POEMS UPON Several Occasions; WITH A VOYAGE TO THE Island of LOVE.  
ALSO The Lover in Fashion, being an Account from LYCIDUS to LYSANDER, of his Voyage from the Island of Love.  
By Mrs A. BEHN.  
To which is added a Miscellany of New Poems and Songs, by several Hands.  
The Second Edition.  
LONDON, Printed for Francis Saunders in the Lower-Walk of the New-Exchange, 1697.   


Mrs. Behn pa: 204 Vo 11    

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 flight, a two swift speed o'er the charming flowery 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 Unfortunates, and bringing Your powerful aid to their detestable cause, but a noble Honesty in Your Nature, a Generosity 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 Submisson 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.   
J. 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 flow,  
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.   
J. 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 flew)  
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.   
J. 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 flowing 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 flew,  
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 flow.   

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 heat 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 she 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 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 OEnone, 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.   
J. 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' enhance 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 feat 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 overspread 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 Gay-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 waft:  
Whose parting Leaves discovered all below,  
And every God his own soft power admired,  
And smiled and fanned, 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,  
Whoby 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 slay ep,  
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 kindSpring 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 Groves  
Where unambitiously he lay,  
And knew no greater Joys, 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 alonewas 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 Wandering 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 at 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 that 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 Natures 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.  
(Pride,  
Each Excellence he had that Youth has in its  
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.  
Urania'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 and 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 flag 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 found.  
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  
To see the Hero than they did before.  
So when the Marvels by Report I knew, more  
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 found  
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  
A 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! 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 you 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 Pusillage.  
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 〈◊〉 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 flowery 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  
And from thy dire Mishap be taught to fear.  
Curse till thou hast undone the Race, and all hear,  
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 Disdain,  
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.  
APox 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   

IV.  
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,  
Denies ye Joys, or makes ye Impotent.   

III.  
'Tis true, when Cities are on fire,  
Men never wait for Crystal Springs;  
But to the Neighbouring 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 Loves, 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 thy 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 Scythia 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 ftom 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 Jemmy'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 flow;  
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 flow.  
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,  
Wafting 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 Crown 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 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.   

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 Exchanges 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' 'twill 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 constant 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 in 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 ruffled 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 Apish 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;  
Unfrighted 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 eachAddress.    

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 fixed 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 wondrousPride,  
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 butGod'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,  
Asleep the lovely Maid extended lay;  
Of different Flowers, the Cupids made her Bed,  
And Rosey Pillows, did support her Head;  
With what transported Joy my Soul was 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 taste 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'll 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 timorous 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 Iragingly 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 Compliance;  
There the Dull Wise his Gravity for sakes,  
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 fixed 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 thousand little Fears afflict my Heart,  
And all its former order quite subvert;  
The Beauty's which all day my hope employed,  
Seem now too excellent to be enjoyed.  
I number all my RIVALS over now,  
Then 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 Aminta 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 smiled to see their Ruin too.  
'Tis there so many Monarches perished have,  
And seeking Fame alone have found 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 fliest 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 skilled 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 yields 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 flattering 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.  

MUst 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 best 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 that 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 fierce, 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 lies,  
And nothing grateful meets the melancholy Eyes.   

To this dire place Aminta goes, whilst I,  
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 pi-  
tying 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 shows 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 have I suffered 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 in haste 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 Grieffailed 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 near 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,  
Stillwished, 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 fit 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 aboué,  
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;  
Mali cious 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 business 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 may 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 want only 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 a 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 formed,  
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 aloft 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,  
〈◊〉 Diamond Characters this Motto stood,  
●hold 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 no 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;  
Unskilled in Love; in Virtue, or in Truth,  
Preached thy false Notions first, and so debauched our  
Youth   

IU.  
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 feel, 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 fly, he cries! fly 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 fly, 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:  
Frighted 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 perceiu'ed 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 flowery 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 Landscape 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.     

LYCIDUS: OR THE Lover in Fashion.  
Being an Account from LYCIDUS to LYSANDER, Of his Voyage from the ISLAND of LOVE.  
From the French.  
By the same AUTHOR Of the Voyage to the Isle of LOVE.  
Together with a MISCELLANY OF New Poems.  
By Several HANDS.  
LONDON: Printed for Joseph Knight, and Francis Saunders, at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New-Exchange, 1688.   

TO THE Earl of Melford, etc. KNIGHT Of the most Noble Order OF THE THISTLE.  
My LORD,  
THis Epistle Dedicatory which humbly lays this Little Volume at your Lordship's feet, and begs a Protection there, is rather an Address than a Dedication; to which a great many hands have subscribed, it Presenting your Lordship a Garland whose Flowers are culled by several Judgements in which I claim the least part; whose sole Ambition is this way to congratulate your Lordship's new A ddition of Honour, that of the Most Noble Order of the Thistle, an Honour which preced's that of the Garter, having been supported by a long Race of of Kings, and only fell with the most Illustrious of Queens, whose memory (which ought to be Established, in all hearts can not be better preserved,) than by reviving this so Ancient Order; well has His Majesty chosen its Noble Champions, among whom none merits more the Glory of that Royal Favour than your Lordship: whose Basis' of Honour, as nothing can move or shake; the Royal Interest being so greatly indeed the Property of Nobility, and so much even above life and Fortune: Especially when to support a Monarch so truly just, so wise and great; a Monarch whom God Almighty Grant long to Reign over Us, and still to be served by men of Principles so truly Brave, as those that shine in your Lordship.  
Pardon, my Lord, this Digression and the meanness of this Present, which to a Person of your Lordship's great and weighty Employments in the world may seem Improper, if I did not know that the most Glorious of Statesmen must sometimes unbend from Great Affairs, and seek a diversion in trivial Entertainments: Though Poetry will Justle for the Preeminency of all others, and I know is not the least in the Esteem of your Lordship, who is so admirable a Judge of it, if any thing here may be found worthy the Patronage it Implores, 'twill be a sufficient Honour to,  
My Lord,  
Your Lordship's most humble, most obliged, and obedient Servant,  
A. BEHN.   

To Mrs. B. on her Poems.  

HAil, Beauteous Prophetess, in whom alone,  
Of all your sex heavens masterpiece is shown.  
For wondrous skill it argues, wondrous care,  
Where two such Stars in firm conjunction are.  
A Brain so Glorious, and a Face so fair.  
Two Goddesses in your composure joined,  
Nothing but Goddess could, you're so refined,  
Bright Venus' Body gave, Minerva Mind.   

How soft and fine your manly numbers flow,  
Soft as your Lips, and smooth as is your brow.  
Gentle as Air, bright as the Noon-days Sky,  
Clear as your skin, and charming as your Eye.  
No craggy Precipice the Prospect spoils,  
The Eye no tedious barren plain beguiles.  
But, like Thessalian Fields your Volumes are,  
Rapture and charms o'er all the soil appear,  
Astrea and her verse are Tempe every where.   

Ah, more than Woman! more than man she is,  
As Phoebus' bright; she's too, as Phoebus' wise.  
The Muses to our sex perverse and coy  
Astrea does familiarly enjoy.  
She does their veiled Glories understand,  
And what we court with pain, with ease command.  
Their charming secrets they expanded lay,  
Reserved to us, to her they all display.  
Upon her Pen a wait those learned Nine.  
She ne'er but like the Phosph'rus draws a line,  
As soon as touched her subjects clearly shine.   

The female Laurels were obscured till now,  
And they deserved the Shades in which they grew:  
But Daphne at your call returns her flight,  
Looks boldly up and dares the God of light.  
If we Orinda to your works compare,  
They uncouth, like her countries' soil, appear,  
Mean as its Peasants, as its Mountains bare,  
Sapph tastes strongly of the sex, is weak and poor  
At second hand she russet Laurels wore,  
Yours are your own, a rich and verdant store.  
If Loves the Theme, you outdo Ovid's Art,  
Loves God himself can't subtler skill impart.  
Softer than's plumes, more piercing than his Dart.   

If Pastoral be her Song, she glads the Swains  
With Livelier notes, with spritelier smiles the plains.  
More gaily than the Springs she decks the Bowers  
And breaths a second May to Fields and Flowers.  
If e'er the golden Age again return  
And flash in shining Beams from's Iron Urn,  
That Age not as it was before shall be,  
But as th' Idea is refined by thee.  
That seems the common; thines the Elixir, Gold,  
So pure is thine, and so allayed the old.   

Happy, ye Bards, by fair Astrea praised,  
If you're alive, to brighter life you're raised;  
For cherished by her Beams you'll loftyer grow,  
You must your former learned selves outdo,  
Tho' you'd the parts of Thirsis and of Strephon too.   

Hail, mighty Prophetess! by whom we see  
Omnipotence almost in Poetry:  
Your flame can give to Graves Promethean fire,  
And greenhill's clay with living paint inspire;  
For like some Mystic wand with awful Eyes  
You wave your Pen, and lo the dead Arise.   
Kendrick.   

Advertisement TO THE READER.  
WHereas Mr. Higden, at the end of his Translation of the Tenth satire of Juvenal, has Printed a paper of Verses, entitled Cato's Answer to Labienus etc. without the Author's consent or knowledge; and either he or the Printer has so alter'd'em, that the Author cannot own 'em for his: This is to let the World know, that that Copy so Printed by Mr. Higden, is false almost in every line, and that here is in this Miscellany a true Copy of the same Verses printed with the Author's consent, from the Original paper writ in his own hand, and corrected by him at the Press.   

Licenced, May 13. 1687.  
R. L. S.   

LYCIDUS: OR, THE Lover in Fashion, etc.  
I Have received your melancholy Epistle, with the Account of your Voyage to the Island of Love; of your Adventures there, and the Relation of the death of your Aminta: At which you shall forgive me if I tell you I am neither surprised nor grieved, but hope to see you the next Campagne, as absolutely reduced to reason as myself. When Love, that has so long deprived you of Glory; shall give you no more Sighs but at the short remembrances of past Pleasures; and that after you have heard my Account of the Voyage I made to the same place, with my more lucky one back again, (for I, since I saw you, have been an Adventurer) you will by my Example become of my Opinion, (notwithstanding yourdismal Tales of Death and the eternal Shades,) which is, that if there be nothing that will lay me in my Tomb till Love brings me thither, I shall live to Eternity.  
I must confess 'tis a great Inducement to Love, and a happy Advance to an Amour, to be handsome, finely shaped, and to have a great deal of Wit; these are Charms that subdue the Hearts of all the Fair: And one sees but very few Ladies, that can resist these good Qualities, especially in an Age so gallant as ours, yet all this is nothing if Fortune do not smile: And I have seen a Man handsome, well shaped, and of a great deal of Wit, with the advantage of a thousand happy Adventures, yet finds himself in the end, fitter for an Hospital than the Elevation of Fortune: And the Women are not contented we should give them as much Love as they give us, (which is but reasonable,) but they would compel us all to Present and Treat 'em lavishly, till a Man hath consumed both Estate and Body in their Service. How many do we see, that are wretched Examples of this Truth, and who have nothing of all they enjoyed remaining with 'em, but a poor Idea of past Pleasures, when rather the Injury the Jilt has done 'em, aught to be eternally present with 'em. Heaven keep me from being a Woman's Property. There are Cullies enough besides you or I, Lysander.  
One would think now, That I, who can talk thus Learnedly and Gravely, had never been any of the number of those wretched, whining, sighing, dying Fops, I speak of, never been jilted and cozened of both my Heart and Reason; but let me tell those that think so, they are mistaken, and that all this Wisdom and Discretion, I now seem replenished with, I have as dearly bought as any keeping Fool of 'em all. I was lied and flattered into Wit, jilted and cozened into Prudence, and, by ten thousand broken Vows and perjured Oaths, reduced to Sense again; and can laugh at all my past Follies now.  
After I have told you this, you may guests at a great part of my Story; which, in short, is this: I would needs make a Voyage, as you did, to this fortunate Isle, and accompanied with abundance of young Heirs, Cadets, Coxcombs, Wits, Blockheads, and Politicians, with a whole Cargo of Cullies all, nameless and numberless we Landed on the Enchanted Ground; the first I saw, and liked, was charming Silvia; you believe I thought her fair as Angels; young, as the Spring, and sweet as all the Flowers the blooming Fields produce; that when she blushed, the Ruddy Morning opened, the Rosebuds blue, and all the Pinks and Daisies spread; that when she sighed or breathed, Arabia's Spices, driven by gentle Winds, perfumed all around; that when she looked on me, all Heaven was opened in her Azure Eyes, from whence Love shot a thousand pointed Darts, and wounded me all over; that when she spoke, the Music of the Spheres, all that was ravishing in Harmony, blest the Adoring Listener; that when she walked, Venus in the Myrtle Grove when she advanced to meet her loved Adonis, assuming all the Grace young Loves could give, had not so much of Majesty as Silvia: In fine, she did deserve, and I compared her to all the Fopperies, the Suns, the Stars, the Coral, and the Pearl, the Roses and Lilies, Angels Spheres, and Goddesses, fond Lovers dress their Idols in. For she was all, fancy and fine imagination could adorn her with, at least, the gazing Puppy thought so. 'Twas such I saw and loved; but knowing I did Adore, I made my humble Court, and she, by all my trembling, sigh, pant, the going and returning of my Blood, found all my Weakness and her own Power; and using all the Arts of her Sex, both to engage and secure me, played all the Woman over: She would be scornful and kind by turns, as she saw convenient, This to check my Presumption and too easy hope; That to preserve me from the brink of despair. Thus was I tossed in the Blanket of Love, sometimes up, and sometimes down, as her Wit and Humour was in or out of tune, all which I watched, and waited like a Dog, that still the oftener kicked would fawn the more.  
Oh, 'tis an excellent Art this managing of a Coxcomb, the Serpent first taught it our Grandam Eve; and Adam was the first kind Cully: ere since they have kept their Empire over Men, and we have, ere since, been Slaves. But I, the most submissive of the whole Creation, was long in gaining Grace; she used me as she meant to keep me, Fool enough for her Purpose. She saw me young enough to do her Service, handsome enough to do her Credit, and Fortune enough to please her Vanity and Interest: She therefore suffered me to Love, and Bow among the Crowd, and fill her Train. She gave me hope enough to secure me too, but gave me nothing else, till she saw me languish to that degree, she feared, to lose the Glory of my Services, by my death; only this Pleasure kept me alive, to see her treat all my Rivals with the greatest Rigour imaginable, and to me all sweetness, exposing their feblesses; and having taken Notice of my Languishment, she suffered me Freedoms that wholly Ravished me, and gave me hopes I should not be long a dying for all she could give.  
But, since I have a great deal to say of my Adventures in passing out of this Island of Love: I will be as brief as I can in what arrived to me on the Place; and tell you, That after Ten thousand Vows of eternal Love on both sides, I had the Joy, not only to be believed and loved, but to have her put herself into my Possession, far from all my Rivals: Where, for some time I lived with this charming Maid, in all the Raptures of Pleasure, Youth, Beauty, and Love could create. Eternally we loved, and lived together, no day nor night separated us, no Frowns interrupted our Smiles, no Clouds our Sunshine; the Island was all perpetual Spring, still flowery and green, in Bowers, in Shades, by purling Springs and Fountains, we passed our hours, unwearied and uninterrupted. I cannot express to you the happy Life I led, during this blessed Tranquillity of Love, while Silvia still was pleased, and still was gay. We walked all day together in the Groves, and entertained ourselves with a thousand Stories of Love; we laughed at the foolish World, who could not make their Felicity with out Crowds and Noise: We pitied Kings in Courts in this Retirement, so well we liked our Solitude; till on a day, (blest be that joyful day, though than 'twas most accursed,) I say upon that day, I know not by what accident I was parted from my Charmer, and left her all alone, but in my absence, there encountered her a Woman extremely ugly, and who was however very nice and peevish, inconstant in her temper, and no one place could continue her: The finest things in the World were troublesome to her, and she was Shagreen at every thing; her Name is Indifference; she is a Person of very great Power in this Island, (though possibly you never encountered her there,) and those that follow her, depart from the Isle of Love without any great pains. She brought Silvia to the Lake of Disgust, whether, in pursuing her (at my return,) I found her, ready to take Boat to have passed quite away, and where there are but too many to transport those Passengers, who follow Indifference over the Lake of Disgust. I saw this disagreeable Creature too, but she appeared too ugly for me to approach her, but forcing Silvia back, I returned again to the Palace of True Pleasure, where some days after there arrived to me a Misfortune, of which, I believed I should never have seen an end. I found Silvia environed round with new Lovers, still adoring and pleasing her a thousand ways, and though none of 'em were so rich, so young, or so handsome as I, she nevertheless failed not to treat 'em with all the Smiles and Caresses 'twas possible to imagine; when I complained of this, she would satisfy my fears with so many Vows and Imprecations, that I would believe her, and think myself unreasonable, but when she would be absent whole days, in an hundred places, she would find such probable Excuse, and lie with such a Grace, no mortal could have accused her, so that all the whole Island took notice that I was a baffled Cuckold, before I could believe she would deceive me, so heartily she damned herself: Through all the Groves I was the pointed Coxcomb, laughed at aloud, and knew not where the jest lay; but thought myself as secure in the Innocence of my deceiving fair One, as the first hour I Charmed her, and like a keeping Cully, lavished out my Fortune, my plenteous Fortune, to make her fine to Cuckold me. 'Sdeath! how I scorn the Follies of my Dotage; and am resolved to pursue Love for the future, in such a manner as it shall never cost me a Sigh: This shall be my method.  

