Be proof against those Conquering Eyes.  
That Heart that can no Love admit,  
Will hardly stand his shock of Wit;  
Come deck thee then in all that's fine,  
Perhaps the Conquest may be thine;  
They all attend, let's hast to do,  
What Love and Music calls us to.   

SONG. The Willing Mistress.  

AMyntas led me to a Grove,  
Where all the Trees did shade us;  
The Sun itself, though it had Strove,  
It could not have betrayed us:  
The place secured from humane Eyes,  
No other fear allows,  
But when the Winds that gently rise,  
Do Kiss the yielding Boughs.   

Down there we sat upon the Moss,  
And did begin to play  
A Thousand Amorous Tricks, to pass  
The heat of all the day.  
A many Kisses he did give:  
And I returned the same  
Which made me willing to receive  
That which I dare not name.   

His Charming Eyes no Aid required  
To tell their softening Tale;  
On her that was already fired,  
'Twas Easy to prevail.  
He did but Kiss and Clasp me round,  
Whilst those his thoughts Expressed:  
And laid me gently on the Ground;  
Ah who can guests the rest?    

SONG. Love Armed.  

LOve in Fantastic Triumph sat,  
Whilst Bleeding Hearts a round him flowed,  
For whom Fresh pains he did Create,  
And strange Tyrannic power he showed;  
From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire,  
Which round about, in sport he hurled;  
But 'twas from mine, he took desire,  
Enough to undo the Amorous World.   

From me he took his sighs and tears,  
From thee his Pride and Cruelty;  
From me his Languishments and Fears,  
And every Killing Dart from thee;  
Thus thou and I, the God have armed,  
And set him up a Deity;  
But my poor Heart alone is harmed,  
Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.    

SONG. The Complaint.  

AMyntas that true hearted Swain,  
Upon a River's Bank was laid,  
Where to the Pitying streams he did Complain  
On Silvia that false Charming Maid.  
While she was still regardless of his pain.  
Ah! Charming Silvia, would he cry;  
And what he said, the Echoes would reply:  
Be kind or else I die, Each:— I die  
Be kind or else I die: Each:— I die.   

Those smiles and Kisses which you give,  
Remember Sylvia are my due;  
And all the Joys my Rival does receive,  
He ravishes from me not you:  
Ah Silvia! can I live and this believe?  
Insensibles are touched to see  
My Languishments, and seem to pity me:  
Which I demand of thee: Each— of thee  
Which I demand of thee Each:— of thee.   Set by Mr. Banister.  

SONG. The Invitation.  

DAmon I cannot blame your will,  
'Twas Chance and not Design did kill;  
For whilst you did prepare your Charms,  
On purpose Silvia to subdue:  
I met the Arrows as they flew,  
And saved her from their harms.   

Alas she cannot make returns,  
Who for a Swain already Burns;  
A Shepherd whom she does Caress:  
With all the softest marks of Love,  
And 'tis in vain thou seekest to move,  
The cruel Shepherdess.   

Content thee with this Victory,  
Think me as fair and young as she:  
I'll make thee Garlands all the day,  
And in the Groves we'll sit and sing;  
I'll Crown thee with the pride o'th' Spring,  
When thou art Lord of May.    

SONG.  

WHen jemmy first began to Love,  
He was the Gayest Swain  
That ever yet a Flock had driven,  
Or danced upon the Plain.  
'Twas then that I, weys me poor Heart,  
My Freedom threw away;  
And finding sweets in every smart,  
I could not say him nay.   

And ever when he talked of Love,  
He would his Eyes decline;  
And every sigh, a Heart would move,  
Gued Faith and why not mine?  
He'd press my hand, and Kiss it oft,  
In silence spoke his Flame.  
And whilst he treated me thus soft,  
I wished him more to Blame.   

Sometimes to feed my Flocks with him,  
My jemmy would Invite me:  
Where he the Gayest Songs would sing,  
On purpose to delight me.  
And jemmy every Grace displayed,  
Which were enough I trow,  
To Conquer any Princely Maid,  
So did he me I vow.   

But now for jemmy must I mourn,  
Who to the Wars must go;  
His Sheephook to a Sword must turn:  
Alack what shall I do?  
His Bagpipe into Warlike Sounds,  
Must now Exchanged be:  
Instead of Bracelets, fearful Wounds;  
Then what becomes of me?    

To Mr. Creech (under the Name of Daphnis) on his Excellent Translation of Lucretius.  

THou great Young Man! Permit amongst the Crowd  
Of those that sing thy mighty Praises loud,  
My humble Muse to bring its Tribute too.  
Inspired by thy vast flight of Verse,  
Methinks I should some wondrous thing rehearse,  
Worthy Divine Lucretius, and Diviner Thou.  
But I of Feebler Seeds designed,  
Whilst the slow moving Atoms strove  
With careless heed to form my Mind:  
Composed it all of Softer Love.  
In gentle Numbers all my Songs are Dressed,  
And when I would thy Glories sing,  
What in strong manly Verse I would express,  
Turns all to Womanish Tenderness within.  
Whilst that which Admiration does inspire,  
In other Souls, kindles in mine a Fire.  
Let them admire thee on— Whilst I this newer way  
Pay thee yet more than they:  
For more I owe, since thou hast taught me more,  
Then all the mighty Bards that went before.  
Others long since have Paled the vast delight;  
In duller Greek and Latin satisfied the Appetite:  
But I unlearned in Schools, disdain that mine  
Should treated be at any Feast but thine.  
Till now, I cursed my Birth, my Education,  
And more the scanted Customs of the Nation:  
Permitting not the Female Sex to tread,  
The Mighty Paths of Learned Heroes dead.  
The Godlike Virgil, and great Homer's Verse,  
Like Divine Mysteries are concealed from us.  
We are forbid all grateful Themes,  
No ravishing thoughts approach our Ear,  
The Fulsom Gingle of the times,  
Is all we are allowed to understand or hear.  
But as of old, when men unthinking lay,  
Ere Gods were worshipped, or ere Laws were framed  
The wiser Bard that taught 'em first t' obey,  
Was next to what he taught, adored and famed;  
Gentler they grew, their words and manners changed,  
And savage now no more the Woods they ranged.  
So thou by this Translation dost advance  
Our Knowledge from the State of Ignorance,  
And equals us to Man: Ah how can we,  
Enough Adore, or Sacrifice enough to thee!   

The Mystic Terms of Rough Philosophy,  
Thou dost so plain and easily express;  
Yet Deckest them in so soft and gay a Dress:  
So intelligent to each Capacity,  
That they at once Instruct and Charm the Sense,  
With heights of Fancy, heights of Eloquence;  
And Reason over all Unfettered plays,  
Wanton and undisturbed as Summer's Breeze;  
That gliding murmurs o'er the Trees:  
And no hard Notion meets or stops its way.  
It Pierces, Conquers and Compels,  
Beyond poor Feeble Faith's dull Oracles.  
Faith the despairing Souls content,  
Faith the Last Shift of Routed Argument.   

Hail Sacred Wadham! whom the Muses Grace  
And from the Rest of all the Reverend Pile  
Of Noble Palaces, designed thy Space:  
Where they in soft retreat might dwell.  
They blessed thy Fabric, and said— Do thou,  
Our Darling Sons contain;  
We thee our Sacred Nursery Ordain:  
They said and blest, and it was so.  
And if of old the Fanes of Silvian Gods,  
Were worshipped as Divine Abodes;  
If Courts are held as Sacred Things,  
For being the Awful Seats of Kings.  
What Veneration should be paid,  
To thee that hast such wondrous Poets made!  
To Gods for fear, Devotion was designed,  
And Safety made us bow to Majesty;  
Poets by Nature Aw and Charm the Mind,  
Are born not made by dull Religion or Necessity.   

The Learned Thirsis did to thee belong,  
Who Athens Plague has so divinely Sung.  
Thirsis to wit, as sacred friendship true,  
Paid Mighty Cowley's Memory its due.  
Thirsis who whilst a greater Plague did reign,  
Then that which Athens did Depopulate:  
Scattering Rebellious Fury o'er the Plain,  
That threatened Ruin to the Church and State,  
Unmoved he stood, and feared no Threats of Fate.  
That Loyal Champion for the Church & Crown,  
That Noble Ornament of the Sacred Gown,  
Still did his Sovereign's Cause Espouse,  
And was above the Thanks of the mad Senate-house.  
Strephon the Great, whom last you sent abroad,  
Who Writ, and Loved, & Looked like any God;  
For whom the Muses mourn, the Lovesick Maids  
Are Languishing in Melancholy Shades.  
The Cupids flug their Wings, their Bows untie,  
And useless Quivers hang neglected by,  
And scattered Arrows all around 'em lie.  
By murmuring Brooks the careless Deities are laid,  
Weeping their rifled power now Noble Strephon's Dead.   

Ah Sacred Wadham! shouldst thou never own  
But this delight of all Mankind and thine;  
For Ages past of Dulness, this alone,  
This Charming Hero would Atone.  
And make thee Glorious to succeeding time;  
But thou like Nature's self disdainest to be,  
Stinted to Singularity.  
Even as fast as she thou dost produce,  
And over all the Sacred Mystery infuse.  
No sooner was famed Strephon's Glory set,  
Strephon the Soft, the Lovely and the Great;  
But Daphnis rises like the Morningstar,  
That guides the Wand'ring Traveller from afar.  
Daphnis whom every Grace, and Muse inspires,  
Scarce Strephon's Ravishing Poetic Fires  
So kindly warm, or so divinely Cheer.   

Advance Young Daphnis, as thou hast begun,  
So let thy Mighty Race be run.  
Thou in thy large Poetic Chase,  
Beginnest where others end the Race.  
If now thy Grateful Numbers are so strong,  
If they so early can such Grace's show,  
Like Beauty so surprising, when so Young,  
What Daphnis will thy Riper Judgement do,  
When thy Unbounded Verse in their own Streams shall flow!  
What Wonder will they not produce,  
When thy Immortal Fancy's loose;  
Unfettered, Unconfined by any other Muse!  
Advance Young Daphnis then, and mayst thou prove  
Still Sacred in thy Poetry and Love.  
May all the Groves with Daphnis Songs be blest,  
Whilst every Bark is with thy Distiches dressed.  
May Timorous Maids learn how to Love from thence  
And the Glad Shepherd Arts of Eloquence.  
And when to Solitude thou wouldst Retreat,  
May their tuned Pipes thy Welcome celebrate.  
And all the Nymphs strew Garlands at thy Feet.  
May all the Purling Streams that murmuring pass,  
The Shady Groves and Banks of Flowers,  
The kind reposing Beds of Grass,  
Contribute to their Softer Hours.  
Mayst thou thy Muse and Mistress there Caress,  
And may one heighten to ' there's Happiness!  
And whilst thou so divinely dost Converse,  
We are content to know and to admire thee in thy Sacred Verse.    

To Mrs. W. On her Excellent Verses (Writ in Praise of some I had made on the Earl of Rochester) Written in a Fit of Sickness.  

ENough kind Heaven! to purpose I have lived,  
And all my Sighs & Languishments survived.  
My Stars in vain their sullen influence have shed,  
Round my till now Unlucky Head:  
I pardon all the Silent Hours I've grieved,  
My Weary Nights, and Melancholy Days;  
When no Kind Power my Pain Relieved,  
I lose you all, you sad Remembrancers,  
I lose you all in Newborn Joys,  
Joys that will dissipate my Falling Tears.  
The Mighty Soul of Rochester's revived,  
Enough Kind Heaven to purpose I have lived.  
I saw the Lovely Phantom, no Disguise,  
Veiled the blessed Vision from my Eyes,  
'Twas all o'er Rochester that pleased and did surprise.  
Sad as the Grave I sat by Glimmering Light,  
Such as attends Departing Souls by Night.  
Pensive as absent Lovers left alone,  
Or my poor Dove, when his Fond Mate was gone.  
Silent as Groves when only Whispering Gales,  
Sigh through the Rushing Leaves,  
As softly as a Bashful Shepherd Breathes,  
To his Loved Nymph his Amorous Tales.  
So dull I was, scarce Thought a Subject found,  
Dull as the Light that gloomed around;  
When lo the Mighty Spirit appeared,  
All Gay, all Charming to my sight;  
My Drooping Soul it Raised and Cheered,  
And cast about a Dazzling Light.  
In every part there did appear,  
The Great, the Godlike Rochester,  
His Softness all, his Sweetness everywhere.   

It did advance, and with a Generous Look,  
To me Addressed, to worthless me it spoke:  
With the same wont Grace my Muse it praised,  
With the same Goodness did my Faults Correct:  
And Careful of the Fame himself first raised,  
Obligingly it Schooled my loose Neglect.  
The soft, the moving Accents soon I knew  
The gentle Voice made up of Harmony;  
Through the Known Paths of my glad Soul it flew;  
I knew it strait, it could no others be,  
'Twas not Allied but very very he.  
So the All-ravished Swain that hears  
The wondrous Music of the Spheres,  
For ever does the grateful Sound retain,  
Whilst all his Oaten Pipes and Reeds.  
The Rural Music of the Groves and Meads,  
Strive to divert him from the Heavenly Song in vain.  
He hates their harsh and Untuned Lays,  
Which now no more his Soul and Fancy raise.  
But if one Note of the remembered Air  
He chance again to hear,  
He starts, and in a transport cries,— 'Tis there!  
He knows it all by that one little taste,  
And by that grateful Hint remembers all the rest.  
Great, Good, and Excellent, by what new way  
Shall I my humble Tribute pay,  
For this vast Glory you my Muse have done,  
For this great Condescension shown!  
So Gods of old sometimes laid by  
Their Awful Trains of Majesty,  
And changed even Heaven a while for Groves and Plains,  
And to their Fellow-Gods preferred the lowly Swains.  
And Beds of Flowers would oft compare  
To those of Downey Clouds, or yielding Air;  
At Purling Streams would drink in homely Shells,  
Put off the God, to Revel it in Woods and Shepherds Cells;  
Would listen to their Rustic Songs, and show  
Such Divine Goodness in Commending too,  
Whilst the transported Swain the Honour pays  
With humble Adoration, humble Praise.    

The Sense of a Letter sent me, made into Verse;  
To a New Tune.  

I.  
IN vain I have laboured the Victor to prove  
Of a Heart that can ne'er give Admittance to Love:  
So hard to be won,  
That nothing so young,  
Could e'er have resisted a Passion so long.   

TWO  
But nothing I left unattempted or said,  
To soften the Heart of the Pitiless Maid;  
Yet still she was shy,  
And would blushing deny,  
Whilst her willinger Eyes gave her Language the Lye.   

III.  
When before the Impregnable Fort I lay down,  
I resolved or to die, or to Purchase Renown,  
But how vain was the Boast!  
All the Glory I lost,  
And now vanquished and shamed I've quitted my Post.    

The Return.  

I.  
AMyntas whilst you  
Have an Art to subdue,  
And can conquer a Heart with a Look or a Smile,  
You Pitiless grow,  
And no Faith will allow;  
'Tis the Glory you seek when you rifle the Spoil.   

II.  
Your soft warring Eyes,  
When prepared for the Prize,  
Can laugh at the Aids of my feeble Disdain;  
You can humble the Foe,  
And soon make her to know  
Tho' she arms her with Pride, her Efforts are but vain.   

III.  
But Shepherd beware,  
Though a Victor you are;  
A Tyrant was never secure in his Throne;  
Whilst proudly you aim  
New Conquests to gain,  
Some hardhearted Nymph may return you your own.    

On a Copy of Verses made in a Dream, and sent to me in a Morning before I was Awake.  

AMyntas, if your Wit in Dreams  
Can furnish you with Themes,  
What must it do when your Soul looks abroad,  
Quickened with Agitations of the Sense,  
And dispossessed of Sleeps dull heavy Load,  
When every Syllable has Eloquence?  
And if by Chance such Wounds you make,  
And in your Sleep such welcome Mischiefs do;  
What are your Powers when you're awake,  
Directed by Design and Reason too?   

I slept, as duller Mortals use,  
Without the Music of a Thought,  
When by a gentle Breath, soft as thy Muse,  
Thy Name to my glad Ear was brought:  
Amyntas! cried the Page— And at the Sound,  
My listening Soul unusual Pleasure sound.  
So the Harmonious Spheres surprise,  
Whilst the All-ravished Shepherd gazes round,  
And wonders whence the Charms should rise,  
That can at once both please and wound.  
Whilst trembling I unripped the Seal  
Of what you'd sent,  
My Heart with an Impatient Zeal,  
Without my Eyes, would needs reveal  
Its Business and Intent.   

But so beyond the Sense they were  
Of every scribbling Lovers common Art,  
That now I find an equal share  
Of Love and Admiration in my Heart.  
And while I read, in vain I strove  
To hide the Pleasure which I took;  
Bellario saw in every Look  
My smiling Joy and blushing Love.  
Soft every word, easy each Line, and true;  
Brisk, witty, manly, strong and gay;  
The Thoughts are tender all, and new,  
And Fancy every where does gently play.  
Amyntas if you thus go on,  
Like an unwearied Conqueror day and night,  
The World at last must be undone.  
You do not only kill at sight,  
But like a Parthian in your flight.  
Whether you Rally or Retreat,  
You still have Arrows for Defeat.    

To my Lady Morland at Tunbrige.  
AS when a Conqueror does in Triumph come,  
And proudly leads the vanquished Captives home,  
The Joyful People crowd in every Street,  
And with loud shouts of Praise the Victor greet;  
While some whom Chance or Fortune kept away,  
Desire at least the Story of the Day;  
How brave the Prince, how gay the Chariot was,  
How beautiful he looked, with what a Grace;  
Whether upon his Head he Plumes did wear;  
Or if a Wreath of Bays adorned his Hair:  
They hear 'tis wondrous fine, and long much more  
To see the Hero than they did before.  
So when the Marvels by Report I knew,  
Of how much Beauty, Cloris, dwelled in you;  
How many Slaves your Conquering Eyes had won,  
And how the gazing Crowd admiring throng:  
I wished to see, and much a Lover grew  
Of so much Beauty, though my Rivals too.  
I came and saw, and blest my Destiny;  
I found it Just you should outrival me.  
'Twas at the Altar, where more Hearts were given  
To you that day, than were addressed to Heaven.  
The Reverend Man whose Age and Mystery  
Had rendered Youth and Beauty Vanity,  
By fatal Chance casting his Eyes your way,  
Mistook the duller Business of the Day,  
Forgot the Gospel, and began to Pray.  
Whilst the Enamoured Crowd that near you pressed,  
Receiving Darts which none could e'er resist,  
Neglected the Mistake o'th' Lovesick Priest.  
Even my Devotion, Cloris, you betrayed;  
And I to Heaven no other Petition made,  
But that you might all other Nymphs outdo  
In Cruelty as well as Beauty too.  
I called Amyntas Faithless Swain before,  
But now I find 'tis Just he should Adore.  
Not to love you, a wonder sure would be,  
Greater than all his Perjuries to me.  
And whilst I Blame him, I Excuse him too;  
Who would not venture Heaven to purchase you?  
But Charming Cloris, you too meanly prise  
The more deserving Glories of your Eyes,  
If you permit him on an Amorous score,  
To be your Slave, who was my Slave before.  
He oft has Fetters worn, and can with ease  
Admit 'em or dismiss 'em when he please.  
A Virgin-Heart you merit, that ne'er sound  
It could receive, till from your Eyes, the Wound;  
A Heart that nothing but your Force can fear,  
And own a Soul as Great as you are Fair.   

Song to Ceres. In the Wavering Nymph, or Mad Amyntas.  

I.  
CEres, Great Goddess of the bounteous Year,  
Who loadest the Teeming Earth with Gold and Grain,  
Blessing the Labours of th' Industrious Swain,  
And to their Plaints inclinest thy gracious Ear:  
Behold two fair Cicilian Lovers lie  
Prostrate before thy Deity;  
Imploring thou wilt grant the Just Desires  
Of two Chaste Hearts that burn with equal Fires.   

II.  
Amyntas he, brave, generous and young;  
Whom yet no Vice his Youth has e'er betrayed:  
And Chaste Urania is the Lovely Maid;  
His Daughter who has served thy Altars long,  
As thy High Priest: A Dowry he demands  
At the young Amorous Shepherd's hands:  
Say, gentle Goddess, what the Youth must give,  
E'er the Bright Maid he can from thee receive.    

Song in the same Play, by the Wavering Nymph.  
PAN grant that I may never prove  
So great a Slave to fall in love,  
And to an Unknown Deity  
Resign my happy Liberty:  
I love to see the Amorous Swains  
Unto my Scorn their Hearts resign:  
With Pride I see the Meads and Plains  
Thronged all with Slaves, and they all mine:  
Whilst I the whining Fools despise,  
That pay their Homage to my Eyes.   

The Disappointment.  

I.  
ONe day the Amorous Lysander,  
By an impatient Passion swayed,  
Surprised fair Cloris, that loved Maid,  
Who could defend herself no longer.  
All things did with his Love conspire;  
The gilded Planet of the Day,  
In his gay Chariot drawn by Fire,  
Was now descending to the Sea,  
And left no Light to guide the World,  
But what from Cloris Brighter Eyes was hurled.   

II.  
In a loan Thicket made for Love,  
Silent as yielding Maids Consent,  
She with a Charming Languishment,  
Permits his Force, yet gently striven;  
Her Hands his Bosom softly meet,  
But not to put him back designed,  
Rather to draw 'em on inclined:  
Whilst he lay trembling at her Feet,  
Resistance 'tis in vain to show;  
She wants the power to say— Ah! What d'ye do?   

III.  
Her Bright Eyes sweet, and yet severe,  
Where Love and Shame confusedly strive,  
Fresh Vigour to Lysander give;  
And breathing faintly in his Ear,  
She cried— Cease, Cease— your vain Desire,  
Or I'll call out— What would you do?  
My Dearer Honour even to You  
I cannot, must not give— Retire,  
Or take this Life, whose chiefest part  
I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart.   

IV.  
But he as much unused to Fear,  
As he was capable of Love,  
The blessed minutes to improve,  
Kisses her Mouth, her Neck, her Hair;  
Each Touch her new Desire Alarms,  
His burning trembling Hand he pressed  
Upon her swelling Snowy Breast,  
While she lay panting in his Arms.  
All her Unguarded Beauties lie  
The Spoils and Trophies of the Enemy.   

V.  
And now without Respect or Fear,  
He seeks the Object of his Vows,  
(His Love no Modesty allows)  
By swift degrees advancing— where  
His daring Hand that Altar seized,  
Where Gods of Love do sacrifice:  
That Awful Throne, that Paradise  
Where Rage is calmed, and Anger pleased;  
That Fountain where Delight still flows,  
And gives the Universal World Repose.   

VI  
Her Balmy Lips encountering his,  
Their Bodies, as their Souls, are joined;  
Where both in Transports Unconfined  
Extend themselves upon the Moss.  
Cloris half dead and breathless lay;  
Her soft Eyes cast a Humid Light,  
Such as divides the Day and Night;  
Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay:  
And now no signs of Life she shows,  
But what in short-breathed Sighs returns & goes.   

VII.  
He saw how at her Length she lay;  
He saw her rising Bosom bare;  
Her loose thin Robes, through which appeat  
A Shape designed for Love and Play;  
Abandoned by her Pride and Shame.  
She does her softest Joys dispense,  
Offering her Virgin-Innocence  
A Victim to Love's Sacred Flame;  
While the over-ravished Shepherd lies  
Unable to perform the Sacrifice.   

VIII.  
Ready to taste a thousand Joys,  
The too transported hapless Swain  
Found the vast Pleasure turned to Pain;  
Pleasure which too much Love destroys:  
The willing Garments by he laid,  
And Heaven all opened to his view,  
Mad to possess, himself he threw  
On the Defenceless Lovely Maid.  
But Oh what envying God conspires  
To snatch his Power, yet leave him the Desire!   

IX.  
Nature's Support, (without whose Aid  
She can no Humane Being give)  
Itself now wants the Art to live;  
Faintness its slackened Nerves invade:  
In vain th' enraged Youth essayed  
To call its fleeting Vigour back,  
No motion 'twill from Motion take;  
Excess of Love his Love betrayed:  
In vain he Toils, in vain Commands;  
The Insensible fell weeping in his Hand.   

X.  
In this so Amorous Cruel Strife,  
Where Love and Fate were too severe,  
The poor Lysander in despair  
Renounced his Reason with his Life:  
Now all the brisk and active Fire  
That should the Nobler Part inflame,  
Served to increase his Rage and Shame,  
And left no Spark for New Desire:  
Not all her Naked Charms could move  
Or calm that Rage that had debauched his Love.   

XI.  
Cloris returning from the Trance  
Which Love and soft Desire had bred,  
Her timorous Hand she gently laid  
(Or guided by Design or Chance)  
Upon that Fabulous Priapas,  
That Potent God, as Poets feign;  
But never did young Shepherdess,  
Gathering of Fern upon the Plain,  
More nimbly draw her Fingers back,  
Finding beneath the verdant Leaves a Snake:   

XII.  
Than Cloris her fair Hand withdrew,  
Finding that God of her Desires  
Disarmed of all his Awful Fires,  
And Cold as Flowers bathed in the Morning-Dew.  
Who can the Nymph's Confusion guests?  
The Blood forsook the hinder Place,  
And strewed with Blushes all her Face,  
Which both Disdain and Shame expressed:  
And from Lysander's Arms she fled,  
Leaving him fainting on the Gloomy Bed.   

XIII.  
Like Lightning through the Grove she hies,  
Or Daphne from the Delphic God,  
No Print upon the grassy Road  
She leaves, t' instruct Pursuing Eyes.  
The Wind that wantoned in her Hair,  
And with her Ruffled Garments played,  
Discovered in the Flying Maid  
All that the Gods e'er made, if Fair.  
So Venus, when her Love was slain,  
With Fear and Haste flew o'er the Fatal Plain.   

XIV.  
The Nymph's Resentments none but I  
Can well Imagine or Condole:  
But none can guests Lysander's Soul,  
But those who swayed his Destiny.  
His silent Griefs swell up to Storms,  
And not one God his Fury spares;  
He cursed his Birth, his Fate, his Stars;  
But more the Shepherdess' Charms,  
Whose soft bewitching Influence  
Had Damned him to the Hell of Impotence.    

On a Locket of Hair Wove in a True-love's Knot, given me by Sir R. O.  
WHat means this Knot, in Mystic Order Tied,  
And which no Humane Knowledge can divide?  
Not the Great Conqueror's Sword can this undo  
Whose very Beauty would divert the Blow.  
Bright Relic I Shrouded in a Shrine of Gold!  
Less Mystery made a Deity of Old.  
Fair Charmer! Tell me by what powerful Spell  
You into this Confused Order fell?  
If Magic could be wrought on things Divine,  
Some Amorous Sibyl did thy Form design  
In some soft hour, which the Prophetic Maid  
In Nobler Mysteries of Love employed,  
Wrought thee a Hieroglyphic, to express  
The wanton God in all his Tenderness;  
Thus shaded, and thus all adorned with Charms,  
Harmless, Unfletched, without Offensive Arms,  
He used of Old in shady Groves to Play,  
E'er Swains broke Vows, or Nymphs were vain and coy,  
Or Love himself had Wings to fly away.  
Or was it (his Almighty Power to prove)  
Designed a Quiver for the God of Love?  
And all these shining Hairs which th'inspired Maid  
Has with such strange Mysterious Fancy laid,  
Are meant his Shafts; the subtlest surest Darts  
That ever Conquered or Secured his Hearts;  
Darts that such tender Passions do convey,  
Not the young Wonder is more soft than they.  
'Tis so; the Riddle I at last have learned:  
But found it when I was too far concerned.   

The Dream. A Song.  

I.  
THe Grove was gloomy all around,  
Murmuring the Streams did pass,  
Where fond Astrea laid her down  
Upon a Bed of Grass.   

I slept and saw a piteous sight,  
Cupid a weeping lay,  
Till both his little Stars of Light  
Had wept themselves away.   

II.  
Methought I asked him why he cried,  
My Pity led me on:  
All sighing the sad Boy replied,  
Alas I am undone!   

As I beneath yond Myrtles lay,  
Down by Diana's Springs,  
Amyntas stole my Bow away,  
And Pinioned both my Wings.   

III.  
Alas! cried I, 'twas then thy Darts  
Wherewith he wounded me:  
Thou Mighty Deity of Hearts,  
He stole his Power from thee.   

Revenge thee, if a God thou be,  
Upon the Amorous Swain;  
I'll set thy Wings at Liberty,  
And thou shalt fly again.   

IV.  
And for this Service on my Part,  
All I implore of thee,  
Is, That thou'lt wound Amyntas' Heart,  
And make him die for me.   

His Silken Fetters I Untied,  
And the gay Wings displayed;  
Which gently fanned, he mounts and cried,  
Farewell fond easy Maid.   

V.  
At this I blushed, and angry grew  
I should a God believe;  
And waking found my Dream too true,  
Alas I was a Slave.    

A Letter to a Brother of the Pen in Tribulation.  
POor Damon! Art thou caught? Is't even so?  
Art thou become a 
* So he called a Sweating-Tub.  Tabernacler too?  
Where sure thou dost not mean to Preach or Pray,  
Unless it be the clean contrary way:  
This holy 
(a) Lent.  time I little thought thy sin  
Deserved a Tub to do its Penance in.  
O how you'll for th' Egyptian fleshpots wish,  
When you're half-famished with your Lenten-dish,  
Your Almonds, Currants, Biscuits hard and dry,  
Food that will Soul and Body mortify:  
Damned Penitential Drink, that will infuse  
Dull Principles into thy Grateful Muse.  
— Pox on't that you must needs be fooling now,  
Just when the Wits had greatest 
(b) I wanted a Prologue to a Play.  need of you.  
Was Summer then so long a coming on,  
That you must make an Artificial one?  
Much good may't do thee; but 'tis thought thy Brain  
E'er long will wish for cooler Days again.  
For Honesty no more will I engage:  
I durst have sworn thou'dst had thy Pufillage.  
Thy Looks the whole Cabal have cheated too;  
But thou wilt say, most of the Wits do so.  
Is this thy writing 
(c) He pretended to Retir 〈…〉 o Write.  Plays? who thought thy Wit  
An Interlude of Whoring would admit?  
To Poetry no more thou'lt be inclined,  
Unless in Verse to damn all Womankind:  
And 'tis but Just thou shouldst in Rancour grow  
Against that Sex that has Confined thee so.  
All things in Nature now are Brisk and Gay  
At the Approaches of the Blooming May:  
The new-fletched Birds do in our Arbours sing  
A Thousand Airs to welcome in the Spring;  
Whilst every Swain is like a Bridegroom dressed,  
And every Nymph as going to a Feast:  
The Meadows now their slowry Garments wear,  
And every Grove does in its Pride appear:  
Whilst thou poor Damon in close Rooms art penned,  
Where hardly thy own Breath can find a vent.  
Yet that too is a Heaven, compared to th' Task  
Of Coddling every Morning in a Cask.  
Now I could curse this Female, but I know,  
She needs it not, that thus could handle you.  
Besides, that Vengeance does to thee belong,  
And 'twere Injustice to disarm thy Tongue.  
Curse then, dear Swain, that all the Youth may hear,  
And from thy dire Mishap be taught to fear.  
Curse till thou hast undone the Race, and all  
That did contribute to thy Spring and Fall.   

The Reflection: A Song.  

I.  
POOR Lost Serena, to Bemoan  
The Rigour of her Fate,  
Highed to a Rivers-side alone,  
Upon whose Brinks she sat.  
Her Eyes, as if they would have spared,  
The Language of her Tongue,  
In Silent Tears a while declared  
The Sense of all her wrong.   

II.  
But they alas too feeble were,  
Her Grief was swollen too high  
To be Expressed in Sighs and Tears;  
She must or speak or die.  
And thus at last she did complain,  
Is this the Faith, said she,  
Which thou allowest me, Cruel Swain,  
For that I gave to thee?   

III.  
Heaven knows with how much Innocence  
I did my Soul Incline  
To thy Soft Charms of Eloquence,  
And gave thee what was mine.  
I had not one Reserve in Store,  
But at thy Feet I laid  
Those Arms that Conquered heretofore,  
Tho' now thy Trophies made.   

IV.  
Thy Eyes in Silence told their Tale  
Of Love in such a way,  
That 'twas as easy to Prevail,  
As after to Betray.  
And when you spoke my Listening Soul,  
Was on the Flattery Hung:  
And I was lost without Control,  
Such Music graced thy Tongue.   

V.  
Alas how long in vain you strove  
My coldness to divert!  
How long besieged it round with Love,  
Before you won the Heart.  
What Arts you used, what Presents made,  
What Songs, what Letters writ:  
And left no Charm that could invade,  
Or with your Eyes or Wit.   

VI  
Till by such Obligations Pressed,  
By such dear Perjuries won:  
I heedlessly Resigned the rest,  
And quickly was undone.  
For as my Kindling Flames increase,  
Yours glimeringly decay:  
The Rifled Joys no more can Please,  
That once obliged your Stay.   

VII.  
Witness ye Springs, ye Meads and Groves,  
Who oft were conscious made  
To all our Hours and Vows of Love;  
Witness how I'm Betrayed.  
Trees drop your Leaves, be Gay no more,  
Ye Rivers waste and dry:  
Whilst on your Melancholy Shore,  
I lay me down and die.    

SONG.  
To Pesibles Tune.  

I.  
'Twas when the Fields were gay,  
The Groves and every Tree:  
Just when the God of Day,  
Grown weary of his Sway,  
Descended to the Sea,  
And Gloomy Light around did all the World survey,  
'Twas then the Hapless Swain,  
Amyntas, to Complain  
Of Silvia's cold Disd●in,  
Retired to Silent Shades;  
Where by a River's Side,  
His Tears did swell the Tide,  
As he upon the Brink was laid,   

II.  
Ye Gods, he often cried,  
Why did your Powers design  
In Silvia so much Pride,  
Such Falsehood to beside▪  
With Beauty so Divine?  
Why should so much of Hell with so much Heaven join?  
Be witness every Shade,  
How oft the lovely Maid  
Her tender Vows has paid;  
Yet with the selfsame Breath,  
With which so oft before,  
And solemnly she swore,  
Pronounces now Amyntas' Death.   

III.  
But Charming Nymph beware,  
Whilst I your Victim die,  
Some One, my Perjured Fair,  
Revenging my Despair,  
Will prove as false to thee;  
Which yet my wand'ring Ghost would look more pale to see.  
For I shall break my Tomb,  
And nightly as I room,  
Shall to my Silvia come,  
And show the Piteous Sight;  
My bleeding Bosom too,  
Which wounds were given by you;  
Then vanish in the Shades of Night.    

SONG. On her Loving Two Equally.  Set by Captain Pack. 

I.  
HOw strongly does my Passion flow,  
Divided equally 'twixt two?  
Damon had ne'er subdued my Heart,  
Had not Alexis took his part;  
Nor could Alexis powerful prove,  
Without my Damon's Aid, to gain my Love.   

II.  
When my Alexis present is,  
Then I for Damon sigh and mourn;  
But when Alexis I do miss,  
Damon gains nothing but my Scorn.  
But if it chance they both are by,  
For both alike I languish, sigh, and die.   

III.  
Cure then, thou mighty winged God,  
This restless Fever in my Blood;  
One Golden-Pointed Dart take back:  
But which, O Cupid, wilt thou take?  
If Damon's, all my Hopes are crossed;  
Or that of my Alexis, I am lost.    

The Counsel. A Song.  Set by Captain Pack. 

I.  
A Pox upon this needless Scorn:  
Sylvia for shame the Cheat give over:  
The End to which the Fair are born,  
Is not to keep their Charms in store:  
But lavishly dispose in haste  
Of Joys which none but Youth improve;  
Joys which decay when Beauty's past;  
And who, when Beauty's past, will love?   

II.  
When Age those Glories shall deface,  
Revenging all your cold Disdain;  
And Sylvia shall neglected pass,  
By every once-admiring Swain;  
And we no more shall Homage pay:  
When you in vain too late shall burn,  
If Love increase, and Youth decay,  
Ah Sylvia! who will make Return?   

III.  
Then haste, my Sylvia, to the Grove,  
Where all the Sweets of May conspire  
To teach us every Art of Love,  
And raise our Joys of Pleasure higher:  
Where while embracing we shall lie  
Loosely in Shades on Beds of Flowers,  
The duller World while we defy,  
Years will be Minutes, Ages Hours.    

SONG. The Surprise.  Set by Mr. Farmer. 

I.  
PHillis, whose Heart was Unconfined,  
And free as Flowers on Meads and Plains,  
None boasted of her being Kind,  
'Mong'st all the languishing and amorous Swains.  
No Sighs or Tears the Nymph could move,  
To pity or return their Love.   

II.  
Till on a time the hapless Maid  
Retired to shun the Heat o'th' Day  
Into a Grove, beneath whose shade  
Strephon the careless Shepherd sleeping lay:  
But O such Charms the Youth adorn,  
Love is revenged for all her Scorn.   

III.  
Her Cheeks with Blushes covered were,  
And tender Sighs her Bosom warm,  
A Softness in her Eyes appear;  
Unusual Pain she feels from every Charm:  
To Woods and Echoes now she cries,  
For Modesty to speak denies.    

SONG.  

I.  
AH! what can mean that eager Joy  
Transports my Heart when you appear?  
Ah Strephon! you my Thoughts employ  
In all that's Charming, all that's Dear.  
When you your pleasing Story tell,  
A Softness does invade each Part,  
And I with Blushes own I feel  
Something too tender at my Heart.   

II.  
At your approach my Blushes rise,  
And I at once both wish and fear;  
My wounded Soul mounts to my Eyes,  
As it would prattle Stories there.  
Take, take that Heart that needs must go;  
But, Shepherd, see it kindly used:  
For who such Presents will bestow,  
If this, alas! should be abused?    

The Invitation: A Song.  
To a New Scotch Tune.  

I.  
COme my Phillis let us improve  
Both our Joys of Equal Love:  
While we in yonder Shady Grove,  
Count Minutes by our Kisses.  
See the Flowers how sweetly they spread,  
And each Resigns his Gaudy Head,  
To make for us a Fragrant Bed,  
To practise over New Blisses.   

II.  
The Sun itself with Love does conspire,  
And sends abroad his ardent Fire,  
And kindly seems to bid us retire,  
And shade us from his Glory;  
Then come, my Phillis, do not fear;  
All that your Swain desires there,  
Is by those Eyes a new to swear  
How much he does adore ye.   

III.  
Phillis, in vain you shed those Tears;  
Why do you blush? Oh speak your Fears!  
There's none but your Amyntas hears:  
What means this pretty Passion?  
Can you fear your Favours will cloy  
Those that the Blessing does enjoy?  
Ah no! such needless Thoughts destroy:  
This Nicety's out of Fashion.   

IV.  
When thou hast done, by Pan I swear,  
Thou wilt unto my Eyes appear  
A thousand times more Charming and Fair,  
Then thou wert to my first Desire:  
That Smile was kind, and now thou'rt wise,  
To throw away this Coy Disguise,  
And by the vigour of thy Eyes,  
Declare thy Youth and Fire.    

Silvio's Complaint: A SONG,  
To a Fine Scotch Tune.  

I.  
IN the Blooming Time o'th' year,  
In the Royal Month of May:  
Au the Heaves were glad and clear,  
Au the Earth was Fresh and Gay.  
A Noble Youth but all Forlorn,  
Liged Sighing by a Spring:  
'Twere better I's was ne'er Born,  
Ere wished to be a King.   

II.  
Then from his Starry Eyes,  
Muckle Showers of Crystal Fell:  
To bedew the Roses Fine,  
That on his Cheeks did dwell.  
And ever 'twixt his Sighs he'd cry,  
How Bonny a Lad I'd been,  
Had I, weys me, ne'er Aimed high,  
Or wished to be a King.   

III.  
With Dying Cloudy Looks,  
Au the Fields and Groves he ken:  
Au the Gleeding Murmuring Brooks,  
(No his Unambitious Friends)  
Tol which he eance with Mickle Cheer  
His Bleating Flocks would bring:  
And cries, would God I'd died here,  
Ere wished to be a King.   

IV.  
How oft in Yonder Mead,  
Covered o'er with Painted Flowers:  
Au the Dancing Youth I've led,  
Where we passed our Blether Hours.  
In Yonder Shade, in Yonder Grove,  
How Blessed the Nymphs have been:  
Ere I for Power Debauched Love,  
Or wished to be a King.   

V.  
Not add the Arcadian Swains,  
In their Pride and Glory Clad:  
Not au the Spacious Plains,  
Ere could Boast a Bleether Lad.  
When ere I Piped, or Danced, or Ran,  
Or leapt, or whirled the Sling:  
The Flowery Wreaths I still won,  
And wished to be a King,   

VI  
But Cursed be yond Tall Oak,  
And Old Thirsis be accursed:  
There I first my peace forsook,  
There I learned Ambition first.  
Such Glorious Songs of Hero's Crowned,  
The Restless Swain would Sing:  
My Soul unknown desires found,  
And Languished to be King.   

VII.  
Ye Garlands whither now,  
Fickle Glories vanish all:  
Ye Wreaths that decked my Brow,  
To the ground neglected fall.  
No more my sweet Repose molest,  
Nor to my Fancies bring  
The Golden Dreams of being Blest  
With Titles of a King.   

VIII.  
Ye Noble Youths beware,  
eat Ambitious powerful Tales:  
Destructive, False, and Fair,  
Like the Ocean's Flattering Gales.  
See how my Youth and Glories lie,  
Like Blasted Flowers i'th' Spring:  
My Fame Renown and all dye,  
For wishing to be King.    

In Imitation of Horace.  

I.  
WHat mean those Amorous Curls of Jet?  
For what heart-ravished Maid  
Dost thou thy Hair in order set,  
Thy Wanton Tresses Braid?  
And thy vast Store of Beauties open lay,  
That the deluded Fancy leads astray.   

II.  
For pity hide thy Starry eyes,  
Whose Languishments destroy:  
And look not on the Slave that dies  
With an Excess of Joy.  
Defend thy Coral Lips, thy Amber Breath;  
To taste these Sweets lets in a Certain Death.   

III.  
Forbear, fond Charming Youth, forbear,  
Thy words of Melting Love:  
Thy Eyes thy Language well may spare,  
One Dart enough can move.  
And she that hears thy voice and sees thy Eyes  
With too much Pleasure, too much Softness dies▪   

IU.  
Cease, Cease, with Sighs to warm my Soul,  
Or press me with thy Hand:  
Who can the kindling fire control,  
The tender force withstand?  
Thy Sighs and Touches like winged Lightning fly,  
And are the Gods of Love's Artillery.    

To Lysander, who made some Verses on a Discourse of Love's Fire.  

I.  
IN vain, dear Youth, you say you love,  
And yet my Marks of Passion blame;  
Since Jealousy alone can prove,  
The surest Witness of my Flame:  
And she who without that, a Love can vow,  
Believe me, Shepherd, does not merit you.   

II.  
Then give me leave to doubt, that Fire  
I kindle, may another warm:  
A Face that cannot move Desire,  
May serve at least to end the Charm:  
Love else were Witchcraft, that on malice bend,  
●enies ye Joys, or makes ye Impotent.   

III.  
'Tis true, when Cities are on fire,  
Men never wait for Crystal Springs;  
But to the Neighb'ring-Pools retire;  
Which nearest, best Assistance brings;  
And serves as well to quench the raging Flame,  
As if from God-delighting Streams it came.   

IV.  
A Fancy strong may do the Feat  
Yet this to Love a Riddle is,  
And shows that Passion but a Cheat;  
Which Men but with their Tongues Confess.  
For 'tis a Maxim in Love's learned School,  
Who blows the Fire, the flame can only Rule,   

V.  
Though Honour does your Wish deny,  
Honour! the Foe to your Repose;  
Yet 'tis more Noble far to die,  
Then break Loves known and Sacred Laws:  
What Lover would pursue a single Game,  
That could amongst the Fair deal out his flame?   