A Constancy in Love I'll prize,  
And be to Beauty true:  
And dote on all the lovely Eyes,  
That are but fair and new.  
On Cloris Charms to day I'll feed,  
To morrow Daphne move;  
For bright Lucinda next I'll bleed,  
And still be true to Love.  
But Glory only and Renown  
My serious hours shall charm;  
My Nobler Minutes those shall Crown,  
My loser hours, my Flame.  
All the Fatigues of Love I'll hate,  
And Phillis' new Charms  
That hopeless Fire shall dissipate,  
My Heart for Cloe warms.   

The easy Nymph I once enjoyed  
Neglected now shall pass,  
Possession, that has Love destroyed  
Shall make me pitiless.  
In vain she now attracts and mourns,  
Her moving Power is gone,  
Too late (when once enjoyed,) she burns,  
And yielding, is undone.   

My Friend, the little charming Boy  
Conforms to my desires,  
And 'tis but to augment my Joy  
He pains me with his Fires;  
All that's in happy Love I'll taste,  
And rifle all his store,  
And for one Joy, that will not last,  
He brings a thousand more.   
Perhaps, my Friend, at this Account of my Humour you may smile, but with a reasonable consideration you will commend it, at least, though you are not so wise as to pursue my Dictates. Yet I know you will be diverted with my Adventures; though there be no love in 'em that can resemble 'em to yours. Take then the History of my Heart, which I assure you, boasts itself of the Conquests it has made.  

A thousand Martyrs I have made,  
All sacrificed to my desire:  
A thousand Beauties have betrayed,  
That languish in resistless Fire.  
The untamed Heart to hand I brought,  
And fixed the wild and wand'ring Thought.   

I never vowed nor sighed in vain  
But both, though false, were well received.  
The Fair are pleased to give us pain,  
And what they wish is soon believed.  
And though I talked of Wounds and Smart,  
Loves Pleasures only touched my Heart.   

Alone the Glory and the Spoil  
I always Laughing bore away;  
The Triumphs, without Pain or Toil,  
Without the Hell, the Heaven of Joy.  
And while I thus at random rove  
Despise the Fools that whine for Love.   
I was a great while, (like you,) before I forgot the remembrance of my first Languishments, and I almost thought, (by an excess of Melancholy,) that the end of my Misfortunes were with my Life at hand: Yet still like a fond Slave, willing to drag my Fetterson, I hoped she would find Arguments to convince me she was not false; and in that Humour, feared only I should not be handsomely and neatly jilted. Could she but have dissembled well, I had been still her Cully. Could she have played her Game with discretion, but, vain of her Conquest, she boasted it to all the World, and I alone was the kind keeping Blockhead, to whom 'twas unperceived, so well she swore me into belief of her Truth to me. Till one day, lying under a solitary Shade, with my sad Thoughts fixed on my declining Happiness, and almost drowned in Tears, I saw a Woman dressed in glorious Garments, all loose and flowing with the wind, scouring the Fields and Groves with such a pace, as Venus, when she heard her loved Youth was slain, hasted to behold her ruin. She passed me, as I lay, with an unexpressable swiftness, and spoke as she run, with a loud Voice. At her first approach, I felt a strange trembling at my Heart without knowing the reason, and found at last this Woman was Fame. Yet I was not able to tell from whence proceeded my Inquietude: When her Words made me but too well understand the Cause: The fatal Subject of what she cried, in passing by me, were these;  

Poor Lycidus for shame arise,  
And wipe Love's Errors from thy Eyes;  
Shake off the God that holds thy Heart;  
Since Silvia for another burns,  
And all thy past Endurement scorns  
While thou the Cully art.   
I believed, as she spoke, that I had ill understood her, but she repeated it so often, that I no longer doubted my wretchedness. I leave you, who so well can guests, to imagine, what Complaints I made, filling the Grove, where I was laid, with my piteous Cries; sometimes I rose and raved, and railed on Love, and reproached the fair Fugitive. But the tender God was still pleading in my Heart, and made me ever end my noisy Griefs in Sighs and silent Tears. A thousand Thoughts of revenge I entertained against this happy Rival, and the charming ingrate: But those Thoughts, like my Rage, would also end in soft reproaching murmurs and regret only. And I would sometimes argue with Love in this manner.  

Ah, cruel Love! when will thy Torments cease?  
And when shall I have leave to die in Peace?  
And why, too charming and too cruel Maid,  
Couldst thou not yet thy fleeting Heart have stayed?  
And by degrees thy fickle Humour shown,  
By turns the Enemy and Friend put on:  
Have used my Heart a little to thy scorn,  
The loss at least might have been easier born.  
With feigned Vows, (that poor Expense of  
Breath,)  
Alas thou mightst have soothed me to my death.  
Thy Coldness, and thy visible decays  
In time had put a period to my days.  
And laid me quietly into my Tomb,  
Before thy proof of Perjuries had come.  
You might have waited yet a little space  
And saved mine, and thy, Honour this disgrace;  
Alas I languished and declined apace.  
I loved my Life too eagerly away  
To have disturbed thee with too long a stay.  
Ah! could you not my dying Heart have fed  
With some small Cordial Food, till I was dead?  
Then uncontrolled, and unreproached your Charms  
Might have been rendered to my Rival's Arms.  
Then all my right to him you might impart,  
And Triumphed o'er a true and broken Heart.   
Though I complained thus for a good while, was not without some secret hope, that what I had heard was not true; nor would I be persuaded to undeceive myself of that hope which was so dear and precious to me. I was not willing to be convinced I was entirely miserable, out of too great a fear to find it true; and there were some Moment's in which I believed Fame might falsely accuse Silvia, and it did not seem reasonable to me, that, after all the Vows and Oaths she had made, she should so easily betray 'em, and forgetting my Services, receive those of another, less capable of rendering them to her advantage. Sometimes I would excuse her ungratitude with a thousand things that seemed reasonable, but still that was but to make me more sensible of my disgrace; and then I would accuse myself of a thousand weaknesses below the Character of a Man; I would even despise and loathe my own easiness, and resolve to be no longer a Mark-out-fool for all the Rhyming Wits of the Island to aim their Doggerel at. And grown, as I imagined, brave at this thought, I resolved first to be fully convinced of the perfidy of my Mistress, and then to rend my Heart from the attachment that held it.  
You know, that from the Desert of Remembrance, one does, with great facility, look over all the Island of Love. I was resolved to go thither one day; and where indeed I could survey all things that past, in the Groves, the Bowers, by Rivers, or Fountains, or whatever other place, remote or obscure 'twas from thence, that one day I saw the faithless Silvia, in the Palace of True Pleasure, in the very Bower of Bliss with one of my Rivals, but most intimate Friend.  

'Twas there, I saw my Rival take  
Pleasures, he knew how to make;  
There he took, and there was given,  
All the Joys that Rival Heaven;  
Kneeling at her Feet he lay,  
And in transports died away:  
Where the faithless suffered too  
All the amorous Youth could do.   

The Ardour of his fierce desire  
Set his Face and Eyes on fire.  
All their Language was the Blisses  
Of Ten thousand eager Kisses.  
While his ravished Neck she twined  
And to his Kisses, Kisses joined.  
Till, both inflamed, she yielded so  
She suffered all the Youth could do.   
In fine, 'twas there I saw that I must lose the day. And I saw in this Lover Ten thousand Charms of Youth and Beauty; on which the ingrate with greedy languishing Eyes, eternally gazed with the same Joy she used to behold me when she made me most happy. I confess, this Object was so far from pleasing me, (as I believed a confirmation would,) that the change inspired me with a rage, which nothing else could do, and made me say things unbecoming the Dignity of my Sex, who ought to disdain those faithless Slaves, which Heaven first made to obey the Lords of the Creation. A thousand times I was about to have rushed upon 'em, and have ended the Lives of the loose betrayers of my repose, but Love stepped in and stayed my hand, preventing me from an Outrage, that would have cost me that rest of Honour, I yet had left: But when my rage was abated, I fell to a more insupportable Torment, that of extreme Grief to find another possessed of what I had been so long, and with so much Toil in gaining: 'Twas thus I retired, and after a little while brought myself to make calm Reflections upon this Adventure, which reduced me to some reason. When one day as I was walking in an unfrequented Shade, whither my Melancholy had conducted me, I encountered a Man, of a haughty look and mien, his Apparel rich and glorious, his Eyes awful, and his Stature tall; the very sight of him inspired me with coldness, which rendered me almost insensible of the infidelity of Silvia. This Person was Pride, who looking on me, as he passed, with a fierce and disdainful Smile, over his Shoulder, and regarding me with scorn, said;  

Why should that faithless wanton give  
Thy Heart so mortal pain,  
Whose Sighs were only to deceive,  
Her Oaths all false and vain?  
Despise those Tears thou shedd'st for her,  
Disdain to sigh her Name.  
To Love, thy Liberty prefer;  
To faithless Silvia, Fame.   
I knew by his words he was Pride, or Disdain, and would have embraced him; but he put me off seeing Love still by me, who had not yet abandoned me, and turned himself from me with a regardless scorn, but I, who was resolved not to forsake so discreet a Counsellor, rather chose to take my leave of little Love; who had ever accompanied me in this Voyage. But oh! this adieu was not taken so easily and soon as I imagined. Love was not to be quitted without abundance of Sighs and Tears at parting, he had been a Witness to all my Adventures, my Confident in this Amour, and not to be deserted without a great deal of pain; I stayed so long in bidding the dear Boy adieu, that I had almost forgot Disdain; at last, though my Heart were breaking to part with the dear fondling, I was resolved and said;  

Farewell, my little charming Boy!  
Farewell, my fond delight,  
My dear Instructor all the day,  
My soft repose at night.  
Thou, whom my Soul has so carest,  
And my poor Heart has held so fast,  
Thou never left me in my pain,  
Nor in my happier hours;  
Thou eased me when I did complain,  
And dried my falling showers.  
When Silvia frowned still thou wouldst smile,  
And all my Cares and Griefs beguile.   

But Silvia's gone, and I have torn  
Her Witchcrafts from my Heart;  
And nobly fortified by scorn  
Her Empire will subvert;  
Thy Laws established there destroy,  
And bid adieu to the dear charming Boy.   
In quitting Love I was a great while before I could find Disdain, but I, at last, overtook him: He accompanied me to a Village, where I received a Joy I had not known since my Arrival to the Isle of Love, and which Repose seemed the sweeter because it was new. When I came to this place, I saw all the World Easie, Idle, and at Liberty: This Village is like a Desert, and all the Inhabitants live within themselves, there is only one Gate, by which we enter into it from the Isle of Love.  
This place is called Indifference, and takes its Name from a Princess inhabiting there, a Person very fair and well made; but has a Grace and Mien of so little Wit, and seems so inutile and so silly, that it renders her even ridiculous. As soon as I arrived there, I called to my remembrance all those affronts and cheats of Love, that Silvia had put upon me, and which now served for my diversion, and were agreeable thoughts to me; so that I called myself Ten thousand Sots and Fools for resenting 'em; and that I did not heartily despise 'em, laugh at 'em, and make my Pleasure with the false One as well as the rest; for she dissembled well, and for aught I knew, 'twas but dissembled Love she paid my Rivals. But I, forsooth, was too nice a Coxcomb, I could not feed as others did, and be contented with such Pleasures as she could afford, but I must engross all, and unreasonably believe a Woman of Youth and Wit had not a longer Race of Love to run than to my Arms alone. Well, 'tis now confessed I was a Fool, nor could I hinder myself from saying a thousand times a day;  

That Coxcomb can ne'er be at ease,  
While Beauty enslaves his Soul.  
'Tis Liberty only can please,  
And he that's Fettered is an Owl.   
I found it very convenient and happy to disengage from Love, and I have wondered a thousand times at the Follies that God has made me commit: And though I sometimes thought on Silvia, I thought her less charming and fair than she was before her fall; and the Humour I now was in represented her no more meriting that Passion I once had for her, and I fancied she had lost all those Graces for which once I loved her: In fine, I was so wholly recovered of my disease of Love for Silvia, that I began to be uneasy for want of employing my Addresses; and a change from so violent a Passion to such a degree of coldness, became insupportable to one of my Youth and natural Gaiety; insomuch, that I was seized with a Dulness, or Languishment, and so great a fit of Melancholy, as I had never felt the like; and my Heart, that was so accustomed to Love, was so out of Humour, that it had no Object or Business for thought, that it lost all its Harmony and Wit; it having nothing to excite it to Life and Motion, passing from so vast a degree of tenderness to an unconcern equally extreme. I thought it rude, ill-bred, and idle, to live so indifferent and insignificant a Life. And walking perpetually by myself, (or with those of my own Sex, that could not make my diversion,) I sung all day this following Song to a Humdrum Tune, to myself;  

Not to sigh and to be tender,  
Not to talk and prattle Love,  
Is a Life no good can render,  
And insipidly does move:  
Unconcern does Life destroy,  
Which, without Love, can know no Joy.   

Life, without adoring Beauty,  
Will be useless all the day;  
Love's a part of Human Duty,  
And 'tis Pleasure to obey.  
In vain the Gods did Life bestow,  
Where kinder Love has nought to do.   

What is Life, but soft desires,  
And that Soul, that is not made  
To entertain what Love inspires,  
Oh thou dull immortal Shade?  
Thou'dst better part with Flesh and Blood,  
Than be, where Life's not understood.   
These were my notions of Life; and I found myself altogether useless in the World without Love; methought I had nothing to animate me to Gallant things, without Love, or Women: I had no use of Wit or Youth without the fair, and yet I did not wish wholly to engage myself neither a second time, having been so ill-treated before by Love: But I found there were ways to entertain one's self agreeably enough without dying or venturing the breaking of a heart for the matter: That there were Beauties to be obtained without the hazard of hanging or drowning one's self: I never had tried, but I found it natural enough to my Humour and Constitution, to flatter and dissemble, swear and lie; I viewed myself in my Glass, and found myself very well recovered from the Ruins my first Amour had made, and believed myself as fit for Conquest, as any Sir Fopling, or Sir Courtly Nice of 'em all. To this fine Person and good Mien and Shape, (as I thought,) I added handsome Dressing, the thing that takes the Heart infinitely above all your other Parts, and thus set out a snare for vain Beauty; I every day went out of the City of Indifference, to see what new Adventures I could meet withal.  
One day I encountered a Woman, who, at first sight appeared very agreeable; she had an Air easy, free, and Galliard; such as fails not to take at first view: This was Coquettre, who, the very first time she saw me, Addressed herself to me with very great Complaisance and good Humour, and invited me to her Apartment, where she assured me I should not fail to be entertained very agreeably; and at the same time pulling out of her Pocket a Paper, she showed me these Words written;  

Let Love no more your Heart inspire,  
Tho' Beauty every hour you see;  
Pass no farther than desire,  
If you'll truly happy be.  
Every day fresh Objects view,  
And for all have Complaisance.  
Search all places still for new,  
And to all make some Advance;  
For where Wit and Youth agree,  
There's no Life like Gallantry.   