VI  
Since than Lysander you desire,  
Amynta only to adore;  
Take in no Partners to your Fire.  
For who well Love, that Loves one more?  
And if such Rivals in your Heart I find,  
'tis in My Power to die, but not be kind.    

A Dialogue for an Entertainment at Court, between Damon and Sylvia.  Damon. 
AH Sylvia! if I still pursue,  
Whilst you in vain your Scorn improve;  
What wonders might your Eyes not do:  
If they would dress themselves in Love.  Silvia. 
Shepherd you urge my Love in vain,  
For I can ne'er Reward your pain;  
A Slave each Smile of mine can win,  
And all my softening Darts,  
When e'er I please, can bring me in  
A Thousand Yielding Hearts.  Damon. 
Yet if those Slaves you treat with Cruelty,  
'Tis an Inglorious Victory;  
And those unhappy Swains you so subdue,  
May Learn at last to scorn, as well as you;  
Your Beauty though the Gods designed  
Should be Adored by all below;  
Yet if you want a Godlike Pitying Mind,  
Our Adoration soon will colder grow:  
'Tis Pity makes a Deity,  
Ah Silvia! deign to pity me,  
And I will worship none but thee.  Sylvia. 
Perhaps I may your Council take,  
And Pity, tho' not Love, for Damon's sake;  
Love is a Flame my Heart ne'er knew,  
Nor knows how to begin to burn for you.  Damon. 
Ah Sylvia who's the happy Swain,  
For whom that Glory you ordain!  
Has Strephon, Pithius, Hilus, more  
Of Youth, of Love, or Flocks a greater store?  
My flame pursues you too, with that Address,  
Which they want Passion to Profess:  
Ah then make some Returns my Charming Shepherdess.  Silvia. 
Too Faithful Shepherd I will try my Heart,  
And if I can will give you part.  Damon. 
Oh that was like yourself expressed,  
Give me but part, and I will steal the rest.  Silvia. 
Take care Young Swain you treat it well,  
If you would have it in your Bosom dwell;  
Now let us to the Shades Retreat,  
Where all the Nymphs and Shepherds meet.  Damon. 
And give me there your leave my Pride to show,  
For having but the hopes of Conquering you;  
Where all the Swains shall Passion learn of me:  
And all the Nymphs to bless like thee.  Silvia. 
Where every Grace I will bestow,  
And every Look and Smile, shall show  
How much above the rest I value you.  Damon. 
And I those Blessings will improve;  
By constant Faith, and tender Love.  [A Chorus of Satyrs and Nymphs made by another hand.]  

On Mr. J. H. In a Fit of Sickness.  

I.  
IF when the God of Day retires,  
The Pride of all the Spring decays and dies:  
Wanting those Life-begetting Fires  
From whence they draw their Excellencies;  
Each little Flower hangs down its Gaudy Head,  
Losing the Luster which it did Retain;  
No longer will its fragrant face be spread,  
But Languishes into a Bud again:  
So with the Sighing Crowd it fares  
Since you Amyntas, have your Eyes withdrawn '  
Ours Lose themselves in Silent Tears,  
Our days are Melancholy Dawn;  
The Groves are Unfrequented now,  
The Shady Walks are all Forlorn;  
Who still were throng to gaze on you:  
With Nymphs, whom your Retirement has undone.   

II.  
Our Bagpipes now away are flung,  
Our Flocks a Wandering go;  
Garlands neglected, on the Boughs are hung,  
That used to adorn each Cheerful Brow,  
Forsaken looks the enamelled May:  
And all its wealth Uncourted dies;  
Each little Bird forgets its wont Lay,  
That Sung Good Morrow to the welcome Day.  
Or rather to thy Lovely Eyes.  
The Cooling Streams do backward glide:  
Since on their Banks they saw not thee,  
Losing the Order of their Tide,  
And Murmuring chide they Cruelty;  
Then hast to lose themselves i'th' Angry Sea.   

III.  
Thus every thing in its Degree,  
Thy said Retreat Deplore;  
Hast then Amyntas, and Restore;  
The whole World's Loss in thee.  
For like an Eastern Monarch, when you go,  
(If such a Fate the World must know)  
A Beauteous and a Numerous Host  
Of Lovesick Maids, will wait upon thy Ghost;  
And Death that Secret will Reveal,  
Which Pride and Shame did here Conceal;  
Live than thou Loveliest of the Plains,  
Thou Beauty of the Envying Swains;  
Whose Charms even Death itself would court,  
And of his Solemn Business make a Sport.   

IV.  
In Pity to each Sighing Maid,  
Revive, come forth, be Gay and Glad;  
Let the Young God of Love implore,  
In Pity lend him Darts,  
For when thy Charming Eyes shall shoot no more;  
He'll lose his Title of the God of Hearts.  
In Pity to Astrea live,  
Astrea, whom from all the Sighing Throng,  
You did your oft-won Garlands give:  
For which she paid you back in Grateful Song:  
Astrea, who did still the Glory boast,  
To be adored by thee, and to adore thee most.   

V.  
With Pride she saw her Rivals Sigh and Pine,  
And vainly cried, The lovely Youth is mine!  
By all thy Charms I do Conjure thee, live;  
By all the Joys thou canst receive, and give:  
By each Recess and Shade where thou and I,  
Loves Secrets did Unfold;  
And did the dull Unloving World defy:  
Whilst each the Hearts fond Story told.  
If all these Conjurations nought Prevail,  
Not Prayers or Sighs, or Tears avail,  
But Heaven has Destined we Deprived must be,  
Of so much Youth, Wit, Beauty, and of Thee;  
I will the Deaf and Angry Powers defy,  
Curse thy Decease, Bless thee, and with thee die.    

To Lysander, on some Verses he writ, and ask more for his Heart then 'twas worth.  

I.  
TAke back that Heart, you with such Caution give,  
Take the fond valued Trifle back;  
I hate Love-Merchants that a Trade would drive;  
And meanly cunning Bargains make.   

II.  
I care not how the busy Market goes,  
And scorn to Chaffer for a price:  
Love does one Staple Rate on all impose,  
Nor leaves it to the Traders Choice.   

III.  
A Heart requires a Heart Unfeigned and True,  
Though Subtly you advance the Price,  
And ask a Rate that Simple Love ne'er knew:  
And the free Trade Monopolise.   

IV.  
An Humble Slave the Buyer must become,  
She must not bate a Look or Glance,  
You will have all, or you'll have none;  
See how Loves Market you enhance.   

V.  
Is't not enough, I gave you Heart for Heart,  
But I must add my Lips and Eyes;  
I must no friendly Smile or Kiss impart;  
But you must Dun me with Advice.   

VI  
And every Hour still more unjust you grow,  
Those Freedoms you my life deny,  
You to Adraste are obliged to show,  
And give her all my Rifled Joy.   

VII.  
Without Control she gazes on that Face,  
And all the happy Envied Night,  
In the pleased Circle of your fond embrace:  
She takes away the Lovers Right.   

VIII.  
From me she Ravishes those silent hours,  
That are by Sacred Love my due;  
Whilst I in vain accuse the angry Powers,  
That make me hopeless Love pursue.   

IX.  
Adrastes Ears with that dear Voice are blest,  
That Charms my Soul at every Sound,  
And with those Love-Inchanting Touches pressed:  
Which I ne'er felt without a Wound.   

X.  
She has thee all: whilst I with silent Grief,  
The Fragments of thy Softness feel,  
Yet dare not blame the happy licenc'd Thief:  
That does my Dear-bought Pleasures steal.   

XI.  
Whilst like a Glimmering Taper still I burn,  
And waste myself in my own flame,  
Adraste takes the welcome rich Return:  
And leaves me all the hopeless Pain.   

XII.  
Be just, my lovely Swain, and do not take  
Freedoms you'll not to me allow;  
Or give Amynta so much Freedom back:  
That she may Rove as well as you.   

XIII.  
Let us then love upon the honest Square,  
Since Interest neither have designed,  
For the sly Gamester, who ne'er plays me fair,  
Must Trick for Trick expect to find.    

To the Honourable Edward Howard, on his Comedy called The New Utopia,  

I.  
BEyond the Merit of the Age,  
You have adorned the Stage;  
So from rude Farce, to Comic Order brought,  
Each Action, and each Thought;  
To so Sublime a Method, as yet none  
(But Mighty Ben alone)  
Could e'er arrive, and he at distance too;  
Were he alive he must resign to you:  
You have outdone what e'er he writ,  
In this last great Example of your Wit.  
Your Solymour does his Morose destroy,  
And your Black Page undoes his Barber's Boy;  
All his Collegiate Ladies must retire,  
While we thy braver Heroines do admire.  
This new Utopia raised by thee,  
Shall stand a Structure to be wondered at,  
And men shall cry, this— this— is he  
Who that Poetic City did create:  
Of which Moor only did the Model draw,  
You did Complete that little World, and gave it Law.   

II.  
If you too great a Prospect do allow  
To those whom Ignorance does at distance Seat,  
'Tis not to say, the Object is less great,  
But they want sight to apprehend it so:  
The ancient Poets in their times,  
When through the Peopled Streets they sung their Rhimes,  
Found small applause; they sung but still were poor;  
Repeated Wit enough at every door.  
T'have made'em demi Gods! but 'twould not do,  
Till Ages more refined esteemed 'em so.  
The Modern Poets have with like Success,  
Quit the Stage, and Sallied from the Press  
Great johnson scarce a Play brought forth,  
But Monsterlike it frighted at its Birth:  
Yet he continued still to write,  
And still his satire did more sharply bite.  
He writ tho certain of his Doom,  
Knowing his Power in Comedy:  
To please a wiser Age to come:  
And though he Weapons wore to Justify  
The reasons of his Pen; he could not bring,  
Dull Souls to Sense by satire, nor by Cudgelling.   

III.  
In vain the Errors of the Times,  
You strive by wholesome Precepts to Confute,  
Not all your Power in Prose or Rhimes,  
Can finish the Dispute:  
'Twixt those that damn, and those that do admire:  
The heat of your Poetic fire.  
Your Soul of Thought you may employ  
A Nobler way,  
Then in revenge upon a Multitude,  
Whose Ignorance only makes 'em rude.  
Should you that Justice do,  
You must for ever bid adieu,  
To Poetry divine,  
And every Muse o'th' Nine:  
For Malice then with Ignorance would join,  
And so undo the World and You:  
So ravish from us that delight,  
Of seeing the Wonders which you Write:  
And all your Glories unadmired must lie,  
As Vestal Beauties are Entombed before they die.   

IV.  
Consider and Consult your Wit,  
Despise those Ills you must endure:  
And raise your Scorn as great as it,  
Be Confident and then Secure.  
And let your rich-fraught Pen,  
Adventure out again;  
Maugre the Storms that do oppose its course,  
Storms that destroy without remorse:  
It may new Worlds descry,  
Which Peopled from thy Brain may know  
More than the Universe besides can show:  
More Arts of Love, and more of Gallantry.  
Write on! and let not after Ages say,  
The Whistle or rude Hiss could lay  
Thy mighty Spirit of Poetry,  
Which but the Fools and Guilty fly;  
Who dare not in thy Mirror see  
Their own Deformity:  
Where thou in two, the World dost Character,  
Since most of Men Sir Graves, or Peacocks are.   

V.  
And shall that Muse that did ere while,  
Chant forth the Glories of the British Isle,  
Shall she who louder was than Fame;  
Now useless lie, and tame?  
She who late made the Amazons so Great,  
And she who Conquered Scynthia too;  
(Which Alexander ne'er could do)  
Will you permit her to retreat?  
Silence will like Submission show:  
And give Advantage to the Foe!  
Undaunted let her once gain appear,  
And let her loudly Sing in every Ear:  
Then like thy Mistress Eyes, who have the skill,  
Both to preserve a kill;  
To thou at once mayst be revenged on those  
That are thy Foes.  
And on thy Friends such Obligations lay,  
As nothing but the Deed; the Doer can repay.    

To Lysander at the Musick-Meeting.  
IT was too much, ye Gods, to see and hear;  
Receiving wounds both from the Eye and Ear:  
One Charm might have secured a Victory,  
Both, raised the Pleasure even to Ecstasy:  
So Ravished Lovers in each others Arms,  
Faint with excess of Joy, excess of Charms:  
Had I but gazed and fed my greedy Eyes,  
Perhaps you'd pleased no farther than surprise.  
That Heavenly Form might Admiration move,  
But, not without the Music, charmed with Love:  
At least so quick the Conquest had not been;  
You stormed without, and Harmony within:  
Nor could I listen to the sound alone,  
But I alas must look— and was undone:  
I saw the Softness that composed your Face,  
While your Attention heightend every Grace:  
Your Mouth all full of Sweetness and Content,  
And your fine kill Eyes of Languishment:  
Your Bosom now and than a sigh would move,  
(For Music has the same effects with Love.)  
Your Body easy and all tempting lay,  
Inspiring wishes which the Eyes betray,  
In all that have the fate to glance that way:  
A careless and a lovely Negligence,  
Did a new Charm to every Limb dispense:  
So look young Angels, Listening to the sound,  
When the Tuned Spheres Glad all the heavens around:  
So Raptur'd lie amidst the wondering Crowd,  
So Charmingly Extended on a Cloud.  
When from so many ways Loves Arrows storm,  
Who can the heedless Heart defend from harm?  
Beauty and Music must the Soul disarm;  
Since Harmony, like Fire to Wax, does fit  
The softened Heart Impressions to admit:  
As the brisk sounds of War the Courage move,  
Music prepares and warms the Soul to Love.  
But when the kindling Sparks such Fuel meet,  
No wonder if the Flame inspired be great.   

An Ode to Love.  

I  
DUll Love no more thy Senseless Arrows prise,  
Damn thy Gay Quiver, break thy Bow;  
'Tis only young Lysander's Eyes,  
That all the Arts of Wounding know.   

II.  
A Pox of Foolish Politics in Love,  
A wise delay in War the Foe may harm:  
By Lazy Siege while you to Conquest move;  
His fiercer Beauties vanquish by a Storm.   

III.  
Some wounded God, to be revenged on thee,  
The Charming Youth formed in a lucky hour,  
Dressed him in all that fond Divinity,  
That has outrivalled thee, a God, in Power.   

IV.  
Or else while thou supinely laid  
Basking beneath some Myrtle shade,  
In careless sleep, or tired with play,  
When all thy Shafts did scattered lie;  
Th'unguarded Spoils he bore away,  
And Armed himself with the Artillery.   

V.  
The Sweetness from thy Eyes he took,  
The Charming Dimples from thy Mouth,  
That wondrous Softness when you spoke;  
And all thy Everlasting Youth.   

VI  
Thy bow, thy Quiver, and thy Darts:  
Even of thy Painted Wings has rifled thee,  
To bear him from his Conquered broken Hearts,  
To the next Fair and Yielding She.    

Love Revenged, A Song.  

I.  
CElinda who did Love Disdain,  
For whom had languished many a Swain;  
Leading her Bleating Flock to drink,  
She spied upon the River's Brink  
A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare,  
How much he loved, but loved not her.   

II.  
At first she Laughed, but gazed the while,  
And soon she lessened to a Smile;  
Thence to Surprise and Wonder came,  
Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame:  
Then cried she out, Now, now I prove,  
Thou art a God, Almighty Love.   

III.  
She would have spoke, but shame denied,  
And bid her first consult her Pride;  
But soon she found that Aid was gone;  
For Love alas had left her none:  
Oh how she burns, but 'tis too late,  
For in her Eyes she reads her Fate.    

SONG.  
To a New Scotch Tune.  

I.  
YOung jemmy was a Lad,  
Of Royal Birth and Breeding,  
With every Beauty Clad:  
And every Grace Exceeding;  
A face and shape so wondrous fine,  
So Charming every part;  
That every Lass upon the Green:  
For jemmy had a Heart.   

II.  
In Iemmy's Powerful Eyes,  
Young Gods of Love are playing,  
And on his Face there lies  
A Thousand Smiles betraying.  
But Oh he dances with a Grace,  
None like him e'er was seen;  
No God that ever fancied was,  
Has so Divine a Mien.   

III.  
To jemmy every Swain  
Did lowly doff his Bonnet;  
And every Nymph would strain,  
To praise him in her Sonnet:  
The Pride of all the Youths he was,  
The Glory of the Groves,  
The Joy of every tender Lass:  
The Theme of all our Loves.   

IV.  
But Oh Unlucky Fate,  
A Curse upon Ambition:  
The Busy Fops of State  
Have ruined his Condition.  
For Glittering Hopes he'as left the Shade,  
His Peaceful Hours are gone:  
By flattering Knaves and Fools betrayed,  
Poor jemmy is undone.    

The Cabal at Nickey Nackeys.  

I.  
A Pox of the Statesman that's witty,  
Who watches and Plots all the Sleepless Night:  
For Seditious Harangues, to the whigs of the City;  
And Maliciously turns a Traitor in Spite.  
Let him Wear and Torment his lean Carrion:  
To bring his Sham-Plots about,  
Till at last King Bishop and Barron,  
For the Public Good he have quite rooted out.   

II.  
But we that are no Politicians,  
But Rogues that are Impudent, Barefaced and Great,  
Boldly head the Rude Rabble in times of Sedition;  
And bear all down before us, in Church & in State.  
Your Impudence is the best State-Trick;  
And he that by Law means to rule,  
Let his History with ours be related;  
And tho' we are the Knaves, we know who's the Fool.    

A Paraphrase on the Eleventh. Ode Out of the first Book of Horace.  
DEar Silvia let's no farther strive,  
To know how long we have to Live;  
Let Busy Gownsmen search to know  
Their Fates above, while we  
Contemplate Beauties greater Power below,  
Whose only Smiles give Immortality;  
But who seeks Fortune in a Star,  
Aims at a Distance much too far,  
She's more inconstant than they are.  
What though this year must be our last,  
Faster than Time our Joys let's hast;  
Nor think of Ills to come, or past.  
Give me but Love and Wine, I'll ne'er  
Complain my Destiny's severe.  
Since Life bears so uncertain Date,  
With Pleasure we'll attend our Fate,  
And Cheerfully go meet it at the Gate.  
The Brave and Witty know no Fear or Sorrow,  
Let us enjoy to day, we'll die to Morrow.   

A Translation.  

I.  
LYDIA, Lovely Maid, more fair  
Than Milk or whitest Lilies are,  
Than Polished Indian Ivory shows,  
Or the fair unblushing Rose.   

II.  
Open, Maid, thy Locks, that hold  
Wealth more bright than shining Gold,  
Over thy white shoulders laid,  
Spread thy Locks, my Charming Maid.   

III.  
Lydia, ope' thy starry Eyes,  
Show the Beds where Cupid lies,  
Open, Maid, thy Rosy-cheeks,  
Red as Sun declining streaks.   

IV.  
Show thy Coral Lips, my Love,  
Kiss me softer than the Dove,  
Till my Ravished Soul does lie  
Panting in an Ecstasy.   

V.  
Oh hold— and do not pierce my Heart,  
Which beats, as life would thence depart,  
Hide thy Breasts that swell and rise,  
Hide 'em from my wishing Eyes.   

VI  
Shut thy Bosom, white as Snow,  
Whence Arabian perfumes slow;  
Hide it from my Raptur'd Touch,  
I have gazed— and kissed too much.   

VII.  
Cruel Maid— on Malice bend,  
Seest thou not my Languishment?  
Lydia!— Oh I faint!— I die!  
With thy Beauty's Luxury.    

A PARAPHRASE On Ovid's Epistle of OENONE to PARIS.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
Hecuba, being with Child of Paris, dreamed she was delivered of a Firebrand: Priam, consulting the Prophets, was answered the Child should be the Destruction of Troy, wherefore Priam commanded it should be delivered to wild Beasts as soon as born; but Hecuba conveys it secretly to Mount Ida, there to be fostered by the Shepherds, where he falls in love with the Nymph OEnone, but at last being known and owned, he sails into Greece, and carries Helen to Troy, which OEnone understanding, writes him this Epistle.  
TO thee, dear Paris, Lord of my Desires,  
Once tender Partner of my softest Fires;  
To thee I write, mine, while a Shepherd's Swain,  
But now a Prince, that Title you disdain.  
Oh fatal Pomp, that could so soon divide  
What Love, and all our sacred Vows had tied!  
What God, our Love industrious to prevent,  
Cursed thee with power, and ruin'd my Content?  
Greatness, which does at best but ill agree  
With Love, such Distance sets 'twixt Thee and Me.  
Whilst thou a Prince, and I a Shepherdess,  
My raging Passion can have no redress.  
Would God, when first I saw thee, thou hadst been  
This Great, this Cruel, Celebrated thing.  
That without hope I might have gazed and bowed,  
And mixed my Adorations with the Crowd;  
Unwounded than I had escaped those Eyes,  
Those lovely Authors of my Miseries.  
Not that less Charms their fatal power had dressed,  
But Fear and Awe my Love had then suppressed:  
My unambitious Heart no Flame had known,  
But what Devotion pays to Gods alone.  
I might have wondered, and have wished that He,  
Whom Heaven should make me love, might look like Thee.  
More in a silly Nymph had been a sin,  
This had the height of my Presumption been.  
But thou a Flock didst feed on Ida's Plain,  
And hadst no Title, but The lovely Swain.  
A Title! which more Virgin Hearts has won,  
Than that of being owned King Priam's Son.  
While me a harmless Neighbouring Cottager  
You saw, and did above the rest prefer.  
You saw! and at first sight you loved me too,  
Nor could I hide the wounds received from you.  
Me all the Village Herdsmen strove to gain,  
For me the Shepherds sighed and sued in vain,  
Thou hadst my heart, and they my cold disdain.  
Not all their Offerings, Garlands, and first born  
Of their loved Ewes, could bribe my Native scorn.  
My Love, like hidden Treasure long concealed,  
Could only where 'twas destined, be revealed.  
And yet how long my Maiden blushes strove  
Not to betray my easy newborn Love.  
But at thy sight the kindling Fire would rise,  
And I, unskilled, declare it at my Eyes.  
But oh the Joy! the mighty Ecstasy  
Possessed thy Soul at this Discovery.  
Speechless, and panting at my feet you lay,  
And short breathed Sighs told what you could not say.  
A thousand times my hand with Kisses pressed,  
And looked such Darts, as none could e'er resist.  
Silent we gazed, and as my Eyes met thine,  
New Joy filled theirs, new Love and shame filled mine!  
You saw the Fears my kind disorder showed  
And breaking Silence Faith anew you vowed!  
Heavens, how you swore by every Power Divine  
You would be ever true! be ever mine!  
Each God, a sacred witness you invoke,  
And wished their Curse when e'er these Vows you broke.  
Quick to my Heart each perjured Accent ran,  
Which I took in, believed, and was undone.  
" Vows are Love's poisoned Arrows, and the heart  
So wounded, rarely finds a Cure from Art.  
At least this heart which Fate has destined yours,  
This heart unpractised in Love's mystic powers,  
For I am soft and young as April Flowers.  
Now uncontrolled we meet, unchecked improve  
Each happier Minute in new Joys of Love!  
Soft were our hours! and lavishly the Day  
We gave entirely up to Love, and Play.  
Oft to the cooling Groves our Flocks we led,  
And seated on some shaded, flowery Bed,  
Watched the united Wantoness as they fed.  
And all the Day my listening Soul I hung  
Upon the charming Music of thy Tongue,  
And never thought the blessed hours too long.  
No Swain, no God like thee could ever move,  
Or had so soft an Art in whispering Love,  
No wonder for thou art Allied to jove!  
And when you piped, or sung, or danced, or spoke,  
The God appeared in every Grace, and Look.  
Pride of the Swains, and Glory of the Shades,  
The Grief, and Joy of all the Lovesick Maids.  
Thus whilst all hearts you ruled without Control,  
I reigned the absolute Monarch of your Soul.  
Each Beach my Name yet bears, carved out by thee,  
Paris, and his OEnone fill each Tree;  
And as they grow, the Letters larger spread,  
Grow still a witness of my Wrongs when dead!  
Close by a silent silver Brook there grows  
A Poplar, under whose dear gloomy Boughs  
A thousand times we have exchanged our Vows!  
Oh may'st thou grow! t' an endless date of Years!  
Who on thy Bark this fatal Record bears;  
When Paris to OEnone proves untrue,  
Back Xanthus' Streams shall to their Fountains slow.  
Turn! turn your Tides! back to your Fountains run!  
The perjured Swain from all his Faith is gone!  
Cursed be that day, may Fate appoint the hour,  
As Ominous in his black Calendar;  
When Venus, Pallas, and the Wife of jove  
Descended to thee in the Myrtle Grove,  
In shining Chariots drawn by winged Clouds:  
Naked they came, no Veil their Beauty shrouds;  
But every Charm, and Grace exposed to view,  
Left Heaven to be surveyed, and judged by you.  
To bribe thy voice juno would Crowns bestow,  
Pallas more gratefully would dress thy Brow  
With Wreaths of Wit! Venus' proposed the choice  
Of all the fairest Greeks! and had thy Voice.  
Crowns, and more glorious Wreaths thou didst despise,  
And promised Beauty more than Empire prize!  
This when you told, Gods! what a kill fear  
Did over all my shivering Limbs appear?  
And I presaged some ominous Change was near!  
The Blushes left my Cheeks, from every part  
The Blood ran swift to guard my fainting heart.  
You in my Eyes the glimmering Light perceived  
Of parting Life, and on my pale Lips breathed  
Such Vows, as all my Terrors undeceived.  
But soon the envying Gods disturbed our Joy,  
Declared thee Great! and all my Bliss destroy!  
And now the Fleet is Anchored in the Bay,  
That must to Troy the glorious Youth convey.  
Heavens! how you looked! and what a Godlike Grace  
At their first Homage beautified your Face!  
Yet this no Wonder, or Amazement brought,  
You still a Monarch were in Soul, and thought!  
Nor could I tell which most the News augments,  
Your Joys of Power, or parting Discontents.  
You kissed the Tears which down my Cheeks did glide,  
And mingled yours with the soft falling Tide,  
And 'twixt your Sighs a thousand times you said,  
Cease my OEnone! Cease my charming Maid!  
If Paris lives his Native Troy to see,  
My lovely Nymph, thou shalt a Princess be!  
But my Prophetic Fears no Faith allowed,  
My breaking Heart resisted all you vowed.  
Ah must me part, I cried! that kill word  
No farther Language could to Grief afford.  
Trembling, I fell upon thy panting Breast,  
Which was with equal Love, and Grief oppressed,  
Whilst sighs and looks, all dying spoke the rest.  
About thy Neck my feeble Arms I cast,  
Not Vines, nor Ivy circle Elms so fast.  
To stay, what dear Excuses didst thou frame,  
And fansiedst Tempests when the Seas were calm?  
How oft the Winds contrary feigned to be,  
When they, alas, were only so to me!  
How oft new Vows of lasting Faith you swore,  
And 'twixt your Kisses all the old run over?  
But now the wisely Grave, who Love despise,  
(Themselves past hope) do busily advise.  
Whisper Renown, and Glory in thy Ear,  
Language which Lovers fright, and Swains ne'er hear.  
For Troy they cry! these Shepherd's Weeds lay down,  
Change Crooks for Sceptres! Garlands for a Crown!  
" But sure that Crown does far less easy sit,  
" Than Wreaths of Flowers, less innocent and sweet.  
" Nor can thy Beds of State so grateful be,  
" As those of Moss, and new fallen Leaves with me!  
Now towards the Beach we go, and all the way  
The Groves, the Fern, dark Woods, and springs survey;  
That were so often conscious to the Rites  
Of sacred Love, in our dear stolen Delights.  
With Eyes all languishing, each place you view,  
And sighing cry, Adieu, dear Shades, Adieu!  
Then 'twas thy Soul even doubted which to do,  
Refuse a Crown, or those dear Shades forego!  
Glory and Love! the great dispute pursued,  
But the false Idol soon the God subdued.  
And now on Board you go, and all the Sails  
Are loosened, to receive the flying Gales.  
Whilst I, half dead on the forsaken Strand,  
Beheld thee sighing on the Deck to stand,  
Wasting a thousand Kisses from thy Hand.  
And whilst I could the lessening Vessel see,  
I gazed, and sent a thousand Sighs to thee!  
And all the Sea-born Nereids implore  
Quick to return thee to our Rustic shore.  
Now like a Ghost I glide through every Grove,  
Silent, and sad as Death, about I rove,  
And visit all our Treasuries of Love!  
This Shade th'account of thousand Joys does hide,  
As many more this murmuring Rivers side,  
Where the dear Grass, still sacred, does retain  
The print, where thee and I so oft have lain.  
Upon this Oak thy Pipe, and Garland's placed,  
That Sicamore is with thy Sheephook graced.  
Here feed thy Flock, once loved though now thy scorn,  
Like me forsaken, and like me forlorn!  
A Rock there is, from whence I could survey  
From far the bluish Shore, and distant Sea,  
Whose hanging top with toil I climbed each day,  
With greedy View the prospect I ran over,  
To see what wished for ships approached our shore.  
One day all hopeless on its point I stood,  
And saw a Vessel bounding o'er the Flood,  
And as it nearer drew, I could discern  
Rich Purple Sails, Silk Cords, and Golden Stern;  
Upon the Deck a Canopy was spread  
Of Antique work in Gold and Silver made,  
Which mixed with Sun beams dazzling Light displayed.  
But oh! beneath this glorious Scene of State  
(Cursed be the sight) a fatal Beauty sat.  
And fond you were on her Bosom laid,  
Whilst with your perjured Lips her Fingers played;  
Wantonly curled and dallied with that hair,  
Of which, as sacred Charms, I Bracelets wear.  
Oh! hadst thou seen me then in that mad state,  
So ruined, so designed for Death and Fate,  
Fixed on a Rock, whose horrid Precipice  
In hollow Murmurs wars with Angry Seas;  
Whilst the bleak Winds aloft my Garments bear,  
Ruffling my careless and dishevelled hair,  
I looked like the sad Statue of Despair.  
With outstretched voice I cried, and all around  
The Rocks and Hills my dire complaints resound.  
I rend my Garments, tore my flattering Face,  
Whose false deluding Charms my Ruin was.  
Mad as the Seas in Storms, I breathe Despair,  
Or Winds let loose in unresisting Air.  
Raging and Frantic through the Woods I fly,  
And Paris! lovely, faithless Paris cry.  
But when the Echoes sound thy Name again,  
I change to new variety of Pain.  
For that dear name such tenderness inspires,  
And turns all Passion to Love's softer Fires:  
With tears I fall to kind Complaints again,  
So Tempests are allayed by Showers of Rain.  
Say, lovely Youth, why wouldst thou thus betray  
My easy Faith, and lead my heart astray?  
I might some humble Shepherd's Choice have been,  
Had I that Tongue ne'er heard, those Eyes ne'er seen.  
And in some homely Cott, in low Repose,  
Lived undisturbed with broken Vows and Oaths:  
All day by shaded Springs my Flocks have kept,  
And in some honest Arms at night have slept.  
Then unupbraided with my wrongs thou'dst been  
Safe in the Joys of the fair Grecian Queen:  
What Stars do rule the Great? no sooner you  
Became a Prince, but you were Perjured too.  
Are Crowns and Falsehoods then consistent things?  
And must they all be faithless who are Kings?  
The Gods be praised that I was humbly born,  
Even though it renders me my Paris scorn.  
For I had rather this way wretched prove,  
Than be a Queen and faithless in my Love.  
Not my fair Rival would I wish to be,  
To come profaned by others Joys to thee.  
A spotless Maid into thy Arms I brought,  
Untouched in Fame, even Innocent in thought.  
Whilst she with Love has treated many a Guest,  
And brings thee but the leave of a Feast:  
With Theseus from her Country made Escape,  
Whilst she miscalled the willing Flight, a Rape.  
So now from Atreus' Son, with thee is fled,  
And still the Rape hides the Adulterous Deed.  
And is it thus Great Ladies keep entire  
That Virtue they so boast, and you admire?  
Is this a Trick of Courts, can Ravishment  
Serve for a poor Evasion of Consent?  
Hard shift to save that Honour prized so high,  
Whilst the mean Fraud's the greater Infamy.  
How much more happy are we Rural Maids,  
Who know no other Palaces than Shades?  
Who wish no Title to enslave the Crowd,  
Lest they should babble all our Crimes aloud.  
No Arts our Good to show, our Ill to hide,  
Nor know to cover faults of Love with Pride.  
I loved, and all Love's Dictates did pursue,  
And never thought it could be Sin with you.  
To Gods, and Men, I did my Love proclaim;  
For one soft hour with thee, my charming Swain,  
Would Recompense an Age to come of Shame,  
Could it as well but satisfy my Fame.  
But oh! those tender hours are fled and lost,  
And I no more of Fame, or Thee can boast!  
'Twas thou wert Honour, Glory, all to me:  
Till Swains had learned the Vice of Perjury,  
No yielding Maids were charged with Infamy.  
'Tis false and broken Vows make Love a Sin,  
Hadst thou been true, We innocent had been.  
But thou less faith than Autumn leaves dost show,  
Which every Blast bears from their native Bough.  
Less Weight, less Constancy, in thee is born,  
Than in the slender mildewed Ears of Corn.  
Oft when you Garlands wove to deck my hair,  
Where mystic Pinks, and Daisies mingled were,  
You swore 'twas fitter Diadems to bear:  
And when with eager Kisses pressed my hand,  
Have said, How well a Sceptre 'twould command!  
And when I danced upon the Flowery Green,  
With charming, wishing Eyes survey my Mien,  
And cry! the Gods designed thee for a Queen!  
Why then for Helen dost thou me forsake?  
Can a poor empty Name such difference make?  
Besides if Love can be a Sin, thine's one,  
To Menelaus' Helen does belong.  
Be Just, restore her back, She's none of thine,  
And, charming Paris, thou art only mine.  
'Tis no Ambitious Flame that makes me sue  
To be again beloved, and blest by you;  
No vain desire of being allied t' a King,  
Love is the only Dowry I can bring,  
And tender Love is all I ask again.  
Whilst on her dangerous Smiles fierce War must wait  
With Fire and Vengeance at your Palace gate,  
Rouse your soft Slumbers with their rough Alarms,  
And rudely snatch you from her faithless Arms:  
Turn then, fair Fugitive, e'er 'tis too late,  
E'er thy mistaken Love procures thy Fate;  
E'er a wronged Husband does thy Death design,  
And pierce that dear, that faithless Heart of thine.    

A VOYAGE TO THE Isle of LOVE.  

An Account from Lisander to Lysidas his Friend.  
AT last dear Lysidas, I'll set thee Free,  
From the disorders of Uncertainty;  
Doubts the worst Torment of a generous Mind,  
Who ever searching what it cannot find,  
Is roving still from wearied thought to thought,  
And to no settled Calmness can be brought:  
The Cowards Ill, who dares not meet his Fate,  
And ever doubting to be Fortunate,  
Falls to that Wretchedness his fears Create.  
I should have died silent, as Flowers decay,  
Had not thy Friendship stopped me on my way,  
That friendship which our Infant hearts inspired,  
ere them Ambition or false Love had fired:  
Friendship! which still enlarged with years and sense  
Till it arrived to perfect Excellence;  
Friendship! Man's noblest business! without whom  
The out-cast Life finds nothing it can own,  
But Dully dies unknowing and unknown,  
Our searching thought serves only to impart  
It's new gained knowledge to another's Heart;  
The truly wise, and great, by friendship grow,  
That, best instruct 'em how they should be so,  
That, only sees the Error of the Mind,  
Which by its soft reproach becomes Refined;  
Friendship! which even Loves mighty power controls,  
When that but touches; this Exchange Souls,  
The remedy of Grief, the safe retreat  
Of the scorned Lover, and declining great.  
This sacred tye between thyself and me,  
Not to be altered by my Destiny;  
This tye, which equal to my new desires  
Preserved itself amidst Loves softer Fires,  
Obliges me, (without reserve) 't impart  
To Lycidas the story of my Heart;  
Tho' 't will increase its present languishment,  
To call to its remembrance past content  
So drowning Men near to their native shore  
(From whence they parted near to visit more)  
Look back and sigh, and from that last Adieu,  
Suffer more pain than in their Death they do,  
That grief, which I in silent Calms have born,  
It will renew, and rouse into a Storm.   

The TRUCE.  

With you unhappy Eyes that first let in  
To my fond Heart the raging Fire,  
With you a Truce I will begin,  
Let all your Clouds, let all your Showers retire,  
And for a while become serene,  
And you my consiant rising Sighs forbear,  
To mix yourselves with flying Air,  
But utter Words, among that may express,  
The vast degrees of joy and Wretchedness.  
And you my Soul! forget the dismal hour,  
When dead and cold Aminta lay,  
And no kind God, no pitying Power  
The hasty fleeting Life would stay;  
Forget the Mad, the Raving pain  
That seized Thee at a sight so new,  
When not the Wind let loose, nor raging Main  
Was so destructive and so wild as thou?  
Forget thou saw'st the lovely yielding Maid,  
Dead in thy trembling Arms  
Just ●n the Ravishing hour, when all her Charms  
A willing Victim to thy Love was laid,  
Forget that all is fled thou didst Adore,  
And never, never, shall return to bless Thee more.   

Twelve times the Moon has borrowed Rays; that Night  
Might favour Lovers stealths by Glimmering Light:  
Since I embarked on the inconstant Seas  
With people of all Ages and Degrees,  
All well disposed and absolutely bend,  
To visit a far Country called Content.  
The Sails were hoist, and the Streamers spread,  
And cheerfully we cut the yielding Flood;  
Calm was the Sea, and peaceful every Wind,  
As if the Gods had with our Wishes joined  
To make us prosperous; All the whispering Air  
Like Lovers Joys, was soft, and falsely fair.  
The ruffling Winds were hushed in wanton sleep,  
And all the Waves were silenced in the deep:  
No threatening Cloud, no angry Curl was found,  
But bright, serene, and smooth, 'twas all around:  
But yet believe false Iris if she weep,  
Or Amorous Layis will her promise keep,  
Before the Sea, that Flatters with a Calm,  
Will cease to ruin with a rising Storm,  
For now the Winds are roused, the Hemisphere  
Grows black, and frights the hardy Mariner,  
The Billows all into Disorder hurled,  
As if they meant to bury all the World;  
And lest the Gods on us should pity take,  
They seemed against them too, a War to make.  
Now each affrighted to his Cabin Flies,  
And with Repentance Load the angry Skies;  
Distracted Prayers they all to Heaven Address,  
While Heaven best knows, they think of nothing less;  
To quit their Interest in the World's their fear,  
Not whether,— but to go,— is all their Care,  
And while to Heaven, their differing crimes they mount,  
Their vast disorders doubles the account;  
All pray, and promise fair, protest and weep,  
And make those Vows, they want the power to keep,  
But sure with some, the angry Gods were pleased;  
For by degrees their Rage and Thunder ceased:  
In the rude War no more the Winds engage,  
And the destructive Waves were tired with their own Rage;  
Like a young Ravisher, that has won the day,  
Overtoiled and Panting, Calm and Breathless lay,  
While so much Vigour in the encounter's lost,  
They want the power a second Rape to Boast.  
The Sun in Glory daignes again t' appear;  
But we who had no Sense, but that of fear,  
Could scarce believe, and lessen our despair.  
Yet each from his imagined Grave gets out,  
And with still doubting Eyes looks round about.  
Confirmed they all from Prayer to Praises hast,  
And soon forgot the sense of dangers past;  
And now from the recruited Topmast spied,  
An Island that discovered Nature's Pride:  
To which was added, all that Art could do  
To make it Tempting and Inviting too;  
All wondering Gazed upon the happy place,  
But none knew either where, or what it was:  
Some thought, th' Inaccessible Land 't had been,  
And others that Enchantment they had seen,  
At last came forth a Man, who long before  
Had made a Voyage to that fatal shore,  
Who with his Eyes declined, as if dismayed,  
At sight of what he dreaded: Thus he said,   

THis is the Coast of Africa,  
Where all things sweetly move;  
This is the Calm Atlantic Sea,  
And that the Isle of Love;   

To which all Mortals Tribute pay,  
Old, Young, the Rich and Poor;  
Kings do their awful Laws obey,  
And Shepherds do Adore.   

There's none its forces can resist,  
Or its Decrees Evince,  
It Conquers where, and whom it list,  
The Cottager and Prince.   

In entering here, the King resigns,  
The Robe and Crown he wore;  
The Slave new Fetters gladly joins  
To those he dragged before.   

All thither come, early or late,  
Directed by desire,  
Not Glory can divert their fate,  
Nor quench the Amorous fire.   

The Entrances on every side,  
Th● Attracts and Beauties Guard,  
The Graces with a wanton Pride,  
By turn secure the Ward.   

The God of Love has lent 'em Darts,  
With which they gently Greet,  
The heedless undefended Hearts  
That pass the fatal Gate.   

None e'er escaped the welcomed blow,  
Which never is sent in vain;  
They Kiss the Shaft, and Bless the Foe,  
That gives the pleasing Pain.   

Thus whilst we did this grateful story learn,  
We came so near the Shoar, as to discern  
The Place and Objects, which did still appear  
More Ravishing, approaching 'em more near.  
There the vast Sea, with a smooth calmness flows▪  
As are the Smiles on happy Lovers Brows:  
As peaceably as Rivulets it glides,  
Embracing still the shaded Islands sides;  
And with soft Murmurs on the Margin flows,  
As if to Nature it designed Repose;  
Whose Music still is answered by the Breeze,  
That gently plays with the soft ruffed Trees.  
Fragrant and Flowery all the Banks appear  
Whose mixed disorders more delightful were,  
Then if they had been placed with Artful care,  
The Cowslip, Lily, Rose and Jesamine,  
The Daffodil, the Pink and Eglintine,  
Whose gaudy store continues all the year,  
Makes but the meanest of the Wonders here.  
Here the young Charmers walk the Banks along,  
Here all the Graces and the Beauty's throng.  
But what did most my Admiration draw,  
Was that the Old and Ugly there I saw,  
Who with their Apisn Postures, void of shame  
Still practice Youth, and talk of Darts and Flame  
I laughed to see a Lady out of date,  
A worn out Beauty, once of the first rate;  
With youthful Dress, and more fantastic Prate,  
Setting her withered Face in thousand forms,  
And thinks the while she Dresses it in charms;  
Disturbing with her Court: the busier throng  
Ever Addressing to the Gay and Young;  
There an old Battered Fop, you might behold,  
Lavish his Love, Discretion, and his Gold  
On a fair she, that has a Trick in Art,  
To cheat him of his Politics and Heart;  
Whilst he that Jilts the Nation o'er and o'er,  
Wants sense to find it in the subtler W—re.  
The Man that on this Isle before had been,  
Finding me so admire at what I'd seen;  
Thus said to me.—    

LOVE's Power.  

LOVE when he Shoots abroad his Darts,  
Regards not where they light:  
The Aged to the Youthful Hearts,  
At random they unite.  
The soft unbearded Youth, who never found  
The Charms in any Blooming Face,  
From one of Fifty takes the Wound;  
And eagerly pursues the cunning Chase:  
While she a Arted Youth puts on;  
Softens her Voice, and languishes her Eyes;  
Affects the Dress, the Mean, the Tone.  
Assumes the noisy Wit, and ceases to be Wise;  
The tender Maid to the Rough Warrior yields;  
Vnfrighted at his Wounds and Scars,  
Pursues him through the Camps and Fields,  
And Courts the story of his dangerous Wars,  
With Pleasure hears his Scapes, and does not fail,  
To pay him with a joy for every Tale.   