Laura's Heart you may receive,  
And tomorrow Julia's prize:  
Take what young Diana gives,  
Pity Lucia when she dies:  
Portia's Face you must admire,  
And to Clorin's Shape submit.  
Phillis Dancing gives you Fire,  
Celia's Softness, Clara's Wit.  
Thus all at once you may pursue,  
'Tis too little to Love two.   

The powerful smiling God of Hearts  
So much tenderness imparts,  
You must upon his Altars lay  
A thousand Offerings every day:  
And so soft is kind desire;  
Oh! so Charming is the Fire,  
That if nice Adraste scorns,  
Gentler Ariadne burns.  
Still Another keep in play  
(If One refuse,) to give you Joy.   

Cease therefore to disturb your Hours,  
For having two desires  
A Heart can manage two Amours.  
And burn with several Fires.  
The day has hours enough in store  
To visit two or half a score.   
I gave her thanks for her good Counsel, and found I needed not much persuasion to follow Coquettre to a City that bears her Name, and I saw over the Gate of the City at my Entrance, these Verses writ in Gold Letters;  

The God of Love beholding every day  
Slaves from his Empire to depart away;  
(For Hearts that have been once with Love fatigued,  
A second time are ne'er again intrigued:  
No second Beauty e'er can move  
The Soul to that degree of Love.)  
This City built, that we might still obey,  
Tho' we refused his Arbitrary Sway:  
'Tis here we find a grateful Recompense  
For all Loves former Violence;  
Tired with his Laws we hither come  
To meet a kinder softer doom.  
'Tis here the God, without the Tyrant, Reigns,  
And Laws agreeable ordains;  
Here 'tis with Reason and with Wit he Rules,  
And whining Passion Ridicules.  
No check or bound to Nature gives,  
But kind desire rewarded thrives.  
Peevish uneasy Pride, the God  
Has banished from the blessed abode:  
All Jealousies, all Quarrels cease,  
And here Love lives in perfect Peace.   
This agreeable description, gave me new desire to enter into the City; where I encountered a thousand fine Persons all gloriously dressed, as if they were purposely set out for Conquest: There was nothing omitted of Cost and Gallantry, that might render 'em entirely Charming, and they employed all their Arts of Looks and Dress to gain Hearts.  
It is, in a word, from these fair Creatures you are to draw your Satisfaction, and 'tis indeed at a dear rate you buy it, yet, notwithstanding the Expense, a world of People pursue 'em.  
When I came into the City, I was soon perceived to be a Stranger there, and while I was considering whither I should go, or how to address myself to these fair Creatures, a little Coquett Cupid presented himself to me for a kind Instructor; and to explain him, this in a word is his Character:  
He is of the same Race with the other Cupids, has the same Mother too, Venus: He wears a Bow and Arrows, like the rest of the young Loves; but he has no Bando, nothing to cover his Eyes, but he sees perfectly; nor has he any Flambeau: And all the Laws of Coquettre he understands and observes exactly.  
I had no sooner received the little Charming God, but he instructed me in all the most powerful Arts to please, in all his little wiles and agreeable deceits; all which he admits of as the most necessary Recourses to that great end of Man, his true diversion: With all which I was so extremely pleased, that resolving to be his Votary, I followed him to the most delightful place in the World, the City of Gallantry.  
Gallantry is a City very magnificent; at the Entrance of the Gate you encounter Liberality, a Woman of great Wit, delicate Conversation and Complaisance: This Lady gives her Passport to all that enter, and without which, you cannot pass, or at least, with great difficulty; and then too you pass your time but very ill; and the more Passports you have, the better you are received from the fair Inhabitants, and pass your time more agreeable with the fine Conversation you meet with in this City. Love told me this, and it was therefore that I took a great many Passports from this acceptable Person Liberality. But what renders you yet more Favoured by the Fair and the Young who reside at Gallantry, is, to have a delicate soft Wit, an assiduous Address and a tender way of Conversing; but that which best cullies and pleases the Generality of People there, is Liberality and Complaisance: This place of so great Divertisement is refrequented with all the Parties of the best and most amiable Company, where they invent a thousand new Pleasures every day; Feasting, Balls, Comedies, and Sports, Singing and Serenades, are what employs the whole Four and twenty hours.  
By the Virtue of my Passports from Liberality, I was introduced to all the fine Conversations and Places that afford Pleasure and Delight: I had the good Fortune to make Parties, insomuch, that I was soon known to all the Company in the City, and past the day in Feasting, going with the Young and Fair to delightful Villas, Gardens, or Rivers in Chases, and a thousand things that pleased; and the Nights I passed in Serinading, so that I did not give myself time for Melancholy; and yet for all this I was wearied and fatigued; for when once one has tasted of the Pleasure of Loving and being Beloved, all, that comes after that, is but flat and dull; and if one's Heart be not a little inflamed, all things else are insignificant, and make but very slight touches.  
I began therefore for all this to be extremely Shagreen and out of Humour, amidst all these Pleasures, till one lucky day I met with an Adventure, that warmed my Heart with a tender flame which it had not felt since my happy beginning one for Silvia: One day, as I said, I was conducted by my officious Cupid into a Garden very beautiful, where there are a thousand Labyrinths and Arbours, Walks, Grottoes, Groves and Thickets; and where all the Fair and the Gay resorted; 'twas here I encountered a young Beauty called Bellinda; she was well made, and had an admirable mien, an Air of Gaiety and Sweetness; but that which charmed me most of all, was her Wit, which was too engaging for me to defend my Heart against: I found mine immediately submitting to her Conversation, and you may imagine I did not part with her so long as Decency and good Manners permitted me to stay with her, which was as long as any Company was in the place; nor then, till by my importunity I had gained so much upon her to suffer my Visits, which she did with a Condescension that gave me abundance of hope.  
I was no sooner gone, but my Cupid, who took care of me, and entertained me to the best Advantage, carried me that Evening to a Ball, where there were a world of Beauties, among the rest one fair as imagination can conceive; she had all the Charms of Youth and Beauty; though not so much Wit and Air as Bellinda. To this young adorable I made my Court all the time I remained there, and fancied I never found myself so Charmed, I fancied all the Graces had taken up their dwelling in her Divine Face; and that to subdue one so fair and so innocent, must needs be an extreme Pleasure: Yet did I not so wholly fix my desires on this lovely Person, but that the Wit of Bellinda shared my Heart with the Beauty and Youth of Bellimante, so was this young Charmer called: I was extremely well pleased to find I could anew take fire; and infinitely more, when I found I should not be subdued by one alone; nor confined to dull Dotage on a single Beauty; but that I was able to attain to the greatest Pleasure, that of Loving two amiable Persons at once: If with two, I hoped I might with Two score if I pleased and had occasion; and though at first it seemed to be very strange and improbable to feel a Passion for two, yet I found it true, and could not determine which I had the greatest tenderness for, or inclination to: But 'tis most certain, that this Night I found, or thought I found, more for Bellimante, who fired me with every Smile; I confess she wanted that Gaiety of Spirit Bellinda had, to maintain that fire she raised: And ever when I was thoughtful a moment, Coquettre (who is ever in all the Conversation, and where she appears very magnificent and with a great Train,) would, smiling, sing softly in my Ear this Song, for she is very Galliard;  

Cease to defend your Amorous Heart,  
Against a double flame;  
Where two may claim an equal Part  
Without reproach or shame.  
'Tis Love that makes Life's happiness,  
And he that best would live  
By Love alone must Life caress,  
And all his Darts receive.   
Coquettre is a Person, that endeavours to please and humour every Body, but of all those who every day fill her Train, she caresses none with that Address and Assiduity as she did me, for I was a new Face, to whom she is ever most obliging and entertaining. However, notwithstanding the Advice of Coquettre, I fancied this young Charmer had engaged all my Soul; and while I gazed on her Beauty, I thought on Bellinda no more; but believed I should wholly devote myself to Bellimante, whose Eyes alone seemed capable to inflame me.  
I took my leave with Sighs, and went home extreme well pleased with this days Adventure. All this Night I slept as well as if no tenderness had touched my Heart, and though I Loved infinitely, it gave me no disturbance; the next morning a thousand pleasant things Bellinda had said to me, came into my mind, and gave me a new inclination to entertain myself with that witty Beauty; and dressing myself in haste with the desire I had to be with her, I went again, the morning being very inviting, to the Garden, where before I had seen her, and was so lucky to encounter her; I found her blush at my approach; which I counted a good O men of my future happiness; she received me with all the Gaiety and Joy good liking and Wit could inspire: Nor was I backward on my part, but addressed myself to her with all imaginable respect, and as much Love in my Eyes as I was able to put on; which, I found, she saw with Pleasure; she had not entertained me half an hour, but I was so absolutely charmed, that I forgot there was a Bellaminte in the World.  
Thus for several days I lived; every day visiting both these attracting Beauties, and at Night, when I was retired, was not able to inform myself which I liked best: Both were equally beloved, and it was now, that methought I began to taste of true Joy; I found myself in Love without any sort of inquietude, when I was Melancholy, I went to visit Bellinda, and she with her Gaiety and Wit would inspire me with good Humour; If I were overpress with good Company, and too much Conversation and Noise, I would visit Bellimante, who by a certain softness in her discourse, and a natural Languishment in her Eyes and Manners, charmed and calmed me to a reposed tranquillity; so that to make me fortunate in Love, I could not have fixed my desires better: I had too little Love to be wretched, and enough to make my happiness and Pleasure.  
After I had passed my time a while thus in Coquettre, this little Love, who was my Guide, carried me to Declaration: I thought then upon the time of my first Arrival on the Isle of Love; and how Respect, that awful hinderer of our Pleasure, prevented me from going to this Place: I urged this very argument Respect then made me, to my Coquet Love now, who for answer returned me nothing but loud Laughter; and when I asked his reason, he replied, that Respect did not forbid any to go to Declaration, but those only who knew not how to behave themselves well there, and who were not so well fashioned and bred as they ought to be, who go thither: And that it was a mere cheat in Respect to conduct people to Love by Discretion, that being much the farthest way about, and under favour to Monsieur Respect he is but a troublesome companion to a Lover, who designs to cure those wounds the fair has given him, and, if he have no better counsellor, he may languish all his life without revealing the secret of his soul to the object beloved, and so never find redress. But this Sir Formal, (Respect, says Love,) is a very great favourite of the Lady's, who is always in fee with them as a Jilt with a Justice; who manages their Fools just as they would have 'em; for it is the most agreeable thing in the World to them, and what the most feeds their vanity, to see at their feet a thousand Lovers sigh, burn, and languish; the fair are never angry to find themselves beloved, nor ever weary of being Adored. I was extremely pleased at this frank Humour of my little Love who told me this, and without much scruple or consideration to Respect I followed him towards Declaration, and in my way he gave me this Advice.  

When you Love, or speak of it,  
Make no serious matter on't,  
'Twill make but subject for her wit  
And gain her scorn in lieu of Grant.  
Sneaking, whining, dull Grimasses  
Pale the Appetite, they'd move;  
Only Boys and formal Asses  
Thus are Ridiculed by Love.   

While you make a Mystery  
Of your Love and awful flame;  
Young and tender Hearts will fly,  
Frighted at the very name;  
Always brisk and gaily court  
Make Love your pleasure not your pain,  
'Tis by wanton play and sport  
Heedless Virgins you will gain.   
By this time we were arrived to Declaration, which is a very little Village, since it is only for Passengers to pass through, and none live there, the Country is very Perilous, and those that make a false step run a great risque of falling from some Precipice: Round about rises a very great mist, and people have much ado to know each other; of these mists there are two sorts: The one on the side of Denial, the other on that of Permission, the first is very disagreeable and draws a very ill consequence with it; the other directs you to a place of entire divertisement, but I had so good a guide that the entrance gave me no trouble at all. When I came to the Village, I found Bellimante, and Bellinda, to whom by turns I told all my heart; and discovered all its passion or its tenderness which was to me much better.  

When to the charming Bellinda I came,  
With my heart full of Love and desire,  
To gain my wished end I talked of a flame,  
Of sighing, and dying, and fire,  
I swore to her charms that my soul did submit,  
And the slave was undone by the force of her Wit.  
To fair Bellimante the same tale I told,  
And I vowed and I swore her fair Eyes  
No Heart-ravished mortal could ever behold  
But he panting and languishing Dys,  
And while I was vowing, the ardour of youth  
Made myself even believe what I swore was all truth.   
I confess to you, my dear Lysander, that it was a great while before I could make myself be believed by Bellinda, or gain any credit upon her heart, she had a great deal of Wit and could see farther into the designs of her Lovers than those who had not so much, or had had so many vows paid them: I perceived well enough, I was not hated by her, and that she had not a heart wholly insensible; so that I never quitted her till I had gained so much upon her to accompany me to Permission, where for some time we pass our days very pleasantly; and having so good fortune with Bellinda, I had now a great desire to try my power over Bellimante: and where indeed, contrary to my expectation, I was not so happy: But she went from me to Denial; and I was for that hour obliged to return again to Bellinda, it was some time I searched her in vain, but at last found her at a little Village, extremely agreeable. There are very few Inhabitants, but those that are live in perpetual union, yet do not talk much, for they understand one another with half words: A sign of the Hand, the Head or the Eye, a glance or smile is sufficient to declare a great part of the Inclination. It is here where the Lover takes all freedoms, without control, and says and does all that soft Love can permit: And every day they take and give a secret Entertainment, speaking a particular Language, which every body does not understand, and none but Lovers can reply too, in effect, there are as many Languages as persons.  
The Governess of this Village is very charming to those that are acquainted with her; and as disagreeable to those that are not; she is a person of a great deal of Wit, and knows all things. She has a thousand ways to make herself understood, and comprehends all in a moment, that you would or can say to her.  
In this place, to divert, we make a thousand pretty sorts of Entertainments; and we have abundance of Artifices, which signify nothing, and yet they serve to make life Agreeable and Pleasant.  
'Twas thus I lived at Intelligence; when I understood that Bellimante was retired to Cruelty. This news afflicted me extremely, but I was not now of a humour to swell the Floods with my tears, or increase the rude winds with my ruder sighs; to tear my hair and beat my Innocent breast as I used in my first Amour to do. However I was so far concerned, that I made it my business not to lose this insensible fair one, but making her a visit in spite of her retreat, I reproached her with cruelty.  

Why, fair Maid, are you uneasy,  
When a slave designs to please you;  
When he at your feet is lying  
Sighing, languishing, and dying?  
Why do you preserve your charms  
Only for offensive Arms?  
What the Lover would possess  
You maintain but to oppress.  
Cease, fair Maid, your cruel sway,  
And let your Lover die a nobler way.   
Who the Devil would not believe me as much in love now as I ever was with Silvia: My heart had learned then all the soft Language of Love which now it could prattle as naturally as its Mother Tongue; and sighing and dying was as ready for my mouth as when it came from my very heart; and cost me nothing to speak; Love being as cheaply made now by me as a barter for a Horse or a Coach; and with as little concern almost: It pleased me while I was speaking, and while I believed I was gaining the vanity and pleasure of a conquest over an unvanquished heart. However I could yet perceive no Grist come to my Mill; no heart to my Lure; young as it was, it had a cunning that was harder to deceive than all Bellinda's Wit: And seeing her persist still in her Resolution I left her with a heart, whose pride more than Passion resented the obdurateness of this Maid, I went as well composed however as I could to Intelligence; and found even some pleasure in the cruelty and charming resistance of Bellimante, since I proposed to myself an infinite happiness in softening a heart so averse to Love, and which I knew I should compel to yield some time or other with very little pains and force.  

Oh! what Pleasure 'tis to find  
A coy heart melt by slow degrees;  
When to yielding 'tis inclined,  
Yet her fear a ruin sees.  
When her tears do kindly flow,  
And her sighs do come and go.   

Oh! how charming tis, to meet  
Soft resistance from the fair;  
When her pride and wishes meet  
And by turns increase her care.  
Oh! how charming 'tis to know,  
She would yield but can't tell how,  
Oh! how pretty is her scorn  
When confused 'twixt Love and Shame,  
Still refusing (though she burn,)  
The soft pressures of my Flame.  
Her Pride in her denial lies,  
And mine is in my Victories.   
I feigned nevertheless abundance of Grief to find her still persist in her rigorous Cruelty; and I made her believe, that all my absent hours I abandoned myself to sorrows and despairs; though Love knows I parted with all those things in Silvia's Arms. But whatever I pretend, to appear at Cruelty and before Bellimante; at Intelligence I was all Galliard and never in better Humour in my Life than when I went to visit Bellinda: I put on the Gravity of a Lover, and beheld her with a Solemn Languishing Look: In fine, I accustomed myself to counterfeit my Humour, whenever I found it convenient for my Advantage: Tears, Vows, and Sighs cost me nothing, and I knew all the Arts to jilt for Love, and could act the dying Lover, whenever it made for my Satisfaction.  

He that would precious time improve,  
And husband well his hours,  
Let him complain and die for Love,  
And spare no Sighs or Showers.  
To second which, let Vows and Oaths  
Be ready at your will,  
And fittest times and seasons choose,  
To show your cozening skill.   
In fine, after I had sufficiently acted the Languishing Lover, for the accomplishment of all my Wishes, I thought it time to change the Scene, and without having recourse to Pity, I followed all the Counsels of my Cupid; who told me, that in stead of dying and whining at her Feet, and damning myself to obtain her Grace, I should affect a Coldness, and an Unconcern; for, Lycidus, assure yourself, said he, there is nothing a Woman will not do, rather than lose her Lover either from Vanity or Inclination. I thanked Love for his kind Advice; and to pursue it, the next day I dressed myself in all the Gaiety imaginable: My Eyes, my Air, my Language, were all changed; and thus fortified with all the put-on indifference in the World, I made Bellimante a Visit; and after a thousand things all cold and unconcerned, far from Love or my former Softness, I cried laughing to her;  

Cease, cease, that vain and useless scorn,  
Or save it for the Slaves that die;  
I in your Flames no longer burn,  
No more the whining Fool you fly;  
But all your Cruelty defy.   

My Heart your Empire now disdains,  
And Frown, or Smile, all's one to me:  
The Slave has broke his Servial Chains,  
And spite of all your Pride is free  
From the Tyrannic Slavery.   

Be kind or cruel every day,  
Your Eyes may wear what dress they please,  
'Twill not affect me either way,  
How my fond Heart has found its Peace,  
And all my Tears and Sigh cease.   

I must confess you're wondrous fair,  
And know, to conquer such a Heart;  
Is worth an Age of sad despair,  
If Lovers Merits were Desert:  
But you're unjust as well as fair,  
And Love subsists not with despair,  
No more than Lovers by the Air.   

I've spared no Sighs nor Floods of Tears,  
Nor any thing to move your Mind,  
With sacred Vows I fed your Cares;  
But found your rebel Heart unkind,  
And Vanity had made you blind.   

No more my Knees shall bow before  
Those unconcerned and haughty Eyes,  
Nor be so senseless to adore  
That Saint, that all my Prayers despise:  
No, I contemn your Cruelty  
Since in a Humour not to die.   
Having said all this with an Air of Disdain, I, smiling, took my leave, with much less Civility and Respect than I used to do; and hasting to Intelligence, I passed my time very well with Bellinda, to whom I paid all my Visits, and omitted nothing that might make Bellimante know I had forgot her: But at the end of some days by a very happy change, she finding more inclination to Love than to Cruelty, banishing all Obstacles in Favour of a Lover, she came to Intelligence; where at first sight she made me some little Reproaches, and that in so soft a manner, that I did not doubt but I had touched her Heart: I swore a thousand times, that all I had done, was only put on to see if it were possible she could resent it, and force from her Heart some little concern for my supposed loss. At this time I had abundance of Intrigues upon my hands, for it was not with Bellinda and Bellimante, with whom I lived in this manner; and indeed it is impossible to remain at Intelligence and to make a Court but to two Persons only, where there are so many of the Fair and the Young. I writ every day several Billets; and received every day as many: I had every day two or three Rendezvous; and one ought to manage matters very discreetly, that neither Party might come to the knowledge of the others concern; and one ought to be a Man of great Address and Subtlety to love more than one securely; and though this gave me some pain, it was nevertheless an Ambaras very agreeable, and in which I could have lived a great while; if Envy, which cannot suffer any Body to be happy in Intelligence, had not arrived there and told a great many things which discovered my Intrigues; so that Bellinda, with whom I had lived there with great Tranquillity a long time, and Bellimante, with whom I was but just beginning to be happy, were both obliged to quit this delightful place, where we enjoyed so many happy hours; and they retired till the noise was a little over; and with them all those who had afforded me any hope: If any one of these had stayed, I had been contented well enough and one might have consoled me for the loss of the other, but in one day to lose all that made my happiness, put me into such a Melancholy, I knew not for the present what to do for myself; but Coquet Love conducted me to a Village, that gave a me new Pleasure: The situation of it is marvellous, the Fields and the Groves all about it the most pleasant in the World; the Meadows enamelled with Rivulets, which run winding here and there, and lose themselves in the Thickets and the Woods. In going, Love said to me: In absence it is in vain to abandon yourself to sorrow. Alas! What signifies it to sigh night and day; the Absent does not hear us; nor can the most tender Affliction or Complaint render a Lover happy, unless the Fair One were present to hear all his Moans, than perhaps they might avail. There was reason in what he said, and I was pleased and calmed; and we arrived at the same time at this Village: All the Houses were fine, and pleasant, we saw all the Graces there by Fountains and by Flowery Springs, and all the Objects that could be imagined agreeable; and the least amiable ones, we saw, gave us a Joy! All the World that inhabit there contribute to Diversion; and this place is called Amusement: Amusement is a young Boy, who stops and gazes at every thing that meets his Eyes, and he makes his Pleasure with every Novelty.  
As soon as I arrived at this Village I thought to divert myself, as others did; and to hinder my Thoughts from fixing on the loss of my two Mistresses, and to banish from my mind the Shagrins their Absence gave me; withdrawn from the fair Eyes of Bellimante, and the Charming Wit of Bellinda, and to give my sighing Heart a little ease; upon a thousand Objects I form my desires, and took a thousand Pleasures to divert my Melancholy: And all the time I lived at this dear place, I passed my time without any inquietude; for every day afforded me new Objects to give me new Wishes. And I now expected, without much impatience, the return of Bellinda and Bellimante; nor did I tyre myself with writing to 'em every day; and when I did write, to save the expense of thought, the same Billet served both; a thousand little tender things I said of course to both: And sometimes, especially while I was writing, I thought I had rather have seen them than have lived at Amusement, but since it was necessary they should be absent, I bore it with all the Patience I could; sometimes we were in a fit of writing very regularly to one another, but on a sudden I received no Letters at all; the reason of this was, they both understood I lived at Amusement, and had retired themselves to the Palace of Spite: I no sooner received this News, but I rendered myself there also; it is a place where there is always abundance of Tumult, Outrage, Quarrels and Noise: And Spite is a Person who eternally gives occasion of Discontent and Broil; causing People often to fall out with those they love most, and to caress those they hate: But the Quarrels she occasions us with those we love, last but a very short season, and Love reconciles those differences that Spite obliges us to make: Tho' 'tis sometime pleasant enough to see those we Love extremely, and violently, fall into the highest rage, and say a thousand things injurious and unreasonable, and to swear all the Oaths that angry Love and Fury can inspire, never to see or converse with one another again, and in a moment after to grow calm, weep, and reunite; to be perjured on both sides, and become more fond than ever they were.  

A Lover's Rage and Jealousy  
One short moment does confess:  
How can they long angry be  
Whose Hearts are full of tenderness?   
In this Place there would be eternal War, but for a person who inhabits there, and is always the Mediator for Peace, 'tis he that assists to accommodate and bring the Lovers together. This is a very honest person, called Right Understanding, he brought me to Bellinda, whom I found accompanied with a Man that made her a thousand caresses, at my approach she made as if she knew me not, which I took in such disdain, that I applied myself to Spite, with a design to be revenged on this Haughty scorner. In this humour I made a visit to Bellimante but found her as Implacable as Bellinda, whom no excuses, no reason, could reduce to the temper I had once seen her; in a rage, ten times more than I was before, filled with disdain and revenge I complained of this treatment to my little Love, who immediately led me into a Grove, where the Beauties and the Graces used to walk, to consult upon what return to make for my affront; from one place to another we passed on till we came to a little Thicket, on the other side of which, by a little Rivulet we could hear, but not see, two persons discoursing, they were women, and one seemed in a violent Rage against her Lover, who had newly offended her, whilst the other strove in vain to reconcile her, but she went on, vowing to revenge herself with the next object she should Encounter that had but Wit, Youth, and fortune enough to Justify her Love, and make her conquest glorious; her resolution agreeing so with mine, and her manner of speaking, gave me new hope and pleasure, and a great curiosity to see her face; I found by her Resentment she was young and of Quality, and that alone was enough to make me resolve upon Addressing myself to her, and the other person had no sooner left her, but I advanced towards her, with as good a grace as I could put on, she was a little surprised, and blushing at first, but I soon reconciled her to my conversation. I found her handsome enough to engage me, and she was as well pleased with me as I was with her, both having the same design which was that of revenge, and you may Imagine, our business being the same, our entertainment was not at first extraordinary, but as my cause of Anger was more reasonable than hers, I began to find myself to soften into liking of this new fair one, who was called Cemena, and who, to spite her former Lover, endeavoured to be seen with me in all the public places she could, which gave him Infinite torments of Jealousy. One day as I was walking with this Cemena in a place where the young and the fair frequent, Bellinda and Bellimante often passed by us, and saw us both well pleased and in good humour, I could perceive their colour go and come, and that they were as uneasy at this object, as my heart could wish, and by their quitting of the place immediately after, I was assured of all my hope, and believed I had gained my Point; at the end of two or three days, one Morning walking alone in the same place I encountered Bellimante, who happened to be attended with her Woman only, she changed colour at my approach, and would have passed me by but I stayed her by the Robe; and said a thousand things to her that angry Love inspired me with, while she on her side did the same, till we had talked ourselves by degrees into reason, and good understanding. I found her Resentment to be only the excess of Love, and all those faults are easily forgiven, I immediately threw myself at her Feet, and made her a thousand protestations of my fidelity, and she, in her turn, excused herself with all the tenderness imaginable, she made me a thousand new vows and caresses and forgot nothing that might persuade me, that all she did was by the Counsel of Spite.  

Oh! how soft it is to see  
The fair one we believe untrue,  
Eagar and impatient be  
To be reconciled a new;  
When their little cheats of Love  
Shall with reasons be excused,  
Oh! how soft it is to prove,  
With what ease we are abused!   

When we come to understand  
How unjust are all our fears;  
And to feel the lovely hand  
Wiping from our Eyes the tears.  
And a thousand Favours pay  
For every drop they kiss away,  
Oh! how soft it is to yield,  
To the maid just reconciled.   
I found this accommodement extremely agreeable, and it was in these transports the Lovely Bellimante detained me for some days without quiting her, but I found too much Joy in a new reconciliation not to endeavour to make one also with Bellinda; as soon then as Bellimante grew a little off my heart by so long a conversation with one and the same Woman, I, on pretence of some affairs, left her extremely charmed and satisfied, and hasted to Bellinda, who, methought, was now a new Beauty; at least I found her too considerable to lose the Glory of engaging her entirely; 'tis possible that both these Ladies, being agitated with as little faith as myself, deceived me with the same design I did them, to make their pleasure only, and though this very often came into my thoughts, yet it gave me no great inquietude, they dissembled well, and I could not see it, I had the satisfaction and the vanity of 'em, that was as much as I desired from any of the fair since Silvia touched my heart, they both swore they loved and both feared to displease, if they were unfaithful they had a thousand stratagems to hide their infidelity, and took a great deal of care to keep me, which showed a value in me above all the rest of my Rivals, and I beheld myself with some Pride and esteem for having so much power; when ever they offended me they had all the Arts to mollify me, and who would be so critically in love as not to be willing to be so well abused? For my part, I will not be so nice, as to penetrate into their thoughts, to find what would but displease me if found; but content myself with all I see and find that looks like Love at least and good humour. Nay even in their worst I find a thousand pleasures, those of their quarrels which sometimes happen twenty times a day, when every reconciliation is like a new Mistress, so well they strive to please and be reconciled.  
But all these pleasures did not satisfy me, there were greater yet behind which I had not arrived to with these fair charmers, and however I lived at Amusement, making a thousand Amours with a hundred of the most Beautiful, still I had a desire to subdue entirely to my pleasure these two the most hard to gain, but now I was pretty well secured of both their hearts and yet neither knew, they were each others Rivals in mine. They knew one another, conversed, and played and walked together, yet so discreet I was in this Amour that neither was jealous of the other, nor suspected I loved both with an equal Ardour; when I happened to be with 'em both I carried myself so equally Gallant that both commended my conduct and imagined I did it to hide the secret passion I had for herself, and so many little Arts my Coquet love had taught me I could with ease manage abundance of intrigues at one and the same time.  
But as I said, this did not suffice, nor could the fires, that some more willing Beauties allayed, hinder me from wishing and burning and pursuing those two fair persons with an Ardour that had no appearance of decay from any others goodness to me, but in my daily visits to'em, I eternally solicited them to suffer me to accompany them to that charming place called Favours, which is a very Beautiful Castle raised in a Valley. I confessed to you that my Coquet Cupid advised me not to go, for fear of attaching myself too much to a place so extremely agreeable; the Mountains, that environ this Castle, are very high and full of hollow Rocks, which made the situation very sullen. The Castle itself was delicately built, and surrounded with tall Trees, so thick that one could hardly see the Edifice, nor could the Sunbeams dart throw the gloomy shade; and eternal Night seemed to sit there in awful state and pleasure: For the more obscure this place is and secret from all Eyes, the better and more acceptable it is to all that enter there, and though this Valley have many inhabitants, it appears to have none at all; because they love solitude, and, banishing all Public society, content themselves only to be but two in company together, if there be more they are received with a very ill welcome, for a third Person in this place would destroy the Pleasure and the harmony. The Inhabitants of this Castle never show themselves but to those that are very importune, and then not every day, the Ladies that command there are many Sisters all of the name of the Castle; and all very fair, and still one more fair than the other, and when you visit 'em you see'em not all at once but by degrees and the last you behold is the fairest, and by the pleasure you have in seeing one, you desire to see'em all. For there are no limits to be given to desire; and as they are never seen by any body altogether, it happens very often that you see but one, and you must have address and great assiduity, abstinence, and good fortune to obtain one of these Favours; but the last will cost you much more trouble than all the rest put together, so very fair, so very nice and coy she is: But when once obtained she brings you to the Palace of entire Pleasure; which is neighbouring to the Castle of Favours; but I, who would very fain, at once, have brought to this delicate place both Bellinda and Bellimante; found myself extreme uneasy, because, as I said, only two can be well entertained at a time! I found it against my humour and against the advice of Love to abandon all, and retire with one only, for in decency and good manners, those, who go to this Castle of Favours, are obliged to continue there some time; and I found, I should be extremely chagrin after a little while with one alone; but both were obstinate and would not suffer a third: and having been so very importune with both, I was ashamed to repent and recant all those things I had said, to persuade them to go, though in my heart I was very ill satisfied I had not pursued the counsel, Love had given me not to go to Favours at all; he foreseeing an inconveniency in such a retreat, which I, with all my young desires about me and fond of novelty, could not, so well as he, discern, however I had proposed it with some ardency and would not go back, but resolved to make the best advantage of my voyage, and would not declare my regreet till I could no longer hinder it: So that Bellimante, yielding to my Imploring, consented next day to go with me to this retreat of Favours.  
Accordingly the next morning we set out for this amiable place; where we arrived, and finding myself all alone, without interruption or fear, with this very fair Creature, I advanced to a thousand Freedoms which she, with some resistance, permitted me to take: I was all Joy and Transport at every advance, and still the nearer I approached to the last Favour, the more blest I imagined myself; I grew more resolved, and she more feeble: and at last, I was the Victor and Bellimante the Victim; I remained some days with her, and one would have imagined I should have been entirely happy in this place with one so young and fair: But behold the fickleness of Youth, and Man's nature.  