The fair young Bigot, full of Love and Prayer,  
Dotes on the lewd and careless Libertine;  
The thinking Statesman fumbles with the Player,  
And dearly buys the (barely wishing) Sin.  
The Peer with some mean Damsel of the trade,  
Expensive, common, ugly and decayed:  
The gay young Squire, on the blouzed Laundry Maid.  
All things in Heaven, in Earth, and Sea,  
Love give his Laws unto;  
Tho' under different Objects, they  
Alike obey, and bow;  
Sometimes to be revenged on those,  
Whose Beauty makes 'em proudly nice,  
He does a Flame on them impose,  
To some unworthy choice.  
Thus rarely equal Hearts in Love you'll find,  
Which makes 'em still present the God as Blind.   

Whilst thus he spoke, my wondering Eyes were stayed  
With a profound attention on a Maid!  
Upon whose Smiles the Graces did await,  
And all the Beauties round about her sat;  
Officious Cupid's do her Eyes obey,  
Sharpening their Darts from every Conquering Ray:  
Some from her Smiles they point with soft desires,  
Whilst others from her Motion take their Fires:  
Some the Embroidered Veil and Train do bear,  
And some around her fan the gentle Air,  
Whilst others flying, scatter fragrant Showers,  
And strew the paths she tread with painted flowers  
The rest are all employed to dress her Bowers;  
While she does all, the smiling God's caress,  
And they new Attributes receive from each Address.    

The CHARACTER.  

Such Charms of Youth, such Ravishment  
Through all her Form appeared,  
As if in her Creation Nature meant,  
She should alone be adored and feared:  
Her Eyes all sweet, and languishingly move,  
Yet so, as if with pity Beauty strove,  
This to decline, and that to charm with Love.  
A cheerful Modesty adorned her Face,  
And bashful Blushes spread her smiling Cheeks;  
Witty her Air; soft every Grace,  
And 'tis eternal Music when she speaks,  
From which young listening Gods the Accents take  
And when they would a perfect Conquest make,  
Teach their young favourite Lover so to speak.   

2.  
Her Neck, on which all careless fell her Hair,  
Her half discovered rising Bosom bare,  
Were beyond Nature formed; all Heavenly fair.  
Tempting her dress, lose with the Wind it flew,  
Discovering Charms that would alone subdue,  
Her soft white slender Hands whose touches would  
Beget desire even in an awful God;  
Long Wintered Age to tenderness would move,  
And in his Frozen Blood, bloom a new spring of Love.   

All these at once my Ravished Senses charmed,  
And with unusual Fires my Bosom warmed.  
Thus my sixth Eyes pursued the lovely Maid,  
Till they had lost her in the envied Glade;  
Yet still I gazed, as if I still had viewed  
The Object, which my new desires pursued.  
Lost while I stood; against my Will, my sight  
Conducted me unto a new delight.  
Twelve little Boats were from the Banks untied,  
And towards our Vessel sailed with wondrous Pride,  
With wreathes of Flowers and Garlands they were dressed,  
Their Cordage all of Silk and Gold consist,  
Their Sails of silvered Lawn, and Tinsel were,  
Which wantonly were ruffled in the Air.  
As many little Cupids gaily clad,  
Did Row each Boat, nor other guides they had.  
A thousand Zephyr's Fanned the moving Fleet,  
Which mixing with the Flowers became more sweet,  
And by repeated Kiss did assume  
From them a scent that did the Air perfume.  
So near us this delightful Fleet was come,  
We could distinguish what the Cupid's sung,  
Which oft with charming Notes they did repeat,  
With Voices such as I shall ne'er forget.  
You that do seek with Amorous desires,  
To taste the Pleasures of the Life below,  
Land on this Island, and renew your Fires,  
For without Love, there is no joy, you know.   

Then all the Cupids waiting no Commands,  
With soft inviting Smiles present their Hands,  
And in that silent Motion seemed to say,  
You ought to follow, when Love leads the way.  
Made with delight, and all transported too,  
I quitted Reason, and resolved to go;  
For that bright charming Beauty I had seen,  
And burnt with strange desire to see again,  
Filled with new hope, I laughed at Reason's force,  
And towards the Island, bend my eager Course;  
The Zephyr's at that instant lent their Aid,  
And I into Love's Fleet was soon conveyed,  
And by a thousand Friendships did receive,  
Welcomes which none but God's of Love could give▪  
Many possessed with my Curiosity,  
Tho' not inspired like me, yet followed me,  
And many stayed behind, and laughed at us:  
And in a scoffing tone reproached us thus,   

Farewell Adventurers, go search the joy,  
Which mighty Love inspires, and you shall find,  
The treatment of the wondrous Monarch Boy,  
In's Airy Castle always soft and kind.   

We on the fragrant Beds of Roses laid,  
And lulled with Music which the Zephyr's made,  
When with the Amorous silken Sails they played.  
Rather did them as wanting Wit account,  
Then we in this affair did Judgement want,  
With Smiles of pity only answered them,  
Whilst they returned us pitying ones again.  
Now to the wished for Shoar, with speed we high;  
Vain with our Fate, and eager of our Joy,  
And as upon the Beech we landed were,  
An awful Woman did to us repair.  
Goddess of Prudence! who with grave advice,  
Counsels the heedless Stranger to be Wise;  
She guards this Shoar, and Passage does forbid,  
But now blind Sense her Face from us had hid;  
We passed and disobeyed the heavenly Voice,  
Which few e'er do, but in this fatal place.  
Now with impatient haste, (but long in vain)  
I seek the Charming Author of my Pain,  
And haunt the Woods, the Groves, and every Plain.  
I ask each Crystal Spring, each murmuring Brook,  
Who saw my fair, or knows which way she took?  
I ask the Echoes when they heard her Name?  
But they could nothing but my Moans proclaim;  
My Sighs, the fleeting Winds far off do bear,  
My Charmer, could no soft complaining hear:  
At last, where all was shade, where all was Gay;  
On a Brooks Brink, which purling past away,  
A sleep the lovely Maid extended lay;  
Of different Flowers, the Cupids made her Bed,  
And Ros●y Pillows, did support her Head;  
With what transported Joy my Soul wa● filled,  
When I, the Object of my wish beheld,  
My greedy View each lovely part surveyed;  
On her white Hand, her Blushing Cheek was laid  
Half hid in Roses; yet did so appear  
As if with those, the Lillys mingled were;  
Her thin loose Robe did all her shape betray,  
(Her wondrous shape that negligently lay)  
And every Tempting Beauty did reveal,  
But what young bashful Maids would still conceal;  
Impatient I, more apt to hope than fear,  
Approached the Heavenly sleeping Maid more near;  
The place, my flame, and all her Charms invite  
To t●st the sacred Joys of stolen delight.  
The Grove was silent, and no Creature by,  
But the young smiling God of Love and I;  
But as before the awful shrine, I kneeled,  
Where Loves great Mystery was to be revealed,  
A Man from out the Groves recess appears,  
Who all my boasted Vigour turned to fears,  
He slacked my Courage by a kind surprise,  
And awed me with th' Majesty of his Eyes;  
I bowed, and blushed, and trembling did retire,  
And wondered at the Power that checked my fire;  
So excellent a Mean, so good a Grace,  
So grave a Look, such a commanding Face;  
In modest Speech, as might well subdue,  
Youth's native wildness; yet 'twas gracious too.  
A little Cupid waiting by my side,  
(Who was presented to me for a guide,)  
Beholding me decline, the Sleeping Maid,  
To gaze on this Intruder,— Thus he said.    

RESPECT.  

I.  
HIM whom you see so awful and severe,  
Is called Respect, the Eldest Son of Love;  
Esteem his Mother is; who every where  
Is the best Advocate to all the fair,  
And knows the most obliging Arts to move:  
Him you must still caress, and by his Grace,  
You I conquer all the Beauties of the Place;  
To gain him 'tis not Words will do,  
His Rhetoric is the Blush and Bow.   

II.  
He even requires that you should silent be,  
And understand no Language but from Eyes,  
Or Sighs, the soft Complaints on Cruelty;  
Which soon move the Heart they would surprise:  
They like the Fire in Limbecks gently move,  
What words (too hot and fierce) destroy;  
These by degrees infuse a lasting Love;  
Whilst those do soon burn out the short blazed joy..  
These the all gaining Youth requires,  
And bears to Lady's Hearts the Lambent Fires;  
And He that would against despair be proof,  
Can never keep him Company enough.   

Instructed thus, I did my steps direct,  
Towards the necessary Grave Respect,  
Whom I soon won to favour my design,  
To which young LOVE his promised aid did join.  
This waked Aminta, who with trembling fear,  
Wondered to see a stranger entered there;  
With timrous Eyes the Grove she does survey,  
Where are my LOVES she cries! all fled away?  
And left me in this gloomy shade alone?  
And with a Man! Alas, I am undone.  
Then strove to fly; but I all prostrate lay,  
And grasping fast her Robe, obliged her stay;  
Cease lovely Charming Maid, Oh cease to fear,  
I faintly cried,— There is no satire, near;  
I am of humane Race, whom Beauty Awes,  
And born an humble Slave to all her Laws;  
Besides we're not alone within the Grove,  
Behold Respect, and the young God of LOVE:  
How can you fear the Man who with these two,  
In any Shade or hour approaches you?  
Thus by degrees her Courage took its place;  
And usual Blushes dressed again her Face,  
Then with a Charming Air, her Hand she gave,  
She bade me rise, and said she did believe.  
And now my Conversation does permit;  
But oh the entertainment of her Wit,  
Beyond her Beauty did my Soul surprise,  
Her Tongue had Charms more powerful than her Eyes!  
Ah Lysidas, hadst thou a listener been  
To what she said; tho' her thou ne'er hadst seen,  
Without that Sense, thou hadst a Captive been.  
Guess at my Fate,— but after having spoke,  
Many indifferent things: Her leave she took.  
The Night approached, and now with Thoughts oppressed,  
I minded neither where, nor when to Rest,  
When my Conductor LOVE! whom I pursued,  
Led to a Palace called Inquietude,    

INQUIETUDE.  

A Neighbouring Villa which derives its name,  
From the rude sullen Mistress of the same;  
A Woman of a strange deformed Aspect;  
Peevishly pensive, fond of her neglect;  
She never in one posture does remain,  
Now leans, lies down, then on her Feet again;  
Sometimes with Snails she keeps a Lazy pace,  
And sometimes runs like Furies in a Chase;  
She seldom shuts her Watchful Eyes to sleep,  
Which pale and languid does her Visage keep;  
Her loose neglected Hair disordered grows;  
Which undesigned her Fingers discompose;  
Still out of Humour, and depraved in Sense,  
And Contradictive as Impertinence;  
Distrustful as false Statesmen, and as nice  
In Plots, Intrigues, Intelligence and Spies.   

To her we did our Duty pay, but she  
Made no returns to our Civility.  
Thence to my Bed; where rest in vain I sought,  
For prattling LOVE still entertained my thought,  
And to my Mind, a thousand Fancies brought:  
Aminta's Charms and Powerful Attractions,  
From whence I grew to make these soft Reflections.    

The REFLECTION.  

I.  
WHat differing Passions from what once I felt,  
My yielding Heart do melt,  
And all my Blood as in a Fever burns,  
Yet shivering Cold by turns.  
What new variety of hopes and fears?  
What sudden fits of Smiles and Tears?  
Hope! Why dost thou sometimes my Soul employ  
With Prospects of approaching joy?  
Why dost thou make me pleased and vain,  
And quite forget last minutes pain:  
What Sleep would calm, Aminta keeps awake;  
And I all Night soft Vows and Wishes make.  
When to the Gods I would my Prayers address,  
And sue to be forgiven,  
Aminta's name, I still express,  
And Love is all that I confess,  
Love and Aminta! Ever out Rival Heaven!   

II.  
Books give me no content at all;  
Unless soft Cow entertain my Mind,  
Then every pair in Love I find;  
Lysander him, Aminta her, I call:  
Till the bewitching Fuel raise the fire;  
Which was designed but to divert,  
Then to cool Shades I ragingly retire,  
To ease my hopeless panting Heart,  
Yet thereto every thing begets desire.  
Each flowery Bed, and every lonely Grove,  
Inspires new Wishes, new impatient Love.  
Thus all the Night in vain I sought repose,  
And early with the Sun next day, I rose;  
Still more impatient grew my new desires,  
To see again the Author of my Fires,  
Love leads me forth, to little 
* Little Arts to please.  CARES we pass,  
Where Love instructed me Aminta was;  
Far from Inquietude this Village stands,  
And for its Beauty all the rest commands;  
In all the Isle of Love, not one appears,  
So ravishingly Gay as Little Cares.    

Little CARES, or Little Arts to please.  

I.  
THither all the Amorous Youth repair,  
To see the Objects of their Vows;  
No jealousies approach 'em there;  
They Banish Dulness and Despair;  
And only Gaiety and Mirth allow.  
The Houses covered o'er with flowers appear,  
Like fragrant Arbours all the year,  
Where all the dear, the livelong day,  
In Music, Songs, and Balls is passed away:  
All things are formed for pleasure and delight,  
Which finish not but with the Light;  
But when the Sun returns again,  
They hold with that bright God an equal Reign.   

II.  
There no Reproaches dwell; that Vice  
Is banished with the Coy and Nice.  
The Froward there learn Complaisance;  
There the Dull Wise, his Gravity forsakes,  
The Old dispose themselves to Dance,  
And Melancholy wakens from his Trance,  
And against Nature sprightly Humour takes.  
The formal Statesman does his Interest quit,  
And learns to talk of Love and Wit;  
There the Philosopher speaks Sense,  
Such as his Mistress Eyes inspire;  
Forgets his learned Eloquence,  
Nor now compares his Flame to his own Chemic fire.   

III.  
The Miser there opens his Golden heaps,  
And at Love's Altar, offers the rich Prize;  
His needless fears of want does now despise,  
And as a lavish Heir, he Treats and Reaps  
The Blessings that attend his grateful Sacrifice.  
Even the Fluttering Coxcomb there  
Does less ridiculous appear:  
For in the Crowd some one unlucky Face,  
With some particular Grimaces,  
Has the ill fate his Heart to gain,  
Which gives him just the Sense to know his pain;  
Whence he becomes less talkative and vain.  
There 'tis the Muses dwell! that sacred Nine,  
Who teach the enlarged Soul to prove,  
No Arts or Sciences Divine,  
But those inspired by Them and Love!  
Gay Conversation, Feast, and Masquerades,  
Agreeable Cabals, and Serinades;  
Eternal Music, Gladness, Smiles and Sport,  
Make all the business of this Little Court.   

At my approach new Fires my Bosom warm;  
New vigour I receive from every Charm:  
I found invention with my Love increase;  
And both instruct me with new Arts to please;  
New Gallantries I sought to entertain,  
And had the Joy to find 'em not in vain;  
All the Extravagance of Youth I show,  
And paid to Age the Dotage I shall owe;  
All a beginning Passion can conceive,  
What beauty Merits, or fond Love can give.  
With diligence I wait Aminta's look,  
And her decrees from Frowns or Smiles I took,  
To my new sixth resolves, no stop I found,  
My Flame was uncontrolled and knew no bound;  
Unlimited Expenses every day  
On what I thought she liked, I threw away:  
My Coaches, and my Liveries, rich and new,  
In all this Court, none made a better show.  
Aminta here was unconfined and free,  
And all a wellborn Maid could render me  
She gave: My early Visits does allow,  
And more engagingly receives me now,  
Her still increasing Charms, Her soft Address,  
A Partial Lover cannot well Express,  
Her Beauties with my flame each hour increase.  
'Twas here my Soul more true content received,  
Then all the Duller hours of Life I'd lived.  
— But with the envying Night I still repair  
To Inquietude; none lodge at little Care.  
The hasty Minutes summon me away,  
While parting pains surmount past hours of Joy,  
And Night's large Reckoning overpays the day.  
The GOD of Sleep his wont Aid denys;  
Lends no repose, or to my Heart or Eyes:  
Only one hour of Rest, the breaking Morning brought,  
In which this happy Dream Assailed my Thought,    

The DREAM.  

ALL Trembling in my Arms Aminta lay,  
Defending of the Bliss, I strove to take▪  
Raising my Rapture by her kind delay,  
Her force so charming was and weak.  
The soft resistance did betray the Grant,  
While I pressed on the Heaven of my desires;  
Her rising Breasts with nimbler Motions Pant;  
Her dying Eyes assume new Fires.  
Now to the height of languishment she grows,  
And still her looks new Charms put on;  
— Now the last Mystery of Love she knows,  
We Sigh, and Kiss: I waked, and all was done.   

'Twas but a Dream, yet by my Heart I knew,  
Which still was Panting, part of it was true:  
Oh how I strove the rest to have believed;  
Ashamed and Angry to be undeceived!  
But now LOVE calls me forth; and scarce allows  
A Moment to the Gods to pay my Vows:  
He all Devotion has in disesteem,  
But that which we too fond render him:  
LOVE dressed me for the day; and both repair,  
With an impatient haste to Little Care;  
Where many days my advantage I pursued,  
But Night returns me to Inquietude;  
There suffered all that absent Lovers grieved,  
And only knew by what I felt I lived;  
A t●●●sand little Fears afflict my Heart,  
A 〈…〉 ormer order quite subvert;  
T 〈…〉 which all day my hope employed,  
S 〈…〉 w too excellent to be enjoyed.  
I number all my RIVALS over now,  
Th●n Raving Mad with Jealousy I grow,  
Which does my Flame to that vast height increase;  
That here I found, I loved to an Excess:  
These wild Distractions every Night increase,  
But day still reconciles me into Peace;  
And I forget amidst their soft Delights,  
The unimagined torment of the Nights.  
'Twas thus a while I lived at little Care,  
Without advance of Favour or of fear,  
When fair Amin●a from that Court departs,  
And all her Lovers leave with broken Hearts,  
On me alone she does the Grace confer,  
In a Permission I should wait on her.  
Oh with what eager Joy I did obey!  
Joy, which for fear it should my Flame betray,  
I Veiled with Complaisance; which Lovers Eyes  
Might find transported through the feigned disguise;  
But hers were unconcerned; or would not see,  
The Trophies of their new gained Victory:  
Aminta now to Good Reception goes;  
A place which more of Entertainment shows  
Then State or Greatness; where th'Inhabitants,  
Are Civil to the height of Complaisance;  
They Treat all Persons with a cheerful Grace,  
And show 'em all the pleasures of the Place;  
By whose Example bright Aminta too,  
Confirmed herself, and more obliging grew.  
Her Smiles and Air more Gracious now appear;  
And her Victorious Eyes more sweetness wear:  
The wondrous Majesty that dressed her Brow,  
Becomes less Awful, but more Charming now:  
Her Pride abating does my Courage warm,  
And promises success from every Charm.  
She now permits my Eyes, with timorous Fears,  
To tell her of the Wounds she's made by hers,  
Against her Will my Sighs she does approve,  
And seems well pleased to think they come from Love.  
Nothing opposed itself to my delight,  
But absence from Aminta every Night.  
But LOVE, who recompenses when he please,  
And has for every Cruelty an ease;  
Who like to bounteous Heaven, assigns a share  
Of future Bliss to those that suffer here:  
Led me to HOPE! A City fair and large,  
Built with much Beauty, and Adorned with Charge.    

HOPE.  
'TIS wondrous Populous from the excess,  
Of Persons from all parts that thither press:  
One side of this magnific City stands,  
On a foundation of unfaithful Sands;  
Which oftentimes the glorious Load destroys,  
Which long designing was with Pomp and Noise;  
The other Parts well founded neat and strong,  
Less Beautiful, less Business, and less Throng.  
'Tis built upon a River's Bank, who's clear  
And Murmuring Glide, delights the Eye and Ear.   

The River of PRETENTION.  

THis River's called Pretention; and its source  
TO a bordering Mountain owes, from whence with force,  
It spreads into the Arms of that calm space,  
Where the proud City daily sees her face;  
'Tis treacherously smooth and falsely fair,  
Inviting, but undoing to come near;  
Against which the Houses there find no defence,  
But suffer undermining Violence;  
Who while they stand, no Palaces do seem,  
In all their Glorious Pomp to equal them.  
This River's Famous for the fatal Wrecks,  
Of Persons most Illustrious of both Sex,  
Who to her Bosom with soft Whispers drew,  
Then basely smil▪ d to see their Ruin too.  
'Tis there so many Monarch perished have,  
And seeking Fame alone have sound a Grave.   

'Twas thither I was tempted too, and LOVE  
Maliciously would needs my Conduct prove;  
Which Passion now to such a pass had brought,  
It gave admittance to the weakest thought,  
And with a full career to this false Bay  
I ran. But met Precaution in my way.  
With whom Respect was, who thus gravely said,  
Pretention is a River you must Dread:  
Fond Youth decline thy fatal Resolution,  
Here unavoidably thou meets Confusion;  
Thou flyst with too much haste to certain Fate,  
Follow my Counsel, and be Fortunate.  
Ashamed, all Blushing I decline my Eyes,  
Yet Bowed and Thanked Respect for his advice.  
From the bewitching River strait I hied,  
And hurried to the City's farthest side.  
Where lives the Mighty Princess Hope? to whom  
The whole Isle as their ORACLE do come;  
Tho'little Truth remains in what she says,  
Yet all adore her Voice, and her Wise Conduct praise.    

The Princess HOPE.  

I.  
SHe blows the Youthful Lover's flame,  
And promises a sure repose;  
Whilst with a Treason void of shame,  
His fancied Happiness o'erthrows.  
Her Language is all soft and fair,  
But her hid Sense is naught but Air,  
And can no solid reason bear;  
As often as she speaks,  
Her faithless Word she breaks;  
Great in Pretention, in Performance small,  
And when she Swears 'tis Perjury all.  
Her Promises like those of Princes are,  
Made in Necessity and War,  
Cancelled without remorse, at ease,  
In the voluptuous time of Peace.   

II.  
These are her qualities; but yet  
She has a Person full of Charms,  
Her Smiles are able to beget  
Forgiveness for her other harms;  
She's most divinely shaped, her Eyes are sweet,  
And every Glance to please she does employ,  
With such address, she does all persons treat,  
As none are weary of her flattery,  
She still consoles the most afflicted Hearts,  
And makes the Proud vain of his fancied Arts.   