Tho' my Heart were full of Passion,  
And I found the yielding Maid  
Give a loose to inclination  
While her Love her Flame betrayed;  
Yet though all she did impart,  
Pain and Anguish pressed my Heart.   

Tho' I found her all o'er Charming,  
Fond and sighing in my Arms;  
Yet my Heart anew was warming  
For Bellinda's unknown Charms;  
Thought, if Beauty pleased me so,  
What must Wit and Beauty too?   
And though next day I found myself an hundred times more in Love with Bellimante than before, yet unless I could possess Bellinda too, I thought myself miserable: Yet every time she charmed me anew I was upon the point of renouncing eternally Bellinda, and sacrificing her to my Passion for Bellimante: But I did not remain long in that Humour, but every day grew more and more unresolved in that point; and as Bellimante grew more fond I grew more cold; not but I had learned to say so many kind and soft things in the time of my real Passion with Silvia, that I found it easy to speak every day such endearing Words as gave her no doubt of my Heart; nor was willing she should see to the bottom of it, where she would most certainly have found Bellinda; yet with such a mixture of Passion for herself, that it would have been hard to have distinguished, which had had the ascendant there; only my desire at present was the most considerable for the fair Object I had not yet possessed, and whom I longed to vanquish; perhaps, as much for the Glory, as the Pleasure, though my Heart did not at this moment think so.  
After some time that I had lived here with Bellimante, I made some pretext to leave her for a little while; she; who was extremely charmed with that Solitude, resolved to wait there my return, so that I had some pain in contriving how I should bring Bellinda to the same Castle as I wished to do; but it had in it many Mansions and Apartments, and, as I said, so retired from one another, that it was difficult to come at any time together or to meet: This consideration made me resolved, and very pressing with Bellinda, to go to this place, assuring her of such Diversion as she never met with in any other part of the World: She loved and was not long in persuading, and I had the Glory to conduct her in spite of all her Wit and Gaiety, to this retreat of Solitude with me; where, unperceived, I obliged her to render me all that Love could allow, and more than Honour would permit: And I was for some days extremely happy, and possibly had continued so, (going from one Apartment to another, and, like the Great Sultan, visiting by turns my Beauties,) had not a malicious fate prevented my Grandeur and Pleasure.  
It happened one day that I had sued a repetition of Favours from Bellinda; she seeming resolved to grant me no more, repenting of those I had taken, and with a charming Sorrow reproaching me, making me a thousand times more pressing than before: At last her force growing weaker, her denials fainter, and my importunities more raging; I found her yielding, the Lily in her Face gave place to the Roses, and Love and Trembling made her Eyes more fair, and just ready to render me all. We saw approaching us Bellimante, who, having heard how I sometimes past my hours, resolved to surprise me in my perfidy; and accordingly found us in a gloomy Arbour with all the Transports of Love in both our Faces, which it was too late to resettle and hide from this too sensible and jealous fair One: In vain I strove with all the Arguments of Love and Tenderness to appease her, or, if by any thing I said, I found her inclined to pardon me, on the other side it but served to incense and enrage Bellinda, to whom I had made equal Vows (at her coming to that place,) of eternal Fidelity. I am not able to express to you, my dear Lysander, what confusion I found myself in, I divided my Heart and my Entreaties between 'em, and knew not to which I most ardently meant 'em; I was very sensible, that while I treated both with equal Love and Respect, that I should gain neither, and yet if what I said to both had been addressed to any one of 'em, it would have prevailed; and I found it easy to have kept either, if I would resolve to quit the other; but my heart not inclining to that, or if it would, not knowing which I should choose, made me remain between 'em both the most out-of-countenanced coxcomb, that ever was taken in the cheats of Love, while both were on either side reproaching me with all the malice and noise imaginable, so that not being able longer to endure the clamour, I took my flight from 'em both, and ran with all the force I could to a Village called Irresolution; and where Coquet Love abandoned me saying that place was not proper for him.  
The Houses of this Village are for the most part not half built, but all appears very desolate and ruinous: It appertains to a Lady very fantastic of the same name. She makes a Figure pleasant enough, she never dresses herself, because she cannot determine what habit to put on; she is ever tormenting herself, still turning to this side and to that, yet never stirs from the place, because undetermined she knows not whither nor which way to go: And having so many in her mind resolves to go to neither; one always sees an Agitation in her Eyes, that keeps them in perpetual motion and fixed on nothing. You see her perpetually perplexed with a thousand designs in her head at once, but puts none of them in execution.  
I found myself in this place Embarrassed with a thousand confusions and thoughts, for Bellinda and Bellimante had equally shared my soul, and I knew not for which I should declare; nor whether the Wit and extreme good Humour of the first were more powerful upon my heart, than the Beauty and softness of the last, so that I was wholly unable to determine which I should quit, having the same sentiments for one as for the other, and resolved to abandon both rather than content myself with one: And the fear of losing one was the occasion of my losing both, in fine I was in the most cruel incertainty in the World. And I could not forbear saying a thousand times to myself,  

When Love shall two fair objects mix,  
And in the Heart two passions fix:  
'Tis a pleasure too severe,  
Cruel Joy we cannot bear.  
Too much Love for two I own,  
But too little flame for one.   
While I was thus perplexed betwixt these two violent passions, when no reason could resolve me which to choose, as I was one day meditating what to do in this extremity, a Woman presented herself to me, whose Beauty was infinitely transcending all I had ever beheld; she had a noble and Majestic mien, a most Divine Air, and her charms cast so great a Lustre that I was dazzled with Gazing on her; she struck me with so profound a respect at the first sight of her Glory's, that I could not forbear throwing myself at her feet, imploring I might be eternally permitted to Adore her; and to become her slave. When raising me from the ground, and looking on me with Eyes more Majestic than kind, she said to me in a loud voice.  

Fly, Lysidus, this hated Place,  
Too long thou'st been a slave to Love.  
Thy youth has yet a nobler Race  
In more Illustrious paths to move.  
Glory your fonder flame controls,  
Glory, the life os generous Souls.   

Once you must Love to learn to live,  
'Tis the first lesson youth should learn;  
Useful instructions Love will give,  
If you avoid too much concern:  
Loves flame, though in appearance bright,  
Deceives with false and glittering light.   

But, Lysidus, the time is come  
You must to Beauty bid adieu;  
Recall your wandering passions home,  
And only be to Glory true;  
She is a Mistress that will last  
When all Love's fires are gone and passed.   
Those words, repeated to me with an Air haughty and imperious, touched me to the very Soul, and made me blush a thousand times with shame to behold myself in that ridiculous state, almost reduced to the same tenderness for Bellinda and Bellimante I had before had for Silvia; but I soon found my error and in an instant became more in Love with Glory than I had ever been in my life. Insomuch that I resolved to leave Irresolution and follow her. I confess at first it gave my heart some little pain to withdraw and disengage it from so long and so fond a custom, and I was more than once forced to parley thus with my imtractable and stubborn heart.  

Oh! fond remembrance! do not bring  
False notions to my easy heart.  
And make the foolish tender thing  
Think, that with Love it cannot part;  
Or die when e'er the charming God  
Forsak's his old and kind abode.   

And thou, my heart, be calm and Pleased,  
For better hours thou now shalt see,  
Of all thy Anxious torments eased  
From all thy toils and slavery free,  
From Beauty's Pride and peevish scorns  
From Wits Intriguing false returns.   

'Tis Honour now thou shalt pursue,  
Her dictates only shalt obey;  
Yet Beauty en Passant may view  
And be with all love's Pleasures Gay,  
Quench when you please resistless fires,  
But make no business of desires.   
Thus, my dear Lysander, following Glory, I soon arrived at the extent of the Island of Love, and there I encountered a thousand Beauties, Attractions, Graces and Agreements; all which endeavoured a new, but in vain, to engage me. I passed by 'em all without any regard only sight, as I beheld 'em with the remembrance, how once the meanest of those Beauties would have charmed me. I looked back on all those happy shades, who had been conscious of my softest pleasures, and a thousand times I sighing bid'em farewell, the Rivers, Springs and Fountains had my wishes that they might still be true and favour Lovers, as they had a thousand times done me. These dear remembrance, you may believe, stayed some time with me, yet I would not for an Empire have returned to'em again, nor have lived that life over a new I had so long and with so much pleasure pursued.  
After this I took a Vessel and put off from that shore, where, though I had met with many Misfortunes, I had also received a thousand joys: While it was in view I found myself touched with some regret, but being sailed out of sight of it, I sighed no more, but bid adieu to fond Love for ever.  

All you Beauties and Attractions,  
That make so many hearts submit;  
Soft inspires of affection  
Mistresses of dear bought wit.  
To whose Empire we resigning  
Prove our homage justly due  
After all our sighs and whining  
Dear delight we bid adieu.   

After all your fond Caprices,  
All your Arts to seem Divine,  
Painting, Patching and your Dresses,  
Easy votaries to incline.  
After all your cozening Billets  
Sighs and tears, but all untrue,  
To your Gilting tricks and quillets,  
I for ever bid adieu.    

The Table  

TO a fair Lady, sent with a Miscellany of Poems. P. 1  
To Urania in Mourning. 2  
SONG. 3  
On Beauty, A Pindaric. 4  
SONG. 10  
SONG. Ibid.  
To the Heroic Antonia. 11  
To Laurinda. 13  
On a Lady singing. 15  
To Mr. W. 16  
Armida: Or, the fair Gill. 17  
Predictions for Saturday next. 21  
To Astrea, on her sending me a Bottle of Orange Flower-Water. 22  
To Cloris, going into the Country. 23  
SONG. 24  
To a Lady, (whom he never saw, nor had any description of,) to prove he loves her, By a Person of Quality. 24  
Song by the same hand. 26  
Sleeping on her fair hand. 28  
To Gloriana, on saying I had a tough heart. Ibid.  
Sent with Ovid's Epistles to a fair Lady. 29  
Sent with a Basket of Fruit. 30  
Love cannot be indifferent. 31  
To Astrea. On her absence, during which I could not write. 32  
To the most accomplished Heroick, and incomparable, the Lady Antonia. 33  
Sent with Cowley's Works to Astrea. 35  
To my Heart. 36  
Dialogue. Thirsis and Clarona. 39  
SONG. 40  
Strephon, to his three Mistresses. 42  
To the Famed Antonia. On her Duelling. 44  
SONG. 47  
On an ungrateful and undeserving Mistress, whom he could not help loving. 49  
On the Death of Melantha. 55  
To the Nightingale coming in the Spring. 60  
A Pastoral on the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Earl of Ossory, to the Lady Mary Somerset. By Edw. Arwaker, M. A. 71  
A SONG. 80  
A Pastoral on the Death of His late Majesty, written by M. Otway. 81  
SONG. 83  
Strephon's complaint banished from Sacarisa, 84  
An Elegy written by Mr. W. O. 85  
A Pindaric to Mrs. Behn, on her Poem on the Coronation written by a Lady. 89  
To Mr. Wolseley on his Preface to Valentinan. By a Lady of Quality. 95  
Mr. Wolseley's Answer to the foregoing Copy. 96  
To the Honourable Sir Francis Fane on his Play called the Sacrifice, by Mrs. A. B. 102  
Cato's Answer to Labienus, when he 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 consult the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
To his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 the Gove●●●● 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
SONG. 〈…〉  
To Damon. 〈…〉  
Song of Basset, by Sir George Etherege, 〈◊〉  
To the Lord Bishop of Rochester on his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Plot. 120  
Upon the arrival of his Excellency the Earl of Clarendon in Ireland, by a M. of A. 122  
A Poem against Fruition, by Alexis. 127  
To Alexis in Answer to his Poem against Fruition. 129  
To Alexis, on his saying, I loved a man that talked much by Mrs. B. 132  
A Pastoral on the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, to the Lady Mary Compton by Mrs. Behn. 134  
On desire. A Pindaric by Mrs. B. 145  
Song. By a Person of Quality. 152  
Song. By a Person of Quality. 153  
Song. By the same hand. 154  
A Pastoral Song on the late King. 157  
The departure, by Damon: Novemb. 78. 159  
To Amintas, upon reading the lives of some of the Romans by Mrs. B. 161  
On the first discovery of falseness in Aminta, by Mrs. B. 164  
SONG. 167  
On a Blue spot made in a Lady's neck by Gunpowder, by a Person of Quality. 168  
On Dido. 169  
SONG. Ibid.  
The Choice. 170  
A Letter to Astrea: 171  
To Mrs. B. from a Lady who had a desire to see her. 172  
To the fair Clarinda, who made Love to me, imagined more than Woman. By Mrs. B. 175   
FINIS.   

A Miscellany OF POEMS.  

To a Fair Lady, sent with a Miscellany of Poems.  

FAir Charmer see how various Poets meet  
To lay their several Labours at your Feet,  
Whose different Fancies different Passions move,  
The grinning satire, and the smiling Love,  
And sure there's something that you may approve.  
The Volume like a Landscape will appear,  
Some parts less Beautiful, some Bright and Clear;  
But where Defects i'th' Picture you shall spy,  
Be pleased their want of Lustre to supply,  
And gild it with a Beam from your bright Eye.    

To Urania in Mourning.  

SEE where she sits in mourning Robes arrayed,  
Like Night's bright Goddess shining through a shade.  
What Charms has this fair Mourner that can make  
The sable dress of Grief such Beauty take.  
Dull Custom has prescribed this sad Attire,  
When Sorrow reigns, and Beauty would retire.  
But Sorrows self when by Urania worn,  
Looks fair and charming as the rising Morn.  
Thus when descending Angels would disguise  
Their bright celestial Form from human Eyes;  
Their Splendour through the borrowed shape will shine,  
And we perceive an Excellence Divine.   

But while this lovely mourning Nymph we view,  
We sigh, weep, languish, and turn Mourners too;  
Yet with this difference, that while others weep  
For Friends expired, and lodged in Death's calm Sleep,  
A restless waking Passion makes our Grief  
That ne'er can die, nor ever hope Relief:  
Yet would Urania from her Sorrows spare  
To my Distress one balmy pitying Tear;  
That Charity would make me bless my Pain,  
And never wish to be at Ease again.    

SONG.  

AS wretched, vain, and indiscreet  
Those Matches I deplore,  
Whose Bartering Friends in Counsel meet,  
To huddle in a Wedding Sheet  
Some miserable Pair that never met before.   

Poor Love of no account must be,  
Tho' ne'er so fixed and true,  
No Merit but in Gold they see,  
So Portion and Estate agree,  
No matter what the Bride and Bridegroom do.   

Cursed may all covetous Husbands be  
That Wed with such Design,  
And Cursed they are; For while they ply  
Their Wealth, some Lover by the By  
Reaps the true Bliss, and digs the richer Mine.    

On Beauty. A PINDARIC.  

SAY all ye Judging wise,  
Who into Nature's Secrets dive,  
And can her unknown Reasons give  
From whence great Beauties wondrous power does rise,  
Whose Universal Tyranny  
Subdues the Tributary World, and brings  
In equal Fetters Slaves and Kings,  
To languish in a soft Captivity.  
It triumphs o'er the Strong and Proud,  
It calms the Stormy and the Loud.  
The stubborn and the frozen Cold dissolves,  
Perverts the wise Man's best Resolves.  
The Genius of the Wits, and Braves employs  
In the important Subject of its Praise.  
The Fool and Coward too inspires  
This with prevailing Wit, that with Heroic Fires.   

Judah's wise King, when he  
Had studied Nature o'er and o'er,  
Surveying all her hidden Store,  
Even from the Reed to the triumphant Tree,  
Through all the spacious Universal round,  
Soft Beauty was the only good he found  
Worth setting his select Affections on.  
'Twas there he bounded his Delights,  
His cheerful Days, and charming Nights,  
On that most perfect Bliss beneath the Sun.  
Beauty alone inspired him with the Theme  
Of the bright Virgins of Jerusalem.  
From that alone his Divine Raptures sprung,  
Beauty his Business was, and Love was all his Song.  
When Alexander had his Conquest hurled  
O'er all the yielding Tributary World,  
And found no more that could afford  
New Business for his Glory, and his Sword,  
'Tis said, He wept; but when the Persian Maid  
(With greater Charms) the Hero had surveyed,  
He found the toil of Conquering her much more  
Than all his worthless Worlds before.  
He sighed and bowed, looked pale and red by turns,  
To serve her was his whole delight,  
Thinks it as brave, while thus he burns  
Under soft Venus, as rough Mars to fight.  
And Sieges lays of Sighs and Tears,  
And tells soft Stories of his Heart,  
Of restless Nights, and Days of Cares,  
Of Pains, and Flames, and wild Despairs,  
Of bleeding Wounds and Smart,  
And found that no Fatigues of War  
Were half so great as vanquishing the Fair!  
But oh, no Victory could so Charming prove,  
As that of the dear Maids confessing Love!   

David, whose harmonious String  
Could Saul's infernal Tempest calm,  
And by the Music's strange mysterious Balm,  
Appeased the Frenzies of a raging King;  
Yet stranger Charms in the fair Hittite found,  
Which kindled to a softer Fire  
His cold and languishing Desire.  
And struggling Virtue in strong Fetters bound,  
That powerful Aid was useless now,  
When yet more powerful Beauty was in view,  
He found no Music could appease  
The troubled Spirits her fair Eyes did raise.  
The Music of her Voice did but inspire  
A more tormenting Fire;  
So great a Sympathy  
There is between soft Love and Harmony.  
In the wild darkness of Idolatry  
Did Clodovaeus see  
'Twas more than vulgar Light  
That made the fair Clotilda look so bright,  
When from her conquering Eyes  
Surprised, he saw such sparkling Flames arise,  
And therefore wished to know  
The Spring from whence such streams of Light did flow.  
Why then should I,  
Ye learned Stoics tell me why?  
Think it unworthy of my Name  
To own a Generous and a Noble Flame,  
Since Love's Almighty Power  
To whom the Young, the Great and Brave,  
The Wise, the Politic and Grave,  
Have bowed to as their Conqueror.   

What reasonable Man desires to pass  
For one more great and good than David was?  
Or who for Wisdom ever hoped Renown  
Like wise, like sacred Solomon?  
Or who in glorious Arms could ever dare  
Like the famed Son of Jupiter?  
Or if thou liest beneath the common Curse  
Of being Bad, what than a Heathen worse;  
Yet Clodovaeus by Beauty's piercing fight  
Was brought from his Egyptian Night,  
Directed by so fair a Hand,  
He could not miss the promised Land.  
Then ye fond Stoics fly  
Your Learned, your Dull-School Foolery,  
And lay your Speculation by,  
Or you are greater Fops than I.  
Lay by your Books, and this believe  
By charming Beauty 'tis alone,  
That true and false are to be known,  
'Tis Beauty is alone Superlative.    

SONG.  

FReedom is a real Treasure,  
Love a Dream, all false and vain,  
Short, uncertain is the Pleasure,  
Sure and lasting is the Pain.   

A sincere and tender Passion  
Some ill Planet overrules,  
Ah how blind is Inclination,  
Fate and Women dote on Fools.    

SONG.  

AH how Dull it is to love,  
Ah how Dull is past Desire,  
How insipidly we move  
In the flames of dying Fire.  
Maidens if you will be Wise,  
Rather die than lose the Prize.   

Ah what Angel things are Men  
E'er the last Desires obtained,  
But alas are Devils when  
Cold forced Kisses are but feigned.  
Maidens ah be warned by me,  
Rather Dye than Conquered be.    

To the Heroic Antonia.  
Madam,  

WHen first I saw your Conquering Face,  
You appeared so Charming, and so full of Grace,  
My Soul was into a new Wonder wrought,  
Which took increase from every look and thought.  
In all your Actions all the Virtues shined,  
And every Word confessed your generous Mind.  
The Number of such gallant Maids are few,  
Our Age's Birth has but produced us two,  
The famed Astrea, and more famous you.  
Thou Monarch of your Sex alone dost Reign,  
And their lost Glory Nobly dost regain;  
Thou showst the Paths that do to Honour guide,  
How to be Great without the Vice of Pride.  
That vanity of a Spirit basely born,  
Thy Nobler Flights thy Sex's Arts do scorn.  
In thy gay Temper more true Grace's lie,  
Than all their boasted fond Formality.  
Would they arrive at an Immortal Fame,  
And at the Amazonian Glory's aim,  
They must your generous Precedents pursue,  
Tho' still alas they must submit to you.  
With the learned Pen of some famed ancient Wit,  
In thy high Praise a Volume might be writ;  
But humbler I with Blushes do confess,  
The Muses never did my Fancy bless  
To dip in Helicon have no pretence,  
And aim no higher than to praise with Sense;  
Since at your Feet no Sceptres I can lay,  
Let a mean Wreath of Flowers the Tribute pay.    

To Laurinda.  

PRoduce aspiring Muse thy Noblest strain,  
To sing the Charmer of our Court and Plain,  
No common one Laurinda's Praise can fit  
Empress of Beauty, Patroness of Wit.  
'Twere Sacrilege this Tribute to defer,  
For Wit was born and flourishes with her.  
She makes Wit's Court where ere she does repair,  
The Muses and the Sacred Train are there.  
Where ere she moves the Graces lead the way,  
And just Devotion to their Goddess pay.  
This is the she, whose Praise we must Indite,  
Transcending mortal Verse, and common Flight.   

Hear then industrious Muse, and understand  
The vast important Task thou hast in hand.  
Fetch me the Beauties of the blooming Spring,  
The richest Odours spicy Gales can bring.  
All Nature's scattered Glories joined in one,  
A Present to the bright Laurinda's Throne.  
The Smiles that did the Infant World adorn,  
The fairest Lustre of the Rising Morn,  
The Calm, the Joy that breaking Day inspires,  
When it to Anthems wakes the feathered Quires,  
The Souls of Stars are yet more pure and bright,  
Abstracted Beams, and Empyrean Light.  
The Pride of Halcyon Seas, unclouded Air,  
All these my Muse with wondrous skill prepare  
A Diadem for bright Laurinda's hair.   

Desist deluded Muse, we vainly toil,  
All these will prove but fair Laurinda's Foil.  
In vain thou seek'st abroad the blooming Year,  
The Beauties of the Spring are all in her.  
All Nature's scattered Glories thou wilt find  
Already centred in her Form and Mind.  
The Smiles that did the Infant World adorn,  
Less bright than those that on her Face are worn.  
Her Presence Joy and Summer calm, supplies,  
And Day is always breaking in her Eyes,  
Herself the sweetest Anthem, will inspire,  
And teach us to excel the feathered Quire.  
Her Charms excel the pride of Earth and Air,  
No Sea-born Venus e'er was half so fair.  
Thus slender Muse thy daring Course is crossed,  
And in the Ocean of Perfection lost.   

Yet something thou art still obliged to say,  
Thy grateful Offering on her Altar lay,  
And own at least the Debt thou canst not pay.  
Seize the Occasion, and this Boon obtain  
To be the humblest Waiter in her Train.    

On a Lady singing.  

HOw like Elysium is the Grove  
When chaste Dorinda sings of Love,  
It charms the troubled Soul to rest,  
And makes a Calm in every Breast,  
With various kinds of Harmony  
She strikes at once the Ear and Eye;  
So soft a Voice, and she so Fair,  
Gives double sweetness to the Air.   

The wretched Strephon dumb with Pain  
And Grief, too heavy to complain  
When young Dorinda tunes her Voice,  
Forgets his Woes, and dreams of Joys,  
Ah lovely Charmer be so kind  
To ease sometimes a tortured Mind,  
His Groans with gentle Sighs control,  
And breathe a Calm into my Soul.    

To Mr. W.  

WHY this talking still of Dying,  
Why this dismal Look and Groan,  
Leave fond Lover, leave your Sighing,  
Let these fruitless Arts alone,  
Love's the Child of Joy and Pleasure,  
Born of Beauty, nursed with Wit,  
Much amiss you take your measure,  
This dull whining way to hit.   

Tender Maids you fright from loving  
By th' effect they see in you.  
If you would be truly moving,  
Eagerly the Point pursue.  
Brisk and gay appear in Wooing,  
Pleasant be if you would please;  
All this Talking, and no Doing,  
Will not Love, but Hate, increase.    

Armida: Or, The Fair Gill.  

NOT Circe nor Medea had such Art,  
Or powerful Charms to captivate a Heart;  
Nor Syren's Voices with so pleasing sound,  
Lull those asleep whom they design to wound.  
For a new Conquest all her Skill she tries,  
But yet by different ways to gain the Prize,  
As Time and Humours fit, Her Looks appear  
Bashful sometimes, and full of Virgin fear.  
Then earnest and lascivious as she finds  
Her Beauty work upon her Lover's minds,  
When e'er the bashful Youth fears his Success:  
She gives the Trembler hopes by soft Address,  
Advances with more sweetness in her Face,  
And fires him with some kind peculiar Grace,  
Soothes his fond Heart, and dissipates his Fear,  
And thaws the Ice her Scorns had gathered there.  
But if the God of Love infuse his Dart,  
And captivate a bold and forward Heart.  
Her Eyes assume their state, and her neglect  
Creates a doubtful Fear mixed with respect.  
Yet lest too much of Scorn produce Despair,  
Some glance of kindness in her Eyes appear,  
While hardly gained she makes the blessing dear.  
But still the Cloud she cunningly declines,  
And fits her Looks to second her Designs.  
Sometimes she seems to smother Sighs with Pain,  
And calls up Tears, then turns 'em back again.  
As if the softening Tide she would not show,  
But that in spite of all her Pride, they flow.  
And all to make a thousand easy Hearts  
To weep in earnest by her cozening Arts.  
And with the flames of Pity tempers so  
The Darts of Love, none can resist the Blow.  
And when she finds a Lover coming on,  
Yet not so fast to be too soon undone,  
There all her Arts of Languishment she tries,  
Sweetens her whispering Voice, softens her Eyes,  
Touches his hand as if it were by chance,  
And yields herself to every kind advance.  
Looks on his Eyes, then straight declines her own,  
And seems to love, as not to have it shown.  
And having thus proceeded in her Art,  
Breaks forth, as if she could not guard her Heart.  
Too long, she cries, I have suppressed my Fire,  
Take all my Heart, and all Love can desire.  
Thus while she softly speaks, and sweetly smiles,  
And doubly charms the Senses by these Wiles,  
She does a Faith in strongest Souls create,  
And gains a Conquest in despite of Fate.   

Ah cruel Love! the Honey and the Gall,  
Which thou afford'st, do equally Enthral;  
And all our Ills, and all our Cures from Thee,  
Are mortal to us in the same degree:  
If any of Inconstancy complain  
Of broken Vows and her unjust disdain,  
She feigns herself unpractised in Love's Arts,  
And that she wants the charms should vanquish hearts.  
And looks with such a Blushing Modesty,  
As undeceives your fancied Injury.  
And thus the Thorn lies hid that she does bear  
Under the Roses which her Beauties wear.  
So in the earliest rise of day, we spy  
The ruddy Morning mingled with the Sky.  
While shame and anger in her looks appear,  
Both seem confusedly mixed together there.   

Thus in delusive Dream the time being spent,  
Weary with cozenage and discontent,  
Even hope itself he scarcely now retains,  
But like a Hunter at the last remains,  
Who having to no purpose spent the day,  
At last loses the tract of the lost Prey.   

Such were the Practices and such the Arts,  
By which she can ensnare ten thousand hearts;  
Or rather such the powerful arms do prove,  
By which she conquers and makes slaves to Love.    

Predictions for Saturday next.  

ON Saturday the twenty fourth,  
(The wind fresh blowing from the  
North,)  
Two glorious Stars their Spheres shall change,  
And into other Climates range.  
Then tell me, Muse, and tell me true,  
What Alterations shall ensue:  
Predict at least, what weather shall  
Our Dark Horizon then befall.  
Tempests and Earthquakes, I presage,  
Shall at that Dreadful season rage.  
A Cloud of dark desponding Fears,  
A storm of Sighs and flood of Tears;  
And many a wretched Lover's heart  
Be wrecked and torn, when they depart.    

To Astrea, on her sending me a Bottle of Orange-floure Water.  

Could I but half so rich a Verse invent,  
As was the Cordial which Astrea sent;  
My Muse herself the Messenger would prove,  
Born on the wings of Poetry and Love:  
But all the Muse's spring can ne'er repay  
The Present my Astrea did convey.  
Now, Strephon, hope, Astrea does incline  
To Pity thee, since Cordials so Divine  
Are only fit for hearts that bleed, like mine.    

To Cloris going into the Country.  

OH, tell me Cloris, tell me, why  
You take delight to see men die.  
And, Parthian-like, kill, while you fly.   

Return, if not for charity,  
At least for Pride, return to see  
The Trophies of your Victory.   

Can you such cruelty pursue?  
And make your Eyes those mischiefs do,  
Which they despise, or fear to rue?   

Ah Nymph, if you persist to take  
This course, and every place forsake,  
Assoon as you a Lover make.   

No Residence for Cloris can be found,  
Since where soe'er she goes she's sure to wound.    

SONG.  

IN vain does Hymen with Religious Vows  
Oblige his Slaves to wear his chains with ease,  
A Privilege alone that Love allows,  
'tis Love alone can make our Fetters please.   

The Angry Tyrant lays his Yoke on all,  
Yet in his fiercest Rage is charming still:  
Officious Hymen comes whene'er we call,  
But haughty Love comes only when He will.    

To a Lady, (whom he never saw, nor had any description of,) to prove he Loves her.  By a Person of Quality. 

BRightest of Virgins! Whose high Race and Name  
Bespeaks you worthy of the Noblest flame,  
Arms you with power Divine, that can dispense  
Its Influence beyond the reach of sense,  
Making us frame of you, as Heaven above,  
Ideas of our Ignorance and Love.  
Disdain not, fairest, such Devotions then  
As the best worshippers offer to Heaven.  
Nor think'em feigned, since things above do grow  
(Concealed and distant) more admired below.  
Absence creates esteem, and makes that fire  
(Which the Suns near approaches quench) aspire,  
While those who do enjoy perpetual rays  
Curse those bright Beams that Crown our Halcyon days.   

Know then, my Passion Real is and Great,  
Not such as from dull sense derives its heat,  
But Sympathy; that Royal Law that binds  
In a close union things of different kinds,  
That secret charm of Nature which inspires  
The whole creation with Harmonious fires.  
Heads Cupid's Arrows, guides his Roving, Bow,  
Extends its Empire o'er all things below.  
Since than you know I Love, how much, and how,  
If of my Passion you still disallow,  
Know then the Lot is cast, the Gods approve  
The Fates Decree, and have pronounced, I Love?    

Song  by the same hand. 

SOme Brag of there Cloris, and some of their Phyllis,  
Some cry up their Celia's and bright Amarillis,  
Thus Poets and Lovers their Mistresses Dub,  
And Goddesses frame from the Wash-boul and Tub;  
But away with these fictions, and counterfeit folly,  
There's a thousand more charms in the name of my Dolly.   

I cannot describe nor her Beauty and Wit,  
Like Manna to each she's the Relishing Bit  
She alone by enjoyment the more does prevail,  
And still with fresh pleasure does hoist up your sail,  
Nay had you a surfeit took of all others  
One Look of my Doll straight your stomach recovers.   

But when I consider her Humour and feature,  
I'm apt to suspect she's inclined to the creature,  
What contrary winds in my Breast then arise,  
What hopes and what fear and what doubt do surprise?  
What Storms do I feel of trouble and care,  
While my wishes themselves at variance are?   