Amongst the rest of those who daily came,  
T' admire this Princess, and oblige their flame,  
(Conducted thither by a false report,  
That Happiness resided in her Court)  
Two young successless Lovers did resort:  
One, so above his Aim had made pretence,  
That even to Hope, for him, was Impudence;  
Yet he against Reason's Arguments makes War,  
And vainly Swore, his Love did merit her.  
Boldly Attempted, daringly Addressed,  
And with unblushing Confidence his flame confessed.  
The other was a Bashful Youth, who made  
His Passion his Devotion, not his Trade;  
No fond opiniater, who a price,  
Sets on his Titles, Equipage, or Eyes,  
But one that had a thousand Charms in store,  
Yet did not understand his Conquering Power:  
This Princess with a kind Address receives  
These Strangers; and to both new Courage gives.  
She animates the haughty to go on!  
Say— A Town long besieged must needs be won.  
Time and Respect remove all obstacles,  
And obstinate Love, arrives at Miracles.  
Were she the▪ Heir to an illustrious Crown,  
Those Charms, that haughty mien, that famed renown,  
That wondrous skill you do in Verse profess,  
That great disdain of common Mistresses;  
Can when you please with aid of Billet Deux,  
The Royal Virgin to your Arms subdue,  
One skill▪ d in all the Arts to please the fair,  
Should be above the Sense of dull despair:  
Go on young noble Warrior then go on,  
Though all the fair are by that Love undone.  
Then turning to the other: Sir, said she,  
Were the bright Beauty you Adore like me,  
Your silent awful Passion more would move,  
Than all the bold and forward Arts of Love.  
A Heart the softest composition forms,  
And sooner yield by treaty, then by storms;  
A Look, a Sigh, a Tear, is understood,  
And makes more warm disorders in the Blood,  
Has more engaging tender Eloquence,  
Then all the industry of Artful Sense,  
So falling drops with their soft force alone,  
Insinuate kind impressions in obdurate stone.  
But that which most my pity did employ,  
Was a young Hero, full of Smiles and Joy.  
A noble Youth to whom indulgent Heaven,  
Had more of Glory then of Virtue given;  
Conducted thither by a Politic throng,  
The Rabble Shouting as he passed along,  
Whilst he, vain with the beastly Din they make,  
(Which were the same, if Bears were going to stake)  
Addresses to this faithless Flatterer;  
Who in return, calls him, young God of War!  
The City's Champion! and his Country's Hope,  
The People's Darling, and Religious Prop.  
Sceptres and Crowns does to his view expose;  
And all the Fancied power of Empire shows.  
In vain the Vision he would disbelieve,  
In spite of Sense she does his Soul deceive:  
He Credits all! nor asks which way or how,  
The dazzling Circle shall surround his Brow;  
Implicitly attends the slattering Song,  
giveth her his easy Faith, and is undone.  
For with one turn of State the Frenzy's healed,  
The Blind recover and the Cheats revealed.  
Whilst all his Charms of Youth and Beauty lies,  
The kind reproach of pitying Enemies.  
To me she said, and smiling as she spoke,  
Lisander, you with Love, have Reason took,  
Continue so, and from Aminta's Heart,  
Expect what Love and Beauty can impart.  
I knew she flattered, yet I could not choose  
But please myself, and credit the Abuse;  
Her charming Words that Night reposed me more,  
Then all the grateful Dreams I'd had before.  
Next day I rose, and early with the Sun;  
Love guided me to Declaration,  
A pleasant City built with Artful Care,  
To which the Lovers of the Isle repair.  
In our pursuit Respect dissatisfied,  
Did the unreasonable Adventure chide;  
Return unheedy Youth cried he, return!  
Let my advice th' approaching danger warn:  
Renounce thy Purpose and thy haste decline,  
Or thou wilt ruin all Love's great design;  
Amazed I stood, and unresolved t' obey,  
Could not return, durst not pursue my way;  
Whilst LOVE who thought himself concerned as Guide,  
I'th' Criminal Adventure. Thus replied:    

LOVE's Resentment.  
MVst we eternal Martyrdom pursue?  
Must we still Love, and always suffer too?  
Must we continue still to die,  
And ne'er declare the cruel Cause;  
Whilst the fair Murderess asks not why,  
But triumphs in her rigorous Laws;  
And grows more mighty in disdain,  
More Peevish, Humorous, Proud and Vain;  
The more we languish by our Pain?  
And when we Vow, Implore, and Pray,  
Shall the Inhuman cruel fair,  
Only with nice disdain the sufferer pay?  
Consult her Pride alone in the affair,  
And coldly cry— In time perhaps I may—  
Consider and redress the Youth's despair;  
And when she would a Period put to's Fate,  
Alas, her cruel Mercy comes too late!  
But wise Respect obligingly replied,  
Amintas Cruelty you need not dread,  
Your Passion by your Eyes will soon be known,  
Without this haste to Declaration;  
'Tis I will guide you where you still shall find,  
Aminta in b●st Humour and most kind.  
Strong were his Arguments; his Reasonings prove  
Too powerful for the angry God of Love.  
Who by degrees t' his native softness came,  
Yields to Respect and owns his haste a blame.  
Both vow obedience to his judging Wit,  
And to his graver Conduct both submit,  
Who now invites us to a Reverend place,  
An ancient Town, whose Governor he was.  
Impregnable, with Bastions fortified,  
Guarded with fair built Walls on every side,  
The top of which the Eye could scarce discern,  
So strong as well secured the Rich concern;  
Silence with Modesty and Secrecy,  
Have all committed to their Custody.  
Silence to every questions asked, reply  
With apt Grimasses of the Face and Eyes;  
Her Finger on her Mouth; and as you've seen,  
Her Picture, Handsome, with fantastic mean,  
Her every Motion her Commands express,  
But seldom any the hid Soul confess.  
The Virgin Modesty is wondrous fair,  
A bashful Motion, and a blushing Air;  
With unassured regard her Eyes do move,  
Untaught by affectation or Self-love;  
Her Robes not gaudy were, nor loosely tied,  
But even concealing more than need be hid.  
For Secrecy, one rarely sees her Face,  
Whose loan Apartment is some Dark recess;  
From whence unless some great affairs oblige,  
She finds it difficult to disengage;  
Her voice is low, but subtly quick her Ears,  
And answers still by signs to what she hears;  
Led by Respect we did an entrance get,  
Not saying any thing, who ere we met.   

The City of DISCRETION.  
THE Houses there, retired in Gardens are,  
And all is done with little noise,  
One seldom sees Assemblies there,  
Or public shows for Grief or joys.  
One rarely walks but in the Night,  
And most endeavour to avoid the Light.  
There the whole World their business carry,  
Without or confident, or Secretary:  
One still is under great constraint,  
Must always suffer, but ne'er make complaint,  
'Tis there the dumb and silent languishes,  
Are predicted, which so well explain the Heart:  
Which without speaking can so much express,  
And secrets to the Soul the nearest way impart;  
Language which prettily persuades belief;  
Who's silent Eloquence obliges joy or Grief.  
This City's called Discretion, being the name  
Of her that is Lieutenant of the same,  
And Sister to Respect; a Lady who  
Seldom obtains a Conquest at first view;  
But in repeated Visits one shall find,  
Sufficient Charms of Beauty and of Mind:  
Her vigorous piercing Eyes can when they please,  
Make themselves loved, and understood with Ease.  
Not too severe, but yet reserved and wise,  
And her Address is full of subtleties;  
Which upon all occasions serves her turn;  
T' express her Kindness, and to hide her scorn;  
Dissimulations Arts, she useful holds,  
And in good manners sets 'em down for rules.  
'twas here Aminta lived, and here I paid  
My constant visits to the lovely Maid.  
With mighty force upon my Soul I strove,  
To hide the Sentiments of my raging Love.  
All tha● I spoke did but indifferent seem,  
Or went no higher than a great esteem.  
But 'twas not long my Passion I concealed,  
My flame in spite of me, itself revealed.   

The silent Confession.  

AND tho' I do not speak, alas,  
My Eyes, and Sighs too much do say!  
And pale and languishing my Face,  
The torments of my Soul betray;  
They the sad story do unfold,  
Love cannot his own secrets hold;  
And though Fear 'tis my Tongue; Respect my Eyes,  
Yet something will disclose the pain;  
Which breaking out throws all disguise;  
Reproaches her with Cruelties;  
Which she augments by new disdain;  
— Where e'er she be, I still am there;  
Whatever she do, I that prefer;  
In spite of all my strength, at her approach,  
I tremble with a sight or touch;  
Paleness or Blushes does my Face surprise,  
If mine by chance meet her encountering Eyes;  
'twas thus she learned my Weakness, and her Power;  
And knew too well she was my Conqueror.   

And now—  
Her Eyes no more their wont Smiles afford,  
But grew more sierce, the more they were adored;  
The marks of her esteem which heretofore  
Raised my aspiring flame, oblige no more;  
She calls up all her Pride to her defence;  
And as a Crime condemns my just pretence;  
Me from her presence does in Fury chase;  
No supplications can my doom reverse;  
And vainly certain of her Victory,  
Retired into the Den of Cruelty.    

The Den of Cruelty.  

A Den where Tigers make the passage good,  
And all attempting Lovers make their Food;  
I'th' hollow of a mighty Rock 'tis placed,  
Which by the angry Sea is still embraced:  
Whose frightful surface constant Tempest wears,  
Which strikes the bold Adventurers with Fears.  
The Elements their rudest Winds send out,  
Which blow continual coldness round about.  
Upon the Rock eternal Winter's dwells,  
Which weeps away in dropping Icicles;  
The barren hardness meets no fruitful Ray,  
Nor bears it Issue to the God of day;  
All bleek and cale, th' unshady prospect lie●  
And nothing grateful meets the melancholy Eyes.   

To this dire place Aminta goes, whilst●●,  
Begged her with Prayers and Tears to pass it by;  
All dying on the Ground myself I cast,  
And with my Arms her flying Feet embraced;  
But she from the kind force with Fury flung,  
And on an old deformed Woman hung.  
A Woman frightful, with a horrid Frown,  
And o'er her angry Eyes, her Brows hung down:  
One single Look of hers, fails not t' impart,  
A terror and despair to every Heart:  
She fills the Universe with discontents,  
And Torments for poor Lovers still invents.  
This is the mighty Tyrant Cruelty,  
Who with the God of Love is still at enmity;  
She keeps a glorious Train, and glorious Court,  
And thither Youth and Beauty still resort:  
But oh my Soul formed for Love's softer Sport,  
Could not endure the Rigour of her Court!  
Which her first rude Address did so affright,  
That I all Trembling hasted from her Sight,  
Leaving the unconcerned and cruel Maid,  
And on a River's Bank myself all fainting laid;  
Which River from the obdurate Rock proceeds,  
And casts itself i'th' Melancholy Meads.    

The River of Despair.  

IT's Torrent has no other source,  
But Tears from dying Lovers Eyes;  
Which mixed with Sighs precipitates its course;  
Softening the senseless Rocks in gliding by;  
Whose doleful Murmurs have such Eloquence;  
That even the neighbouring Trees and flowers have pitying sense;  
And Cruelty alone knows in what sort,  
Against the moving sound to make defence,  
Who laughs at all despair and Death as sport.   

A dismal Wood the River's Banks do bear,  
Securing even the day from entering there;  
The Sun's bright Rays a passage cannot find,  
Whose Boughs make constant War against the Wind;  
Yet though their Leaves glimmers a sullen Light;  
Which renders all below more terrible than Night,  
And snows upon the Bark of every Tree,  
Sad stories carved of Love and Cruelty;  
The Grove is filled with Sighs, with Cries, and Groans▪  
Reproaches and Complaints in dying Moans;  
The Neighbouring Echoes nothing do repeat,  
But what the Soul sends forth with sad regret;  
And all things there no other Murmurs make,  
But what from Language full of death they take,  
'Twas in this place despairing ere to free  
Aminta from the Arms of Cruelty,  
That I designed to render up my Breath,  
And charge the cruel Charmer with my Death.    

The RESOLVE.  

NOw my fair Tyrant I despise your Power;  
'Tis Death, not you becomes my Conqueror;  
This easy Trophy which your scorn,  
Led bleeding by your Chariot-side;  
Your haughty Victory to adorn,  
Has broke the Fetters of your Pride,  
Death takes his quarrel now in hand,  
And laughs at all your Eyes can do;  
His power thy Beauty can withstand,  
Not all your Smiles can the grim victor bow.  
He'll hold no Parley with your Wit,  
Nor understands your wanton play,  
Not all your Arts can force him to submit,  
Not all your Charms can teach him to obey,  
Your youth nor Beauty can inspire,  
His frozen Heart with Love's persuasive fire;  
Alas, you cannot warm him to one soft desire;  
Oh mighty Death that art above,  
The power of Beauty or of Love!   

Thus sullen with my Fate sometimes I grew,  
And then a fit of softness would ensue,  
Then weep, and on my Knees implore my Fair,  
And speak as if Aminta present were.    

The QUESTION.  

SAY my fair Charmer, must I fall,  
A Victim to your Cruelty?  
And must I suffer as a Criminal?  
Is it to Love offence enough to die?  
Is this the recompense at last,  
Of all the restless hours I've passed?  
How oft my Awe, and my Respect,  
Have fed your Pride and Scorn?  
How h 〈…〉 your neglect,  
Too mighty to be born?  
How have I strove to hide that flame  
You seemed to disapprove?  
How careful to avoid the name  
Of Tenderness or Love?  
Lest at that Word some guilty Blush should own,  
What your bright Eyes forbade me to make known.   

Thus filled the neighbouring Echoes with my Cry,  
Did nothing but reproach, complain and die:  
One day—  
All hopeless on the River's Brink I stood,  
Resolved to plunge into the Rapid Flood,  
That Flood that eases Lovers in despair,  
And puts an end to all their raging care:  
'Tis hither those betrayed by Beauty come,  
And from this kinder stream receive their doom;  
Here Birds of Ominous presages Nest,  
Securing the forlorn Inhabitants from rest:  
Here Mid-night-Owls, night-Crows, and Ravens dwell,  
Filling the Air with Melancholy Yell:  
Here swims a thousand Swans, whose doleful moan  
Sing dying Lovers Requiems with their own:  
I gazed around, and many Lovers viewed,  
Ghastly and pale, who my design pursued;  
But most inspired by some new hope, or won  
To finish something they had left undone;  
Some grand Important business of their Love,  
Did from the fatal precipice remove:  
For me, no Reason my designs dissuade,  
Till Love all Breathless hasted to my Aid;  
With force m' unfixing Feet he kindly grasped,  
And tenderly reproached my desperate haste,  
Reproached my Courage, and condemned my Wit,  
That meanly could t' a Woman's scorn submit,  
That could to feed her Pride, and make her vain,  
Destroy an Age of Life, for a short date of pain:  
He would have left me here, but that I made,  
So many friendships as did soon persuade,  
The yielding Boy, who Smiled, resolved and stayed,  
He raised my Head, and did again renew,  
His Flatteries, and all the Arts he knew:  
To call my Courage to its wont place.  
What cried he— (sweetly Angry) shall a Face  
Armed with the weak resistance of a Frown,  
Force us to lay our Claims and Titles down?  
Shall Cruelty a peevish Woman prove,  
Too strong to be overcome by Youth and Love?  
No! rally all thy Vigour, all thy Charms,  
And force her from the cruel Tyrant's Arms;  
Come, once more try th' incensed Maid to appease,  
Death's in our power to grasp when ere we please;  
He said— And I the heavenly voice attend,  
Whilst towards the Rock our hasty steps we bend,  
Before the Gates with all our forces lie,  
Resolved to Conquer, or resolved to die;  
In vain Love all his feeble Engines rears,  
His soft Artillery of Sighs and Tears,  
Were all in vain— against the Winds were sent,  
For she was proof against them and languishment:  
Repeated Vows and Prayers moved no Remorse,  
And 'twas to Death alone I had Recourse:  
Love in my Anguish bore a mighty part,  
He pitied, but he could not ease my Heart:  
A thousand several ways he had assayed,  
To touch the Heart of this obdurate Maid;  
Rebated all his Arrow's still return,  
For she was fortified with Pride and Scorn.  
The useless Weapons now away he flung,  
Neglected lay his Ivory Bow unstrung,  
His gentle Azure Wings were all unpruned,  
And the gay Plumes a fading Tinct assumed;  
Which down his snowy sides extended lay,  
And now no more in wanton Motions play.  
He blushed to think he had not left one dart,  
Of force enough to wound Aminta's Heart;  
He blushed to think she should her freedom boast,  
Whilst mine from the first Dart he sent was lost:  
Thus tired with our Complaints; (whilst no relief,  
Rescued the fleeting Soul, from kill Grief)  
We saw a Maid approach, who's lovely Face,  
Disdained the Beauties of the common race:  
Soft were her Eyes, where unfeigned Sorrow dwelled,  
And on her Cheeks in pitying Showers they melt;  
Soft was her Voice, and tenderly it struck,  
The eager listening Soul, when e'er she spoke;  
And what did yet my Courage more augment,  
She wore this sadness for my languishment.   

And sighing said, ah Gods! have you  
Beheld this dying Youth, and never found,  
A pity for a Heart so true?  
Which dies adoring her that gave the Wound,  
His Youth, his Passion, and his Constancy,  
Merits ye God's a kinder Destiny.  
With pleasure I attended what she said,  
And wondered at the friendship of the Maid.  
Of LOVE I asked her name? who answered me,  
'Twas Pity: Enemy to Cruelty:  
Who often came endeavouring to abate,  
The Languishments of the unfortunate;  
And said, if she would take my injured part,  
She soon would soften fair Aminta's Heart;  
For she knows all the subtlest Arts to move,  
And teach the timorous Virgin how to love.  
With Joy I heard, and my Address applied,  
To gain the Beauteous Pity to my Side:  
Nothing I left untold that might persuade,  
The listening Virgin to afford her aid.  
Told her my Passions, Sorrows, Pains and Fears,  
And whilst I spoke, confirmed 'em with my Tears;  
All which with downcast Eyes she did attend,  
And blushing said, my Tale had made a Friend;  
I bowed and thanked her with a cheerful look,  
Which being returned by hers, her leave she took:  
Now to Aminta all inhaste she hies,  
Whom she assailed with sorrow in her Eyes,  
And a sad story of my Miseries.  
Which she with so much tenderness expressed,  
As forced some Sighs from the fair Charmers Breast;  
The subtle Pity found she should prevail,  
And oft repeats th' insinuating Tale,  
And does insensibly the Maid betray,  
Where Love and I, Panting and Trembling lay;  
Where she beheld th' effects of her disdain,  
And in my languid Face she read my Pain.  
Down her fair Cheeks some pitying drops did glide;  
Which could not be restrained by feebler Pride;  
Against my anguish she had no defence,  
Such Charms had grief, my Tears such Eloquence;  
My Sighs and Murmurs she began t' approve,  
And listened to the story of my LOVE.  
With tenderness, she did my Sufferings hear,  
And even my Reproaches now could bear:  
At last my trembling Hand in hers she took,  
And with a charming Blush, these Words she spoke:   

I.  
FAithful Lisander, I your Vows approve,  
And can no longer hide,  
My Sense of all your suffering Love,  
With the thin Veil of Pride.   

II.  
'Twas long in Vain that Pity did assail,  
My cold and stubborn Heart;  
Ere on th' insensible she could prevail,  
To render any Part.   

III.  
To her for all the tenderness,  
Which in my Eyes you find,  
You must your gratitude express,  
'Tis Pity only makes me kind.   

IV.  
Live then Lisander, since I must confess,  
In spite of all my native modesty,  
I cannot wish that you should Love me less,  
Live then and hope the Circling Sun may see,  
In his swift course a grateful change in me,  
And that in time your Passion may receive,  
All you dare take, and all a Maid may give.   

Oh Lysidas, I cannot here relate,  
The Sense of Joy she did in me create;  
The sudden Blessing overcame me so,  
It almost finished, what Grief failed to do;  
I wanted Courage for the soft surprise,  
And waited reenforcements from her Eyes:  
At last with Transports which I could not hide,  
Raising myself from off the ground, I cried.    

The TRANSPORT.  

Rejoice! my new made happy Soul, Rejoice!  
Bless the dear minute, bless the Heavenly voice,  
That has revoked thy fatal doom;  
Rejoice! Aminta leads thee from the Tomb.  
Banish the anxious thoughts of dying hours,  
Forget the shades and melancholy Bowers,  
Thy Eyes so oft bedewed with falling showers;  
Banish all Thoughts that do remain,  
Of Sighing Days and Nights of Pain,  
When on neglected Beds of Moss thou'st lain:  
Oh happy Youth! Aminta bids thee live;  
Thank not the sullen God's or defer Stars,  
Since from her Hand thou dost the Prize receive;  
Hers be the Service, as the bounty hers;  
For all that Life must dedicated be,  
To the fair Godlike Maid that gave it Thee.   

Now Lysidas, behold my happy State;  
Behold me Blest, behold me Fortunate,  
And from the height of languishing despair,  
Raised to the Glory of Aminta's care:  
And this one moment of my Heaven of Joy,  
Did the remembrance of past Griefs destroy:  
And Pity ceased not here; but with new Eloquence,  
Obliges the shy Maid to visit Confidence.    

CONFIDENCE.  

A Lady lovely, with a charming Mien,  
Gay, frank, and open, and an Air serene;  
In every Look she does her Soul impart,  
With ease one reads the Sentiments of her Heart;  
Her Humour generous, and her Language free,  
And all her Conversation graceful Liberty:  
Her Villa is Youth's general Rendezvous,  
Where in delightful Gardens, winding Groves,  
The happy Lovers dwell with secrecy,  
Uninterrupted by fond jealousy:  
'Tis there with Innocence, they do and say  
A thousand things, to pass the short-lived day:  
There free from censuring Spies, they entertain,  
And pleasures taste, unintermixed with pain.   

'Tis there we see, what most we do adore,  
And yet we languish to discover more.  
Hard fate of Lovers, who are ne'er content,  
In an Estate so Blest and Innocent.  
But still press forward, urged by soft desires,  
To Joys that oft extinguishes their Fires;  
In this degree I found a happiness,  
Which nought but wishing more could render less▪  
I saw Aminta here without control,  
And told her all the Secrets of my Soul;  
Whilst she t' express her height of Amity,  
Communicated all her Thoughts to me.    