For sometimes I wish her more cruel, less fair,  
But then I should either not Love, or despair:  
I'd have her to Love too, not Amorous be,  
I'd have her be coy, but kinder to me.  
But should she in me this Humour discover,  
She'd quickly discard her Impertinent Lover.    

Sleeeping on her fair hand.  

IF custom those for Poets does allow,  
That once have slept upon Parnassus' brow,  
Why may not I to that Ambition grow,  
Who Slept upon this fairer Hill of Snow.  
At least in this our fancies do agree  
They of their Mountain write and I of thee.  
And as they beg the favour of the nine,  
To match their noblest flights I ask but thine.    

To Gloriana on saying I had a tough heart.  

FIrst let the Lion dread the bleating Sheep,  
The winds be hushed, the Sea's and Fountain's sleep.  
The day's bright Empire to the night resign,  
And water freeze beneath the burning Line,  
These contradictions sooner shall be found  
Than Gloriana's Beauty fail to wound.  
Allow, fair charmer, that (as you have said,)  
My heart were of the toughest Temper made,  
What privilege can thence to me befall,  
Against those prevailing powers, that conquer all.  
If feebler charms the force of Love can show,  
Then how much deeper must his Arrows go  
When Gloriana's Eyebrow is the Bow.    

Sent with Ovid's Epistles, to a fair Lady.  

A Juster Present sure was never made,  
Than these Epistles to your hand conveyed.  
For there the Loves of Ladies most appear.  
These couplets only Strephon's Passion bear.  
A Passion true as theirs, more full of heart  
And brings in substance, what it wants in Art.  
But if in slighted Flames they ever burned  
Their wrongs upon our sex are now returned  
For never they their Lovers did pursue  
With half that Passion that I sigh for you;  
Of Love, the only Picture there you see  
But have the true Original in me.  
Your Justice therefore must this truth approve,  
They better write of Love, I better Love.    

Sent with a Basket of Fruit:  

THe Streets with flowery Garlands we should crown  
To welcome fair Astrea to the Town.  
Officious Cupids at her feet should lay  
The fairest Treasures of the Blooming May;  
But now we seek the Summer's store in vain,  
For these Autumnal Fruits alone remain,  
Which mourning Loves should to Astrea bear,  
As Legacies of the departed year.  
But when the little Messengers shall spy  
The Charming Nymph, transported they will cry,  
No more, my Mates, your Winter Presents bring,  
For we have found the Goddess of the Spring.    

Love cannot be indifferent.  

INdifference in Love? it cannot be,  
'Tis contradiction to the last degree?  
Cool temperate Passion is an empty name,  
And greater nonsense than a freezing flame:  
Hope, fear, and joy may with degrees dispense,  
These Passions but by halves affect our sense,  
But when we love, 'tis still with violence.  
And that dull Shepherd, who this truth denies  
Sure never must have seen Astrea's eyes;  
Half Beauties may perhaps half Passions move,  
But She still wounds with all the force of Love:  
Yet whilst such rigorous flames she does inspire,  
Preserves herself Unmoved by any fire:  
Who gaze upon her Charms are sure to burn,  
And are as certain to have no return,  
Yet ne'er repent them of their destiny,  
But count it greater Bliss for her to die  
Than in the Arms of other Beauty's lie.    

To Astrea, On her absence, during which I could not write.  

IF e'er I had a spark o'the Poet's flame  
From fair Astrea's quickening Beams it came.  
And since the meanest Writer will aspire  
To call his faculty a sacred fire;  
Why may not I presume that mine is so,  
That from a cause so excellent did grow?  
But it's not strange, since it was born so high  
That like an earthly vapour it should die.  
No, no, Astrea, 'tis my greatest Pride,  
That in appearance for a while it died:  
This seeming weakness proves its birth was true,  
And that the noble flame was caused by you:  
'Twas in your absence, that my Muse lay dead  
But at the sight of you lifts up its head:  
She wakes Astrea's Graces to rehearse,  
And pay the tribute of a thankful verse;  
So the Spring's Bird, the Swallow 's seen no more  
When Winter's stormy Blasts begin to roar.  
But with the Springs return, she sings again  
And takes her nimble flight o'er every Plain.  
Yet though the Poet's fire grew cold, my breast  
Retained one flame, that could not be suppressed,  
A flame, that like the other did arise,  
And first was kindled by Astrea's eye's.  
But, This no Absence can destroy, 'twill burn  
Tho' with despair oppressed and sure of no Return.    

To the most accomplished Heroick, and incomparable, the Lady Antonia.  
Madam,  

YOur charming sex, 'tis true, can only claim  
By native right th' exalted Poets flame.  
But nature has so frugally to most  
Dispensed her gifts, that few perfection boast.  
Beauty for one she thinks a Portion fit,  
Where Beauty fails she makes amends with wit.  
But where her niggard hand does neither grant,  
A generous soul supplies the double want.  
On all the rest her favours singly fall,  
Antonia only has engrossed them all.  
Thus when my Muse would show herself with Grace  
I bid her Copy from Antonia's face,  
And when with wit she would my verse inspire,  
Take from your Eyes the brisk enlivening fire.  
Or if she would present an Empress part,  
Than to consult Antonia's generous heart.  
Oh! had Apelles, when he Venus drew  
And robbed the Sex to make his Picture true,  
Had the great Artist once Antonia seen,  
Once viewed her Beauty and Heroic Mien,  
The whole sex to his Aid he need not call  
To glean the several charms—  
For in your Person he had found them all.    

Sent with Cowleys works to Astrea.  

THe Gentle Cowley, in a mournful strain,  
Once of Injurious fortune did complain.  
But thought not then, that our obliging times  
Would recompense his unrewarded Rhimes;  
For now presented at Astrea's feet  
His noble Muse her full reward does meet:  
The Mistress, whose bright charms such fame did gain,  
Was but a fair creation of his Brain.  
And nature grieved, to see the Art of thought  
Exceed the finest Pieces, she had wrought,  
Resolved to try the best her Power could do,  
Expressing all his fancied charms in you:  
Since then in you those real beauties live,  
That to those Poems such applause could give,  
No wonder that I feel a flame for you,  
Beyond what Cowley e'er described or knew,  
Think therefore, when his tender lines you see,  
Yourself the Mistress, and the Lover me.    

To my Heart.  

WHat ail'st thou, oh thou trembling thing  
To Pant and Languish in my Breast,  
Like Birds that fain would try the callow wing  
And leave the Downy nest?  
Why hast thou filled thyself with thought  
Strange, new, fantastic as the Air?  
Why to thy Peaceful Empire hast thou brought  
That restless Tyrant, Care?  
But oh alas, I ask in vain  
Thou answerest nothing back again,  
But in soft sighs Amintor's name.   

Oh thou betrayer of my liberty,  
Thou fond deceiver, what's the youth to thee!  
What has he done, what has he said  
That thus has conquered or betrayed?  
He came and saw but 'twas by such a light,  
As scarce distinguished day from night;  
Such as in thick-grown shades is found  
When here and there a piercing Beam  
Scatters faint spangled Sunshine on the ground  
And casts about a melancholy gleam,  
But so obscure I could not see  
The charming Eyes that wounded thee,  
But they, like gems, by their own light  
Betrayed their value through the gloom of Night.   

I felt thee heave at every look,  
And stop my Language as I spoke.  
I felt thy Blood fly upward to my Face,  
While thou unguarded lay  
Yielding to every word, to every Grace,  
Fond to be made a prey.  
I left thee watching in my Eyes  
And listening in my Eare.  
Discovering weakness in thy sighs  
Uneasy with thy fear.  
Suffering Imagination to deceive,  
I found thee willing to believe,  
And with the treacherous shade conspire,  
To let into thyself a dangerous fire.   

Ah foolish wanderer, say, what woudst thou do.  
If thou shouldst find at second view,  
That all thou fanciest now were true,  
If thou shouldst find by day those charms,  
Which thus observed threaten undoing harms.  
If thou shouldst find that awful mien,  
Not the effects of first Address,  
Nor of my conversation disesteem  
But noble native sullenness;  
If thou shouldst find that soft good-natured voice  
(Unused to insolence and noise,)  
Still thus adorned with modesty.  
And his minds virtues with his wit agree,  
Tell me, thou forward lavish fool,  
What reason could thy fate control,  
Or save the ruin of thy Soul?   

Cease then to languish for the coming day,  
That may direct his wandering steps that way,  
When I again shall the loud form survey.    

DIALOGUE  

Thirsis and  
Clarona,   Thirsis. 
HAil, Clarona, clear as Morning  
In its brightest gay attire,  
Love and Beauties chief adorning  
Mistress of all soft desire;  
Hail, Clarona, Joy of Swains,  
Charmer of the Fields and Plains.  Clarona. 
Thirsis, often have you crowned me  
In the Shady Cyprus Grove,  
And your flowing sighs did wound me,  
When you wept and talked of Love.  
And when for kisses you have striven,  
Tho' I cha'ft and though I cried,  
With much ado you were denied.  
But, Thirsis, if you will be true,  
I can Love as well as you,  
Tho' once I said I would deceive ye,  
Yet, my Thirsis, doubt believe me.  Thirsis. 
Oh, Clarona, Joy attend thee  
All the Gods and powers defend thee;  
Sweeter are thy words, than Song,  
Melting music's in thy Tongue.  Chorus. 
Now we'll chant, we'll live and love  
And welcome in the Spring.  
Our Pleasures we will still improve,  
In every Thicket, Shade and Grove,  
With Love and Music's trembling string.   

SONG.  

BEneath a cool shade, where some here have been,  
Convenient for Lovers, most pleasant and green;  
Alexis and Cloris lay pressing soft Flowers,  
With Kissing and Loving they passed the dull hours.  
She close in his Arms with her head on his breast,  
And fainting with pleasure; you guess at the rest:  
She blushed and she sighed with a Joy beyond measure,  
All ravished with Billing and dying with Pleasure.   

But while thus in Transports extended they lay,  
A Hansom young Shepherd was passing that way!  
She saw him and cried— oh Alexis, betrayed!  
Oh what have you done— you have ruined a Maid;  
But the Shepherd being modest discreetly passed by,  
And fest 'em again at their leisure to die.  
And often they Languished with Joy beyond measure,  
All Ravished with Billing and dying with Pleasure.    

Strephon to his three Mistresses.  

SEE, fair Astrea, what your charms can do,  
To make a Lover and a Poet two.  
Where yours and Gloriana's Powerful Beams  
With Beautiful Eliza are the Themes,  
The heaviest fancy to a Height must soar,  
So easy 'tis to write when we adore.  
Each like a Planet singly and apart  
Can through the Soul your piercing fancy's dart;  
How strangely then must you affect the mind,  
When thus in Glorious constellation joined?  
Ah! too like Planets each her power employs,  
Bright while she wounds; and shines while she destroys.  
Each is the dazzling object of desire,  
But oh! alike creates a hopeless fire.   

Astrea, always Airy, Witty, Gay,  
As Nymphs that by Diana's fountain play,  
Against th' assaults of Love her heart maintains,  
And ne'er regards the sighs of dying Swains.   

In vain I gaze on Gloriana's Eyes  
Already made another Shepherd's prize.  
One truly happy Swain enjoys entire  
Those precious charms for which the rest Expire.   

And though Eliza's free, I'm wretched still:  
For what avails the power without the will.  
How strange a fate has Love for me decreed,  
For one I burn, and for other Bleed,  
Die for the third, and yet with none succeed.    

To the Famed Antonia, on her Dwelling.  

THou Glory of the Age, best of thy kind,  
An Angel's fabric, and an Angel's mind.  
Thou, whose Heroic virtues may atone  
For all the vice thy frailer sex have shown:  
To more than common greatness thou were't born  
No scanty Glories did thy fame adorn,  
Thy Soul all Man; soft Woman all thy Form.  
At once his Arms possess, who thou▪ embrace,  
A Heroine Venus, and a Lovesick Mars.  
All that thy sex could ever render fair  
All that fond man thinks worthy of his care,  
In thy bright Mind and Body centred are,  
Some power Divine still dwells upon thy Tongue,  
And all thou speakest is one Immortal Song;  
Angels and Gods of Love do listening sit,  
Charmed with the Music of thy voice and wit.  
A wit uncircumscribed by female rules,  
That nice, that dull, excuse for silent Fools.  
You never speak, but like the sacred Word  
It does a blessing to mankind afford;  
Use and instruction 'tis, that never fails,  
A Rhetoric, that in spite of force prevails.  
Generous as nature, when first Spring she bred,  
And o'er the newborn World her Bounties shed,  
Like Heaven dispensing goodness all a round,  
And thy large Soul, like that, admits no bound.  
Oh hadst thou lived in those Illustrious days,  
When Rome did Statues to vast Merits raise,  
Thine in their Temples had Triumphant stood,  
And found an equal worship with some God.  
Fond they now adore their Portia's name,  
Who for one single wound achieved such fame,  
When 'twas but female cunning at the best,  
To buy the secret from her Husband's breast.  
'Twas Lust of curiosity alone,  
Thy undesigning valour's all thy own.  
Born in thy mighty Soul, and lives and Reigns  
Scorning returns of mercenary gains.  
Hadst thou been Portia, thou hadst farther gone,  
And not content the great design t'have known  
Hadst helped the Generous youth the deed to do,  
And amongst the number fixed thy Dagger two;  
She but th' indulgent Wife expressed alone,  
But thou much more the Wife and Friend hadst shown.  
And with a just disdain of Tyranny  
Assisted in the noble Victory,  
On thy firm faith great Brutus might rely,  
Who seeing him conquered could as bravely die:  
Let Rome adore recorded Portia's fame,  
While Britain boast's alone thy mightier na    

SONG. on occasion.  

ALL Joy to mortals! Joy and mirth  
Eternal Io's sing,  
The Gods of Love descend to Earth  
Their Darts have lost the sting.  
The Youth shall now complain no more  
On Silvias' needless scorn,  
But she shall Love, if he Adore;  
And melt when he shall Burn.   

The Nymph no longer shall be shy,  
But leave the gilting Road;  
And Daphne now no more shall fly  
The wounded panting God  
But all shall be serene and fair,  
No sad complaints of Love  
Shall fill the gentle whispering Air;  
No Echoing sighs the Grove.   

Beneath the shade's young Strephon lies,  
Of all his wish possessed,  
Gazing on Silvia's charming Eyes,  
Whose Soul is there confessed.  
All soft and sweet the Maid appears,  
With looks that know no Art;  
And tho' she yield with trembling fears,  
She yields with all her Heart.    

On an ungrateful and undeserving Mistress, whom he could not help Loving.  
Being a Paraphrastical Translation of Ovid's 10th Elegy Lib. 3. Amorum.  