The REFLECTION.  

OH with what Pleasure did I pass away,  
The too swift course of the delightful day!  
What joys I found in being a Slave,  
To every Conquering Smile she gave,  
Whose every sweetness would inspire,  
The Cynic and the Fool with Love;  
Alas, I needed no more Fire,  
Who did its height already prove:  
Ah my Aminta! had I been content,  
With this degree of Ravishment,  
With the ne'er satisfied delight I took,  
Only to prattle Love, to sigh and look,  
With the dull Bartering Kiss for Kiss,  
And never aimed at higher Bliss,  
With all the stealths forgetful Lovers make,  
When they their Little Covenants break:  
To these sad shades of Death I'd not been hurled,  
And thou mightst still have blest the drooping World;  
But though my Pleasure were thus vast and high,  
Yet Loves insatiate Luxury,  
Still wished, revealed the unknown Mystery.   

But still Love importuned, nor could I rest,  
So often, and impatiently he pressed,  
That I the lovely Virgin would invite,  
To the so worshipped Temple of Delight.  
By all the Lovers Arts I strove to move,  
And watch the softest Minutes of her Love,  
Which against all my Vows and Prayers were proof.  
Alas she loved, but did not love enough:  
And I could no returns but Anger get,  
Her Heart was not entirely conquered yet;  
For liking, I mistook her Complaisance,  
And that for Love; when 'twas her Confidence.  
But 'twas not long my Sighs I did employ,  
Before she raised me to the height of Joy.  
And all my Fears and Torments to remove,  
Yields I shall lead her to the Court of LOVE.  
Here Lysidas thou thinks me sure and blessed,  
With Recompense for all my past unrest;  
But fortuned smiled the easier to betray,  
She's less inconstant than a Lover's Joy:  
For whilst our Chariot Wheels outstripped the Wind,  
Leaving all thought of Mortal Cares behind.  
Whilst we sat gazing full of new surprise,  
Exchanging Souls from either's darting Eyes,  
We encountered One who seemed of great Command,  
Who seized the Reins with an all-powerful hand:  
Awful his looks, but rude in his Address,  
And his Authority roughly did express;  
His violent Hands he on Aminta laid,  
And out of mine snatched the dear trembling Maid;  
So suddenly as hindered my defence,  
And she could only say in parting thence.   

Forgive Lisander what by force I do,  
Since nothing else can ravish me from you;  
Make no resistance, I obey 
* Duty.  Devoir.  
Who values not thy Tears, thy Force or Prayer,  
Retain thy Faith and Love Aminta still,  
Since she abandons thee against her Will.  
immovable I remained with this surprise,  
Nor durst reply so much as with my Eyes.  
I saw her go, but was of Sense bereaved,  
And only knew from what I heard, I lived;  
Yes, yes, I heard her last Commands, and thence  
By violent degrees retrieved my Sense.  
Ye Gods in this your Mercy was severe,  
You might have spared the useless favour here.  
But the first Thoughts my Reason did conceive,  
Were to pursue the injurious Fugitive.  
Raving, that way I did my haste direct,  
But once more met the Reverend Respect,  
From whom I strove myself to disengage,  
And feigned a calmness to disguise my Rage.  
In vain was all the Cheat, he soon perceived,  
Spite of my Smiles, how much, and why I grieved;  
Saw my despairs, and what I meant to do,  
And begged I would the rash Design forego;  
A thousand dangers he did represent,  
T' win me from the desperate attempt.  
I ever found his Counsel just and good,  
And now resolved it should not be withstood;  
Thus he overcame my Rage, but did not free,  
My Soul from Griefs more painful Tyranny;  
Grief tho' more soft, did not less cruel prove,  
Madness is easier far than hopeless Love.  
I parted thus, but knew not what to do;  
Nor where I went; nor did I care to know;  
With folded Arms, with weeping Eyes declined,  
I search the unknown shade, I could not find,  
And mixed my constant Sighs with flying Wind.  
By slow unsteady steps the Paths I trace,  
Which undesigned conduct me to a place  
Fit for a Soul distressed; obscured with shade,  
Lonely and sit for Love and Sorrow made;  
The Murmuring Boughs themselves together twist,  
And 'twould allow to Grief herself some rest,  
Environed 'tis with lofty Mountains round,  
From whence the Echoes, Sighs, and Cries rebound;  
Here in the midst and thickest of the Wood,  
Covered with bending Shades a Castle stood,  
Where Absence that dejected Maid remains,  
Who nothing but her Sorrow entertains.    

ABSENCE.  

HER mourning languid Eyes are rarely shown,  
Unless to those afflicted like her own;  
Her loan Apartment all obscure as Night,  
Discovered only by a glimmering Light:  
Weeping she sat her Face with Grief dismayed,  
Which all its natural sweetness has decayed;  
Yet in despite of Grief there does appear,  
The ruin'd Monuments of what was fair,  
E'er cruel Love and Grief had took possession there  
These made her old without the aid of Years;  
Worn out, and faint with lingering hopes and fears;  
She seldom answers aught but with her Tears.  
No Train attends, she only is obeyed  
By Melancholy, that soft, silent Maid:  
A Maid that fits her Humour every way,  
With whom she passes all the tedious day:  
No other object can her Mind content,  
She Feeds and Flatters all her languishment;  
The noisy Streams that from high Mountains fall;  
And water all the Neighbouring flowery Vale:  
The Murmurs of the Rivulets that glide,  
Against the bending Sedges on the side;  
Of mournful Birds the sad and tuneful Notes,  
The Bleats of straggling Lambs, and new yeaned Goats:  
The distant Pipe of some loan Mountain Swain,  
Who to his injured Passion fits his strain;  
Is all the Harmony, her Soul can entertain.   

On a strict league of Friendship we agree,  
For I was sad, and as forlorn as she;  
To all her Humours, I conform my own,  
Together Sigh, together Weep, and Moan;  
Like her to Woods and Fountains I retreat,  
And urge the pitying Echoes to repeat  
My tale of Love, and at each Period sound  
Aminta's name, and bear it all around,  
Whilst listening Voices do the charm reply,  
And lost in mixing Air, together die.  
There minutes like dull days creep slowly on,  
And every day I drag an Age along;  
The coming hours could no more pleasures hast,  
Than those so insupportably I'd passed.  
I raved, I wept, I wished, but all in vain,  
The distant Maid, nor saw, nor eased my pain;  
With my sad tale, each tender Bark I fill,  
This— soft complaints, and that— my Rave tell;  
This bears vain Curses on my cruel fate,  
And Blessings on the Charming Virgin, that  
The Willow by the lonely Spring that grows,  
And o'er the Stream bends his forsaken Boughs.  
I call Lisander, they like him I find,  
Murmur and ruffled are with every Wind▪  
On the young springing Beech that's strait and tall,  
I Carve her name, and that Aminta call;  
But where I see an Oak that Climbs above,  
The rest, and grows the Monster of the Grove;  
Whose powerful Arms when aiding Winds do blow,  
Dash all the tender twining Shades below,  
And even in Calms maliciously do spread,  
That naught beneath can thrive, embrace or breed;  
Whose mischiefs far exceed his fancied good,  
Honour I call him: Tyrant of the Wood  
Thus rove from Thought to Thought without relief:  
A change 'tis true; but 'tis from Grief to Grief;  
Which when above my silence they prevail,  
With Love I'm froward, on my Fortune rail,  
And to the Winds breathe my neglected Tale.    

To LOVE.  

I.  
FOnd Love thy pretty Flatteries cease,  
That feeble Hope you give;  
Unless 'twould make my happiness,  
In vain dear Boy; in vain you strive,  
It cannot keep my tortured Heart alive.   

II.  
Tho' thou shouldst give me all the joys,  
Luxurious Monarch's do possess,  
Without Aminta 'tis but empty noise,  
Dull and insipid happiness;  
And you in vain invite me to a Feast,  
Where my Aminta cannot be a Guest.   

III.  
Ye glorious Trifles, I renounce ye all,  
Since she no part of all your splendour makes  
Let the Dull unconcerned obey your call,  
Let the gay Fop, who his Pert Courtship takes;  
For Love, whilst he Profanes your Deity,  
Be Charmed and Pleased with all your necessary vanity.   

IV.  
But give me leave, whose Soul's inspired,  
With sacred, but despairing Love.  
To die from all your noise retired,  
And Buried lie within this silent Grove.  
For whilst I Live, my Soul's a prey,  
To insignificant desires,  
Whilst thou fond God of Love and Play,  
With all thy Darts, with all thy useless Fires,  
With all thy wanton flatteries cannot charm,  
Nor yet the frozen-hearted Virgin warm.   

V.  
Others by absence Cure their fire,  
Me it enrages more with pain;  
Each thought of my Aminta blows it higher,  
And distance strengthens my desire;  
I Faint with wishing, since I wish in vain;  
Either be gone fond Love, or let me die,  
Hopeless desire admits no other remedy.   

Here 'twas the height of Cruelty I proved,  
By absence from the sacred Maid I loved:  
And here had died, but that Love found a way,  
Some Letters from Aminta to convey,  
Which all the tender marks of pity gave,  
And hope enough to make me wish to Live.  
From Duty, now the lovely Maid is freed,  
And calls me from my lonely solitude:  
Whose cruel Memory in a Moment's space,  
The thoughts of coming Pleasures quite deface;  
With an impatient Lovers hast I flew,  
To the vast Blessing Love had set in view,  
But oh I found Aminta in a place,  
Where never any Lover happy was!    

RIVALS.  
Rivals' 'tis called, a Village where  
The Inhabitants in Fury still appear;  
Malicious paleness, or a generous red,  
O'er every angry face is spread,  
Their Eyes are either smiling with disdain,  
Or fiercely glow with raging Fire.  
Gloomy and sullen with dissembled pain,  
Love in the Heart, Revenge in the desire:  
Combats, Duels, Challenges,  
Is the discourse, and all the busness there.  
Respect of Blood, nor sacred friendship ties;  
Can reconcile the Civil War,  
Rage, Horror, Death, and wild despair,  
Are still Rencountered, and still practised there.  
'Twas here the lovely cruel Maid I found,  
Encompassed with a thousand Lovers round;  
At my approach I saw their Blushes rise,  
And they regarded me with angry Eyes.  
Aminta too, or else my Fancy 'twas,  
Received me with a shy and cold Address,  
I could not speak— but Sighed, retired and Bowed;  
With pain I heard her Talk and Laugh aloud,  
And deal her Freedoms to the greedy Crowd.  
I Cursed her Smiles, and envied every look,  
And Swore it was too kind, what e'er she spoke;  
Condemned her Air, railed on her soft Address,  
And vowed her Eyes did her false Heart confess,  
And vainly wished their Charming Beauties less.  
A Secret hatred in my Soul I bear,  
Against these objects of my new despair;  
I waited all the day, and all in vain;  
Not one loan minute snatched, to ease my pain;  
Her Lovers went and came in such a sort,  
It rather seemed Loves-Office than his Court,  
Made for eternal Business, not his Sport.  
Love saw my pain, and found my rage grew high,  
And led me off, to lodge at jealousy.   

JEALOUSY.  

I.  
A Palace that is more uneasy far,  
Then those of cruelty and absence are,  
There constant showers of Hail and Rains do flow,  
Continual Murmuring Winds around do blow,  
Eternal Thunder rolling in the Air,  
And thick dark hanging Clouds the day obscure;  
Whose sullen dawn all Objects multiplies,  
And render things that are not, to the Eyes.  
Phantoms appear by the dull gloomy light,  
That with such subtle Art delude the sight,  
That one can see no Object true or right.  
I here transported and impatient grow  
And all things out of order do;  
Hasty and peevish every thing I say,  
Suspicion and distrusts my Passions sway,  
And bend all Nature that uneasy way.   

II.  
A thousand Serpents gnaw the Heart;  
A thousand Visions fill the Eyes,  
And Deaf to all that can relief impart,  
We hate the Counsel of the Wise,  
And Sense like Tales of Lunatics despise:  
Faithless, as Cozened Maids, by Men undone,  
And obstinate as new Religion,  
As full of Error, and false Notion too,  
As Dangerous, and as Politic;  
As Humorous as a Beauty without Wit;  
As Vain and Fanciful in all we do:  
— Thus Wreck the Soul, as if it did conceal,  
Love Secrets which by torturing ' 'two'd reveal.  
Restless and wild, ranging each Field and Grove;  
I meet the Author of my painful Love;  
But still surrounded with a numerous Train  
Of Lovers, whom Love taught to Sigh and Fawn,  
At my approach, my Soul all Trembling flies,  
And tells its soft Resentment at my Eyes:  
My Face all pale, my steps unsteady fall,  
And faint Confusion spreads itself o'er all.  
I listen to each low breathed Word she says,  
And the returns the happy Answerer pays:  
When catching half the Sense, the rest Invent,  
And turn it still to what will most Torment;  
If any thing by Whispers she impart,  
'Tis Mortal, 'tis a Dagger at my Heart;  
And every Smile, each Motion, Gesture, Sign,  
In favour of some Lover I explain:  
When I am absent, in some Rivals Arms,  
I Fancy she distributes all her Charms,  
And if alone I find her; sighing cry,  
Some happier Lover she expects than I.  
So that I did not only Jealous grow,  
Of all I saw; but all I fancied too.    

The COMPLAINT.  

I.  
OFT in my jealous Transports I would cry,  
Ye happy shades, ye happy Bowers,  
Why speaks she tenderer things to you than me?  
Why does she Smile, caress and praise your Flowers?  
Why Sighs she (opening Buds) her Secrets all  
Into your fragrant Leaves?  
Why does she to her Aid your sweetness call,  
Yet take less from you than she gives?  
Why on your Beds must you be happy made,  
And be together with Aminta laid?  
You from her Hands and Lips my KISSES take,  
And never meet Reproaches from her Pride;  
A thousand Ravishing stealths may make,  
And even into her softer Bosom glide.  
And there expire! Oh happy Rival flowers,  
How vainly do I wish my Fate like that of Yours?   

II.  
Tell me ye silent Groves, whose Gloom invites,  
The lovely Charmer to your Solitudes?  
Tell me for whom she languishes and sighs?  
For whom she feels her soft Inquietudes?  
Name me the Youth for whom she makes her Vows,  
For she has breathed it oft amongst your listening Boughs?  
Oh happy confidents of her Amours,  
How vainly do I wish my Fortune blest as Yours.   

III.  
Oh happy Brooks, oh happy Rivulets,  
And Springs that in a thousand Windings move;  
Upon your Banks how oft Aminta sits,  
And prattles to you all her Tale of Love:  
Whilst your smooth surface little Circles bears,  
From the Impressions of her falling Tears,  
And as you wantonly reflecting pass,  
Glide o'er the lovely Image of her Face;  
And sanctifies your stream, which as you run,  
You Boast in Murmurs to the Banks along.  
Dear streams! to whom she gives her softest hours,  
How vainly do I wish my happiness like yours.   

Sometimes I railed again, and would upbraid,  
Reproachfully, the charming fickle Maid:  
Sometimes I vowed to do 't no more,  
But one, vain, short-lived hour,  
Would Perjure all I'd Sworn before,  
And Damn my fancied Power.  
Sometimes the sullen fit would last,  
A tedious livelong day:  
But when the wrecking hours were passed,  
With what Impatience would I hast,  
And let her Feet weep my neglect away.  
Quarrels are the Reserves Love keeps in store,  
To aid his Flames and make 'em burn the more.    

The PENITENT.  

I.  
WIth Rigour Arm yourself, (I cried)  
It is but just and fit;  
I merit all this Treatment from your Pride,  
All the reproaches of your Wit;  
Put on the cruel Tyrant as you will,  
But know, my tender Heart adores you still.   

II.  
And yet that Heart has Murmured too,  
And been so insolent to let you know,  
It did complain, and rave, and railed at you;  
Yet all the while by every God I swear,  
By every pitying Power the wretched here;  
By all those Charms that disengage,  
My Soul from the extremes of Rage;  
By all the Arts you have to save and kill,  
My faithful tender Heart adores you still.   

III.  
But oh you should excuse my soft complaint,  
Even my wild Rave too prefer,  
I sigh, I burn, I weep, I faint,  
And vent my Passions to the Air;  
Whilst all my Torment, all my Care  
Serves but to make you put new Graces on,  
You Laugh, and Rally my despair,  
Which to my Rivals renders you more fair;  
And but the more confirms my being undone:  
Sport with my Pain as gaily as you will,  
My fond, my tender Heart adores you still.   

My differing Passions thus, did never cease,  
Till they had touched her Soul with tenderness;  
My Rivals now are banished by degrees,  
And with 'em all my Fears and Jealousies;  
And all advanced, as if designed to please.    

The City of LOVE.  
IN this vast Isle of famous City stands,  
Who for its Beauty all the rest Commands,  
Built to delight the wondering Gazers Eyes,  
Of all the World the great Metropolis.  
Called by LOVE's name: and here the Charming God,  
When he retires to Pleasure, makes abode;  
'Tis here both Art and Nature strive to show,  
What Pride, Expense, and Luxury, can do,  
To make it Ravishing and Awful too:  
All Nations hourly thither do resort,  
To add a splendour to this glorious Court;  
The Young, the Old, the Witty, and the Wise,  
The Fair, the Ugly, Lavish, and Precise;  
Cowards and Braves, the Modest, and the Loud,  
Promiscuously are blended in the Crowd.  
From distant Shores young Kings their Courts remove,  
To pay their Homage to the God of Love.  
Where all their sacred awful Majesty,  
Their boasted and their fond Divinity;  
Lose their vast force; as lesser Lights are hid,  
When the fierce God of Day his Beauties spread,  
The wondering World for Gods did Kings adore,  
Till LOVE confirmed 'em Mortal by his Power,  
And in Love's Court, do with their Vassals live,  
Without or Homage, or Prerogative:  
Which the young God, not only Blind must show,  
But as Defective in his Judgement too.   

LOVE's Temple.  

‛ MIdst this Gay Court a famous Temple stands,  
Old as the Universe which it commands;  
For mighty Love a sacred being had,  
Whilst yet 'twas Chaos, ere the World was made.  
And nothing was composed without his Aid.  
Agreeing Atoms by his power were hurled,  
And Love and Harmony composed the World.  
'Tis rich, 'tis solemn all! Divine yet Gay!  
From the Jemmed Roof the dazzling Lights display,  
And all below inform ' without the Aids of day.  
All Nations hither bring rich offerings,  
And 'tis endowed with Gifts of Lovesick Kings.  
Upon an Altar (whose unbounded store,  
Has made the Rifled Universe so poor.  
Adorned with all the Treasure of the Seas,  
More than the Sun in his vast course surveys)  
Was placed the God with every Beauty form●d,  
Of Smiling Youth, but Naked, unadorned.  
His painted Wings displayed: His Bow laid by,  
(For here Love needs not his Artillery.)  
One of his little Hands a loft he bore,  
And grasped a wounded Heart that burned all o'er,  
Towards which he looked with lovely Laughing Eyes:  
As pleased and vain, with the fond Sacrifice,  
The other pointing downward seemed to say,  
Here at my Feet your grateful Victims lay,  
Whilst in a Golden Tablet o'er his Head,  
In Diamond Characters this Motto stood,  
Behold the Power that Conquers every GOD.  
The Temple Gates are open Night and Day,  
Love's Votaries at all hours Devotions pay,  
A Priest of Hymen gives attendance near,  
But very rarely shows his Function here,  
For Priest could ne'er the Marriage-cheat improve,  
Were there no other Laws, but those of Love!  
A Slavery generous Heaven did ne'er design,  
Nor did its first loved Race of men confine;  
A Trick, that Priest, whom Avarice cunning made,  
Did first contrive, then sacred did persuade,  
That on their numerous and unlucky Race,  
They might their base got Wealth securely place.  
Curse— could they not their own loose Race enthral '  
But they must spread the infection over all:  
That Race, whose Brutal heat was grown so wild,  
That even the Sacred Porches they defiled;  
And Ravished all that for Devotion came,  
Their Function, nor the Place restrains their flame.  
But Love's soft Votaries no such injuries fear,  
No pampered Levits are in Pension here;  
Here are no fatted Lambs to Sacrifice,  
No Oil, fine Flower, or Wines of mighty price,  
The subtle Holy Cheats to Gourmandise.  
Love's soft Religion knows to Tricks nor Arts,  
All the Atoning Offerings here are Hearts.  
The Mystery's silent, without noise or show,  
In which the Holy Man has nought to do,  
The Lover is both Priest and Victim too.  
Hither with little force I did persuade,  
My lovely timorously yielding Maid,  
Implored we might together Sacrifice,  
And she agrees with Blushing downcast Eyes;  
'Twas then we both our Hearts an Offering made,  
Which at the Feet of the young God we laid,  
With equal Flames they Burnt; with equal Joy,  
But with a Fire that neither did destroy;  
Soft was its Force and Sympathy with them,  
Dispersed itself through every trembling Limb;  
We could not hide our tender new surprise,  
We languished and confessed it with our Eyes;  
Thus gazed we— when the Sacrifice performed,  
We found our Hearts entire— but still they burn,  
But by a Blessed change in taking back,  
The lovely Virgin did her Heart mistake:  
Her Bashful Eyes favoured Love's great design,  
I took her Burning Victim: and she mine.   

Thus Lysidas without constraint or Art,  
I reigned the Monarch of Aminta's Heart;  
My great, my happy Title she allows,  
And makes me Lord of all her tender Vows,  
All my past Griefs in coming Joys were drowned,  
And with eternal Pleasure I was Crowned;  
My Blessed hours in the extreme of Joy,  
With my soft Languisher I still employ;  
When I am Gay, Love Revels in her Eyes,  
When sad— there the young God all panting lies.  
A thousand freedoms now she does impart,  
Shows all her tenderness disrobed of Art,  
But oh this could not satisfy my Heart.  
A thousand Anguishes that still contains,  
It sighs, and heaves, and pants with pleasing pains.  
We look, and Kiss, and Press with new desire,  
Whilst every touch Blows the unusual Fire.  
For Love's last Mystery was yet concealed,  
Which both still languished for, both wished revealed:  
Which I pressed on— and faintly she denied,  
With all the weak efforts of dying Pride,  
Which struggled long for Empire in her Soul,  
Where it was wont to rule without control.  
But Conquering Love had got possession now,  
And opened every Sally to the Foe:  
And to secure my doubting happiness,  
Permits me to conduct her to the Bower of Bliss.  
That Bower that does eternal Pleasures yield,  
Where Psyche first the God of Love beheld:  
But oh, in entering this so blessed abode,  
All Gay and Pleased as a Triumphing God,  
I new unlooked for difficulties meet,  
Encountering Honour at the sacred Gate.    

HONOUR.  

I.  
HOnour's a mighty Phantom! which around  
The sacred Bower does still appear;  
All Day it haunts the hollowed ground,  
And hinders Lovers entering there.  
It rarely ever takes its flight,  
But in the secret shades of night.  
Silence and gloom the charm can soon end,  
And are the luckiest hours to lay the Fiend,  
Then 'tis the Vision only will remove,  
With Incantations of soft Vows of Love.   

II.  
But as a God he's Worshipped here,  
By all the lovely, young, and fair,  
Who all their kind desires control,  
And plays the Tyrant o'er the Soul:  
His chiefest Attributes, are Pride and Spite,  
His power, is robbing Lovers of delight,  
An Enemy to Humane kind,  
But most to Youth severe;  
As Age ill-natured, and as ignorance Blind,  
Boasting, and Baffled too, as Cowards are;  
Fond in opinion, obstinately Wise,  
Fills the whole World with business and with noise.   

III.  
Where wert thou born? from what didst thou begin?  
And what strange Witchcraft brought thy Maxims in?  
What hardy Fool first taught thee to the Crowd?  
Or who the Duller Slaves that first believed?  
Some Woman sure, ill-natured, old, and proud,  
Too ugly ever to have been deceived;  
Vnskilled in Love; in Virtue, or in Truth,  
Preached thy false Notions first, and so debauched our Youth.   

IV.  
And as in other Sectuaries you find,  
His Votaries most consist of Womankind,  
Who Throng t' adore the necessary Evil,  
But most for fear, as Indians do the Devil.  
Peevish, uneasy all; for in Revenge,  
Love shoots 'em with a thousand Darts.  
They seel, but not confess the change;  
Their false Devotion cannot save their Hearts.  
Thus while the Idol Honour they obey,  
Swift time comes on, and blooming Charms decay,  
And Ruined Beauty does too late the Cheat betray.   

This Goblin here— the lovely Maid Alarms,  
And snatched her, even from my Trembling Arms,  
With all the Power of Nonsense he commands,  
Which she for mighty Reason understands.  
Aminta sly, he cries! sly heedless Maid,  
For if thou interest this Bewitching shade,  
Thy Flame, Content, and Lover, all are lost,  
And thou no more of Him, or Fame shall boast,  
The charming Pleasure soon the Youth will cloy,  
And what thou wouldst preserve, that will destroy.  
Oh hardy Maid by too much Love undone,  
Where are thy Modesty, and Blushes gone?  
Where's all that Virtue made thee so Adored?  
For Beauty stripped of Virtue, grows abhorred:  
Dies like a flower whose scent quick Poison gives,  
Though every gaudy Glory paints its leaves:  
Oh sly, fond Maid, fly that false happiness,  
That will attend Thee in the Bower of Bliss.  
Thus spoke the Phantom, while the listening Maid,  
Took in the fatal Council; and obeyed:  
●d she flies, even from the Temple door,  
And left me fainting on the sacred floor:  
LOVE saw my Griefs, and to my rescue came,  
Where on his Bosom, thus I did complain.    

The LOSS.  

WEep, weep Lysander, for the lovely Maid,  
To whom thy sacred Vows were paid;  
Regardless of thy Love, thy Youth, thy Vows,  
The Dull Advice of Honour now pursues;  
Oh say my lovely Charmer, where  
Is all that softness gone?  
Your tender Voice and Eyes did were,  
When first I was undone.  
Oh whether are your Sighs and Kisses fled?  
Where are those clasping Arms,  
That left me oft with Pleasures dead,  
With their Excess of Charms?  
Where is the Killing Language of thy Tongue,  
That did the Ravished Soul surprise?  
Where is that tender Rhetoric gone,  
That flowed so softly in thy Eyes?  
That did thy heavenly face so sweetly dress,  
That did thy wondrous Soul so well express?  
All fled with Honour on a Phantom lost;  
Where Youth's vast store must perish unpossest.  
Ah my dear Boy thy loss with me bemoan,  
The lovely Fugitive is with Honour gone!   

Love laughing spread his Wings and mounting flies,  
As swift as Lightning through the yielding Skies,  
Where Honour bore away the Trembling Prize.  
There at her Feet the Little Charmer falls,  
And to his Aid his powerful softness calls:  
Assails her with his Tears, his Sighs and Cries,  
Th' unfailing Language of his Tongue and Eyes.  
Return, said he, return oh fickle Maid,  
Who solid joys abandonest for a shade;  
Turn and behold the Slaughter of thy Eyes;  
See— the Heartbroken Youth all dying lies.  
Why dost thou follow this Fantastic spirit?  
This faithless Ignis Fatuus of the Light?  
This Foe to Youth, and Beauty's worst Disease,  
Tyrant of Wit, of Pleasure, and of Ease;  
Of all substantial Harms he Author is,  
But never pays us back one solid Bliss.  
— You'll urge, your Fame is worth a thousand joys;  
Deluded Maid, trust not to empty noise,  
A sound, that for a poor Esteem to gain,  
Damns thy whole Life t' uneasiness and pain.  
Mistaken Virgin, that which pleases me  
I cannot by another taste and see;  
And what's the complementing of the World to thee?  
No, no, return with me, and there receive,  
What poor, what scanted Honour cannot give,  
Starve not those Charms that were for pleasure made,  
Nor unpossest let the rich Treasure fade.  
When time comes on; Honour that empty word,  
Will leave thee then fore-slighted Age to guard,  
Honour as other faithless Lovers are.  
Is only dealing with the young and fair;  
Approaching Age makes the false Hero fly,  
He's Honour with the Young, but with the old necessity.  
Thus said the God and all the while he spoke,  
Her Heart new Fire, her Eyes new softness took.  
Now cries, I yield, I yield the Victory!  
Led on young Charming Boy, I follow thee;  
Led to Lysander, quickly let's be gone,  
I am resolved to Love, and be undone;  
I must not, cannot, Love at cheaper rate,  
Love is the word, Lysander and my fate.  
Thus to my Arms Love brought the trembling Maid;  
Who on my Bosom sighing, softly, said:  
Take charming Victor— what you must— subdue-  
'Tis Love— and not Aminta gives it you,  
Love that o'er all, and every part does reign,  
And I should plead— and struggle— but in vain;  
Take what a yielding Virgin— can bestow,  
I am— disarmed— of all resistance now.—  
Then down her Cheeks a tender shower did glide,  
The Trophies of my Victory, Joy, and Pride:  
She yields ye Gods (I cried) and in my Arms,  
Gives up the wondrous Treasure of her Charms.  
— Transported to the Bower of Bliss we high,  
But once more met Respect upon the way,  
But not as heretofore with Mien and Grace,  
All formal, but a gay and smiling Face;  
A different sort of Air his looks now wears,  
Galliard and Joyful every part appears.  
And thus he said—   

Go happy Lovers, perfect the desires,  
That fill two Hearts that burn with equal Fires;  
Receive the mighty Recompense at last,  
Of all the Anxious hours you've past,  
Enter the Bower where endless Pleasures flow,  
Young joys, new Raptures all the year,  
Respect has nothing now to do,  
He always leaves the Lover here.  
Young Loves attend and here supply all want,  
In secret Pleasures I'm no confident.  
Respect here left me: and He scarce was gone,  
But I perceived a Woman hasting on,  
Naked she came; all lovely, and her Hair,  
Was loosely flying in the wanton Air:  
Love told me 'twas Occasion, and if I,  
The swift paced Maid should pass neglected by.  
My Love, my Hopes, and Industry were vain,  
For she but rarely ere returned again.  
I stopped her speed, and did implore her Aid,  
Which granted, she Aminta did persuade.  
Into the Palace of true joys, to haste,  
And thither 'twas, we both arrived at last.  
Oh Lysidas, no Mortal Sense affords,  
No Wit, no Eloquence can furnish Words;  
Fit for the soft Description of the Bower,  
Some Love-blest God in the Triumphing hour,  
Can only guests, can only say what 'tis;  
Yet even that God but faintly would express,  
Th' unbounded pleasures of the Bower of Bliss.  
A slight, a poor Idea may be given,  
Like that we fancy when we paint a Heaven,  
As solid Crystal, Diamonds, shining Gold,  
May fancy Light, that is not to be told.  
To vulgar Senses, Love like Heaven should be  
(To make it more Adored) a Mystery:  
Eternal Powers! when ere I sing of Love,  
And the unworthy Song immortal prove;  
To please my wandering Ghost when I am Dead,  
Let none but Lovers the soft stories read;  
Praise from the Wits and Braves I'll not implore;  
Listen ye Lovers all, I ask no more;  
That where Words fail, you may with thought supply,  
If ever any loved like me, or were so blest as I.    

The Prospect and Bower of Bliss.  

I.  
'tIS all eternal Spring around,  
And all the Trees with fragrant flowers are Crowned;  
No Clouds, no misty Showers obscure the Light,  
But all is calm, serene and gay,  
The Heavens are dressed with a perpetual bright,  
And all the Earth with everlasting May.  
Each minute blows the Rose and jesamine,  
And twines with newborn Eglantine,  
Each minute new Discoveries bring;  
Of something sweet, of something ravishing.   

II.  
Fountains, wandering Brooks soft rills,  
That o'er the wanton Pebbles play;  
And all the Woods with tender murmuring fills,  
Inspiring my Love inciting joy;  
(The sole, the solemn business of the day)  
Through all the Groves, the Glades and thickets run,  
And nothing see but Love on all their Banks along;  
A thousand Flowers of different kinds,  
The neighbouring Meads adorn;  
Whose sweetness snatched by flying Winds,  
O'er all the Bower of Bliss is born;  
Whether all things in nature strive to bring,  
All that is soft, all that is ravishing.   

III.  
The verdant Banks no other Prints retain,  
But where young Lovers, and young Loves have lain.  
For Love has nothing here to do,  
But to be wanton, soft and gay,  
And give a lavish loose to joy.  
His emptied Quiver, and his Bow,  
In slowry Wreaths with rosy Garlands Crowned,  
In Myrtle shades are hung,  
As Conquerors when the Victories won,  
Dispose their glorious Trophies all around.  
Soft Winds and Echoes that do haunt each Grove,  
Still whisper, and repeat no other Songs than Love.  
Which round about the sacred Bower they sing,  
Where every thing arrives thats sweet and ravishing.   

IV.  
A thousand gloomy Walks the Bower contains,  
Sacred all to mighty Love;  
A thousand winding turns where Pleasure reigns;  
Obscured from day by twining Boughs above,  
Where Love invents a thousand Plays,  
Where Lovers act ten thousand joys:  
Nature has taught each little Bird,  
A soft Example to afford;  
They Bill and Look, and Sing and Love,  
And Charm the Air, and Charm the Grove;  
Whilst underneath the Ravished Swain is lying,  
Gazing, Sighing, Pressing, Dying;  
Still with new desire warmed,  
Still with new joy, new Rapture charmed;  
Amongst the green soft Rivulets do pass,  
In winding Streams half hid in Flowers and Grass,  
Who Pearl and Murmur as they glide along,  
And mix their Music with the Shepherd's Pipe and Song,  
Which Echoes through the sacred Bower repeat,  
Where every thing arrives that's ravishing and sweet.   

V.  
The Virgin here shows no disdain,  
Nor does the Shepherd Sigh in vain,  
This knows no Cruelty, nor that no Pain:  
No Youth complains upon his rigorous fair;  
No injured Maid upon her perjured dear,  
'Tis only Love, fond Love finds entrance here;  
The Notes of Birds, the Murmuring Boughs,  
When gentle Winds glide through the Glades,  
Soft Sighs of Love, and oft breathed Vows,  
The tender Whisper of the yielding Maids,  
Dashing Fountains, Purling Springs,  
The short breathed cries from faint resistance sent.  
(Cries which no aid desires or brings)  
The soft effects of Fear and Languishment;  
The little struggling of the fair,  
The trembling force of the young Conqueror,  
The tender Arguments he brings,  
The pretty Nonsense with which she assails,  
Which as she speaks, she hopes it nought prevails.  
But yielding owns her Love above her Reasonings,  
Is all is heard: Silence and shade the rest.  
Which best with Love, which best with joys consist,  
All which young Echoes through the Bower does sing,  
Where every thing is heard, that's sweet and ravishing.   

VI  
Recesses' Dark, and Grottoes all conspire,  
To favour Love and soft desire;  
Shades, Springs and Fountains flowery Beds,  
To joys invites, to Pleasure leads,  
To Pleasure which all Humane thought exceeds.  
Heaven, Earth, and Sea, here all combine,  
To propagate Love's great design,  
And render the Appointments all Divine.  
After long toil, 'tis here the Lover reaps,  
Transporting softnesses beyond his hopes;  
'Tis here fair Eyes, all languishing impart  
The secrets of the fond inclining Heart;  
Fine Hands and Arms for tender Press made,  
In Love's dear business always are employed:  
The soft Enchantments of the Tongue,  
That does all other Eloquence control,  
Is breathed with broken Sighs among,  
Into the Ravished Shepherds Soul,  
Whilst all is taken, all is given,  
That can complete a Lover's Heaven:  
And Io Paeans through the Woods do ring,  
From new fletched God, in Songs all Ravishing.   

Oh my dear Lysidas! my faithful Friend,  
Would I could here with all my Pleasure's end:  
'Twas Heaven! 'twas Ecstasy! each minute brought  
New Raptures to my Senses, Soul and Thought;  
Each Look, each Touch, my Ravished fancy charmed,  
Each Accent of her Voice my Blood Alarmed;  
I pant with every Glance, faint with a Kiss,  
Oh Judge my Transports then in higher Bliss.  
A while all Dead, between her Arms I lay,  
Unable to possess the conquered Joys;  
But by degrees my Soul its sense retrieved;  
Shame and Confusion let me know I lived.  
I saw the trembling disappointed Maid,  
With charming angry Eyes my fault upbraid,  
While Love and Spite no kind Excuse affords,  
My Rage and Softness was above dull Words,  
And my Misfortune only was expressed,  
By Sighing out my Soul into her Breast:  
A thousand times I breathed Aminta's name,  
Aminta! called! but that increased my flame.  
And as the Tide of Love flowed in, so fast  
My Low, my Ebbing Vigour out did haste.  
But 'twas not long, thus idly, and undone  
I lay, before vast Seas came rolling on,  
Springtides of Joy, that the rich neighbouring shore  
And down the fragrant Banks it proudly bore,  
Overflowed and ravished all great Nature's store.  
Swollen to Luxurious heights, no bounds it knows,  
But wantonly it Triumphs where it flows.  
Some God inform Thee of my blessed Estate,  
But all their Powers divert thee from my Fate.  
'Twas thus we lived the wonder of the Groves,  
Famed for our Love, our mutual constant Loves.  
Young Amorous Hero's at her Feet did fall,  
Despaired and died, whilst I was Lord of All;  
Her Empire o'er my Soul each moment grew,  
New Charms each minute did appear in view,  
And each appointment Ravishing and New.  
Fonder each hour my tender Heart became,  
And that which used t' allay, increased my Flame.  
But on a day, oh may no cheerful Ray,  
Of the Sun's Light, bless that succeeding day!  
May the black hours from the account be torn,  
May no fair thing upon thy day be born!  
May fate and Hell appoint thee for their own,  
May no good deed be in thy Circle done!  
May Rapes, Conspiracies and Murders stay,  
Till thou comest on, and hatch 'em in thy day!  
— 'Twas on this day all Joyful Gay and Fair,  
Fond as desire, and wanton as the Air;  
Aminta did with me to the blessed Bower repair.  
Beneath a Beechy Shade, a flowery Bed,  
Officious Cupid's for our Pleasure spread,  
Where never did the Charmer ere impart,  
More Joy, more Rapture to my ravished Heart:  
'Twas all the first; 'twas all beginning Fire!  
'Twas all new Love! new Pleasure! new Desire!  
— Here stop my Soul—  
Stop thy career of Vanity and Pride,  
And only say,— 'Twas here Aminta died:  
The fleeting Soul as quickly disappears,  
As leaves blown off with Winds, or falling Stars;  
And Life its flight assumed with such a pace;  
It took no farewell of her lovely Face.  
The Fugitive not one Beauty did surprise,  
It scarce took time to languish in her Eyes,  
But on my Bosom bowed her charming Head;  
And sighing, these surprising words she said:  
" Joy of my Soul, my faithful tender Youth,  
Lord of my Vows, and Miracle of Truth:  
Thou soft obliger-: of thy Sex the best,  
Thou blessing too Extreme to be possessed;  
The Angry God, designing we must part,  
Do render back the Treasure of thy Heart;  
When in some new fair Breast, it finds a room,  
And I shall ly-neglected-in my Tomb—  
Remember-oh remember-the fair she,  
Can never love thee, darling Youth, like me.  
Then with a Sigh she sunk into my Breast,  
While her fair Eyes, her last farewell expressed;  
To aiding God's I cried; but they were Deaf,  
And no kind power afforded me relief:  
I call her name, I weep, I rave and faint,  
And none but Echoes answer my Complaint;  
I Kiss and bath her stiffening Face with Tears,  
Press it to mine, as cold and pale as here's;  
The fading Roses of her Lips I press,  
But no kind Word the silenced Pratlers will confess;  
Her lovely Eyes I kiss, and call upon,  
But all their wont answering Rhetoric's go.  
Her charming little Hands in vain I ask,  
Those little Hands no more my Neck shall grasp;  
No more about my Face her Finger's play,  
Nor breed my Hair, or the vain Curls display,  
No more her Tongue beguiling Stories tell,  
Whose wondrous Wit could grace a Tale so well;  
All, all is fled, to Death's cold Mansion gone,  
And I am left benighted and undone,  
And every day my Fate is hasting on.  
From the enchanting Bower I madly fly,  
That Bower that now no more affords me Joy.  
Love had not left for me one Bliss in store,  
Since my Aminta could dispense no more.  
— Thence to a silent Desert I advance,  
And called the Desert of Remembrance;  
A solitude upon a Mountain placed,  
All gloomy round, and wondrous high and vast,  
From whence Love's Island all appears in view,  
And distant Prospects renders near and true;  
Each Bank, each Bower, each dear inviting Shade,  
That to our Sacred Loves was conscious made.  
Each flowery Bed, each Thicket and each Grove,  
Where I have lain Charmed with Aminta's Love.  
(Where e'er she cheered the day, and blest the Night)  
Eternally are present to my Sight.  
Where e'er I turn, the Lands kip does confess,  
Something that calls to mind past happiness.  
This Lysidas, this is my wretched state,  
'Tis here I languish, and attend my Fate.  
But e'er I go, 'twould wondrous Pleasure be,  
(If such a thing can e'er arrive to me)  
To find some Pity (Lysidas) from thee.  
Then I should take the Wing, and upward fly,  
And lose the Sight of this dull World with Joy.  
Your Lysander.     

A TABLE.  
THE Golden Age, a Paraphrase on a Translation out of French 
page 1.  A Farewell to Celladon on his going into Ireland 
13.  On a juniper-tree cut down to make Busks 
19  On the Death of Mr. Grinhill the famous Painter 
24.  A Ballad on Mr. J. H. to Amoretta, ask why I was so sad 
29.  Our Cabal 
33.  The willing Mistress, a Song 
44.  Love Armed, a Song 
45.  The Complaint, a Song 
46.  The Invitation, a Song 
47.  A Song 
48.  To Mr Creech (under the name of Daphnis) on his Excellent Translation of Lucretius. 
50.  To Mrs. W. on her excellent Verses (writ in praise of some I had made on the late Earl of Rochester) written in a fit of sickness 
57  The sense of a Letter sent me, made into Verse, to a New Tune 
61.  The Return 
62.  On a Copy of Verses made in a Dream and sent to me in a Morning before I was awake 
63.  To my Lady Morland at Tunbridge 
65.  Song to Ceres, in the wavering Nymph or mad Amyntas 
68  A Song in the same Play by the wavering Nymph 
69.  The Disappointment 
70.  On a Locket of Hair wove in a True-lovers Knot given me by Sir R. O. 
77.  The Dream, a Song 
78.  A Letter to a Brother of the Pen in Tribulation 
80.  The Reflection, a Song 
83.  A Song to Pesibles Tune 
86.  A Song on her loving two Equally set by Capt. Pack 
88  The Counsel, a Song set by the same hand 
89.  The Surprise, a Song set by Mr. Farmer 
91.  A Song 
92.  The Invitation, a Song to a New Scotch Tune 
93.  Sylvia's Complaint, a Song to a fine Scotch Tune 
95.  In Imitation of Horace 
98.  To Lysander who made some Verses on a Discourse of Love's Fire 
101.  A Dialogue for an entertainment at Court between Damon and Sylvia 
102.  On Mr. J. H. In a fit of sickness 
106.  To Lysander on some Verses he writ, and ask more for his Heart than 'twas worth 
109.  To the Honourable Lord Howard, on his Comedy called the New Utopia 
113.  To Lysander at the Music meeting 
118.  An Ode to Love 
120.  Love Revenged, a Song 
122.  A Song to a New Scotch Tune 
123.  The Cabal at Nickey Nackeys 
125.  A Paraphrase on the eleventh Ode out of the first Book of Horace 
126.  A Translation 
127.  A Paraphrase on Oenone to Paris 
129.  A Voyage to the Isle of Love 
144.   
FINIS.