I Have too long endured her guilty scorn,  
Too long her falseness my fond love has born:  
My freedom and my Wit at length I claim,  
Be gone, base Passion! dy, unworthy flame!  
My lifes sole torment, and my honour's stain,  
Quit this tired heart and end my lingering pain.  
I have resolved to be myself once more;  
Long banished reason to her rights restore.  
And throw off Loves Tyrannic sway, that still encroaching power.  
My growing shame I see at last, though late,  
And my past follies both despise and hate;  
Hold out, my heart, nor let her beauty's move,  
Be constant in thy Anger, as thy Love.  
Thy present pains shall give thee future ease,  
As bitter Potions cure, though they displease.  
'Tis for this end, for freedom more assured,  
I have so long such shameful pains endured.  
Like a scorned slave before her door I lay,  
And proud repulses suffered every day.  
Without complaining, banished from her sight,  
On the cold ground I spent the tedious night.  
While some glad Rival in her Arms did lie,  
Glutted with Love and surfeited with Joy.  
Thence have I seen the tired Adulterer come,  
Dragging a weak exhausted Carcase home;  
And yet this curse a blessing I esteem,  
Compared to that of being seen by him!  
By him descried attending in the street,  
May my Foes only such disgraces meet.  
What toil and time has this false Woman cost,  
How much of unreturning Youth has for her sake been lost?  
How long did I, where fancy led or fate,  
Unthanked, unminded, on her Rambles wait;  
Her steps, her looks, were still by mine pursued,  
And watched by me, she charmed the gazing crowd.  
My diligent Love and overfond desire  
Has been the means to kindle Others fire.  
What need I mention every little wrong,  
Or curse the softness of her soothing Tongue:  
The private love-signs that in public pass  
Between her and some common staring Ass,  
The Coquette's Arts her faithless heart allows,  
Or tax her with a thousand broken vows.  
I hear she's sick and with wild haste I run,  
Officious haste, and visit Importune.  
Entering, my Rival on her bed I see,  
The Politic sickness only was to me,  
With this and more oft has my Love been tried,  
Some other Coxcomb let her now provide,  
To bear her jilting and maintain her pride.  
My battered Bark has reached the Port at last,  
Nor fears again the billows, it has past.  
Cease your soft Oaths and that still ready shower,  
Those once dear words have lost their wont Power.  
In vain you flatter, I am now no more  
That easy fool you found me heretofore.  
Anger and Love a doubtful fight maintain,  
Each strive by turns my staggering heart to gain.  
But what can long against Love's Power contend?  
My Love, I fear, will Conquer in the end.  
I'll do what e'er I can to hate you still;  
And if I Love, know 'tis against my will.  
So the Bull hates the Ploughman's Yoke to wear,  
Yet what he hates his stubborn neck must bear.  
Her Manners oft my indignation raise,  
But straight her Beauty the short storm always.  
Her Life I loathe, her Person I adore,  
Much I condemn her, but I Love her more:  
Both with her and without her, I'm in pain,  
And rage to lose what I should blush to gain,  
Uncertain yet at what my wishes aim:  
Loath to abandon Love, or part with Fame.  
That Angel-Form ill suits a Soul all sin,  
Ah! be less fair without, or more within.  
When those soft smiles my yielding powers invade,  
In vain I call her Vices to my Aid.  
Tho' now disdaining the disguise of Art,  
In my esteem her conduct claims no part,  
Her Face a natural right has to my heart.  
No crimes so black are to deform her Eyes,  
Those Clouds must scatter when these Suns shall rise.  
Enough, fair Conqueror, the day's your own;  
See at your feet love's Vanquished Rebel thrown.  
By those dear Joys, Joys dear though they are passed,  
When in the kindest links of Love we held each other fast.  
By the injured Gods, your false Oaths did profane,  
By all those Beauties that inspire disdain,  
By that Loved face from the whole sex elect,  
To which I all my Vows and Prayers direct.  
And equal with a Power divine respect,  
By every feature of a form so fine,  
And by those Eyes that charm and dazzle mine,  
Spare from new triumph, cherish without Art  
This ever faithful, this too tender, heart.  
A heart, that was respectful while it strove,  
But yielding is all blind impetuous Love.  
Live as you please, torment me as you will,  
Still are you fair, and I must Love you still,  
Think only if with just and clement Reign,  
A willing subject you would choose to gain,  
Or drag a Conquered Vassal in a chain.  
But to what ever conduct you incline  
Do, suffer, be, what my worst fears divine;  
You are, you ought, you must, you shall be Mine.  
Reason, for ever the vain strife give o'er,  
Thy cruel wisdom I can bear no more;  
Let me indulge this one soft Passions rule,  
Curb vexing Sense, and be a happy fool.  
With full-spread Sails the tempting gale obey,  
That down Loves-current drives me fast away.    

On the Death of Melantha.  

WEep, all you Virgins, meet o'er this sad Hearse,  
And you, great Goddess of Immortal Verse:  
Come here a while and Mourn,  
Wove not with Rosy Crowns your hair,  
Let tears be all the Gems you wear.  
And shed them plentifully on this Urn,  
For 'tis Melantha, 'tis that lovely fair,  
That lies beneath this weeping Marble here.  
But would you know, why she has took her flight  
Into the Bosom of eternal night,  
Before her Beauties scarce had showed their light.  
Hark, and lament her fate;  
As the young God of Love one day  
Sat on a Rock at play,  
And wantonly let fly his darts  
Among the Nymphs and Shepherds hearts.  
Melantha by unhappy chance came by,  
Love jesting cried, I'll make her prove  
The Godhead, she contemned, of Love.  
In scorn she bade him strike and did his shaft defy,  
While the Boy slightly threw a dart  
To wound, but not destroy, her Heart,  
But greedy Death, fond of this Beauteous prey,  
Caught the swift Arrow as it flew,  
And added to't his own strength too,  
Which made so deep a wound, that, as she lay,  
In silent sighs she breathed her Soul away.  
Then all the little Gods begun to weep,  
Oh let your sighs with theirs due measure keep:  
For fair Melantha she is dead.  
Her Beauteous Soul to Death's dark Empire's fled.  
Flora, the Bounteous Goddess of the Plains,  
Who in fresh Groves and sweetest Meadows reigns,  
Hearing the fair Melantha dead,  
Brought all her Odorous wealth to spread  
Over the grave where she was laid.  
Then strait the Infant Spring began to fade,  
And all the Fields where she did keep,  
And fold her bleating Flocks of Sheep,  
Their influence lost, with her fair Eyes, decayed;  
For fair Melantha, by whose cruel pride  
So many sad despairing Swains had died,  
Felt Love at last, but death she rather chose  
Than own she Loved, or the hid flame disclose.  
Speak, Muses, for you hold immortal state  
With Gods and know the Mysteries of fate,  
You all what ever's past or present see,  
And read the unwritten Pages o'er  
Of times great Chronicle before  
Events, and time, had writ what fate resolved should be.  
Tell me, what Beauty is, whose force controls  
Reason and Power, and over mankind rules:  
Kings stoop to Beauty and the Crowns they wear  
Shine not with so much lustre, as the fair.  
Beauty a larger Empire does command  
Than the great Monarch of the Seas and Land.  
She can the coldest Anchorites inflame,  
Cool Tyrant's rage, and struck their passions tame.  
She can call youth to her forsaken seat  
In withered Veins, and give new life and heat.  
She can subdue the fierce, the proud, and strong,  
Give courage to the weak, the fearful▪ and the young.  
Beauty, the only Deity, we know,  
With fear and awe we to her Altars go,  
And there our purest zeal of Prayers, and vows, bestow.  
Sure then it only seems to die,  
And when it leaves us, mounts above  
To the Eternal roof of Jove,  
To be a Constellation and enrich the Sky,  
But should I search the spangled sphere  
For Metamorphet's Beauty there,  
Nothing of Helen now is seen,  
Nor the fair Egyptian Queen:  
Or thou, whose Eyes were constellations here,  
Oh then thy fate we can't enough deplore  
With thee thy Beauty died and 'tis no more,  
Then let us give Melantha's fate ' its due;  
Strew Cyprus on her Hearse, and wreaths of Yew,  
For fair Melantha, poor Melantha's dead,  
Her sighing Soul to deaths eternal Empire's fled.    

To the NIGHTINGALE coming in the Spring.  
To invite Cloe from the Tumults of the Town to the innocent retreat in the Country.  Written by a Person of Quality in 1680. 

LIttle Songster, who dost bring  
joy and Music to the Spring,  
Welcome to our grateful Swains,  
And the Nymphs, that grace the Plains.  
How the Youths thy absence mourn?  
What their Joy at thy return?  
For their mirth and sports are done  
All the year that thou art gone,  
But at thy approach, their joys  
Take new date from thy dear voice.  
Every Shepherd chooses then  
Some fair Nymph for Valentine.  
While the Maid with equal Love  
Does the happy choice approve:  
Underneath some shade he sits,  
Where soft silence Love begets  
And in Artless sighs he bears  
Untaught passion to her Ears,  
No deceit is in his Tongue,  
Nor she fears, nor suffers wrong;  
But each others faith believe,  
And each hour their Loves revive.   

Often have I wished to be,  
Happy Damon, blest as thee,  
Not that I for Silvia pine,  
Silvia, who is only thine,  
But that Cloe cannot be  
Kind, as Silvia is to thee.  
Thou, dear Bird, whose voice may find  
Charms perhaps to make her kind,  
Bear a message to her Breast,  
And make me happy as the rest.  
[London in the Plot. time.]  
In the Place where Tumult dwells,  
Treasons Lurk, Ambition swells,  
Pride erects her monstrous head,  
And Perjury swears the guiltless, dead,  
Power oppresses, envy pines,  
Friends betray, and fraud designs.  
Fears and Jealousy surprise  
Rest and slumber from our Eyes,  
And where vice all Ill contains,  
And in gloomy glory reigns;  
Where the Loyal, Brave and Just  
Are victims to Fanatic Lust,  
Where the noble Staffords blood  
Calls from Heaven Revenge aloud.  
In this place there lives a Maid,  
Bright as nature ever made.  
Fair beyond dull Beauty's name  
Can express her lovely frame.  
In her charming Eyes reside  
Love, disdain, desire, and pride.  
Such, we know not which to call,  
But has the excellence of all.  
The first blushes of the Day  
Or the newblown Rose in May,  
Or the Rich Sidonian die  
Wrought for Eastern Majesty,  
Is not gayer than the Red,  
Nature on her cheeks has spread.  
Her soft Lips still feed new wishes  
Of a thousand fancied kisses.  
Gently swelling, plump and round,  
With young smiles▪ and graces crowned;  
Her round Breasts are whiter far  
Than the backs of Ermines are.  
Or the wanton Breast of Jove,  
When a Swan for Leda's Love.  
Eyes that charm when ere they Dart,  
And never miss the destined heart.  
Wouldst thou have me tell thee more,  
And describe her Beauties o'er;  
I perhaps might make a Rape  
On my Ideas naked shape,  
Therefore fly, you'll quickly see  
By this Picture which is She.   

Tell her the loud winds are Dumb,  
Winter's past and Spring is come,  
The delightful Spring! that reigns  
Sweets and plenty o'er the Plains.  
And with shady Garlands crowned  
All the Woods and Groves around.  
If she see the winged Choir,  
Choose this season to retire  
To the shelter of the Grove,  
'Tis by Instinct (say) of Love.  
If she see the Herds and Flocks  
Wanton round the Meads and Rocks,  
Thus their wishing Males to move,  
'Tis the Instinct (say,) of Love.  
If she see the Bull among  
Crowds of Females sleek and young,  
Fight His Rival of the Drove,  
'Tis by Instinct (say,) of Love.  
If she see the blooming vines,  
In their season, fold their twines  
Round the Oak that near her grows,  
Say, 'tis nature mixed their boughs:  
Then if Instinct these do move,  
We by reason ought to Love.  
Tell the fair one, every day  
Youth and Beauty steal away,  
And within a little space  
Will destroy her charming face.  
Every grace and smile, that lies  
Languishing in Lips and Eyes,  
First he'll make his prey, and then,  
Leave to Death, what does remain.  
Who old Time does only send  
To begin what he must end.  
If she ask, what hour and place,  
Where and when, Time wounds the face?  
Say, it is not in the Night,  
Nor when Day renews her light.  
In the Morning, or at noon.  
Or at Evening when alone,  
Or when entertained at home,  
Or abroad this hour will come,  
But swift time is always by,  
First to perfect, then destroy.  
And in vain you seek a cure  
Since his wounds are every hour:  
Bid her view Aurelia's brow,  
Naked of her Glories now,  
Yet she once could charm the throng,  
Conquering with her Eyes and tongue.  
Now, only's left this weak relief,  
(To support her years and grief,)  
When she could she used her prime  
And enjoyed the fruitis of time:  
And where ever she professed  
Love, or hate, she killed, or blest.  
While the neighbouring Plains were filled  
With their names she Loved and killed.  
Oh, when youth and beauty's past,  
That poor pleasure that does last  
Is to think they were admired,  
And by every youth desired,  
While the Dotage of each Swain  
She returned with scorn again.  
Oh then let my Cloe know,  
When her youth is faded so,  
And a race of Nymphs appears,  
Gay and sprightly in their years,  
Proud and wanton in their Loves,  
While the Shepherds of the Groves  
Strive with Presents who shall share  
Most the favours of the fair;  
And herself she does behold  
Like Aurelia now grown old,  
Sighing to herself she'll say  
I was once adored, as they!  
Yet with Pleasure think, that she  
Loved and was beloved by me.  
Therefore bid her haste and prove,  
While she may, the joys of Love.  
I will lead her to a soil  
Where perpetual Summer's smile,  
Without Autumn which bereaves  
Fairest Cedars of their leaves;  
Where she shall behold the Meads  
Ever Green, the Groves with Shades:  
Lasting Flowers the banks shall wear,  
And Birds shall warble all the year.  
Where the rustic swain does owe  
Nothing to the Spade and Blow.  
For their Harvest, nature's care  
Without toil relieves 'em there,  
And no differing seasons bring  
Changes to the constant Spring.  
In the Morn she shall awake  
With the noise the Shepherds make,  
Cheering, with the Echoing sounds  
Of their Horns, the eager Hounds.  
Nymphs, as well as Shepherds too  
In these Groves the chase pursue.  
While at their backs their flowing hair  
Loosely wantoness in the Air;  
Guilded Quivers on their thighs,  
With Darts less fatal than their Eyes.  
Each the others sloth does blame,  
While they seek the Hart for game.  
Who, poor Fool, his Feet employs  
And thr'ow Woods and dales he flies.  
Over plains and Rivers bounds,  
And outflies the Winds and Hounds.  
When perhaps some Nymph, whose Eyes  
Makes both men and Beast her Prize,  
Swifter than Camilla's pace  
Soon o'ertakes the winged race,  
And with one bright Glance she wounds,  
And his fancied hope confounds.  
Who, reflecting his faint Eyes  
On her Face, with pleasure dies.  
When the sports are done, they rest  
Underneath some shade, and feast  
On sweet Beds of Violets crowned  
With sweet Roses on the ground.  
Where they Garlands wove and Poses  
Of Green Myrtle, Pinks and Roses:  
For which grace the ravished Swains  
Pay soft kisses for their Pains.  
Thus they Dally till the Light  
Falls behind the Scene of Night.    

A PASTORAL On the Marriage of the right Honourable the Earl of Ossery to the Lady Mary Somerset.  
In a Dialogue between Damon and Menalcas,  written by Mr. Edmond Arwaker. M. A. Damon. 
WHat mighty Joy affects Menalca's breast,  
Who's Ecstasy is in his face expressed?  
Sure his Laurinda now to smile begins,  
Or his full Ewes increase his Flocks with twins.  Men. 
Laurinda's frowns or smiles are now despised,  
Far less her favours than this bliss are prized.  
And all my Ewes henceforth may barren be,  
'Tis wealth enough this happy day to see.  Dam. 
What has this day produced to make it blest?  Men. 
Joy too transporting to be well expressed!  
Joys which to Damon should not be unknown,  
Since they concern the lovely Celladon.  Dam. 
The lovely Celladon! ah courteous swain!  
Repeat and bless me with that name again!  
Say, what new Triumph, what deserved success,  
Do the large volume of his fame increase:  
Has he at wrestling purchas't more Renown  
Or won some other Race and wears the Crown!  Men. 
He has, and justly, won a Nobler Prize,  
The Dazzling Joy of all beholders Eyes,  
For what can Heaven enlarge to him beside,  
Now the admired Clorinda is his bride.  Dam. 
Clorinda, his? then for this happy day  
A sacrifice of six choice Lambs I'll pay,  
That Ewe with twins shall recompense thy news,  
Or, cull my Flocks, and, what thou fanciest, choose,  
I'm so o'er joyed that shouldst thou take'em all,  
I still shall think it a reward too small.  Men. 
The Gods do merit sacrifice, 'tis true,  
But the bright pair deserve an offering too;  
To them we'll now an humble Tribute bring:  
Clorinda you, I Celladon will sing.  Dam. 
'Tis well proposed, and now the Song begin.  Men. 
Then rouse, my Muse, and let thy subject be  
Gay, soft, and fair, yet lofty too as he;  
To Celladon thy verse is justly due,  
Thou learned thy Art, whence his first Honours grew▪  
From his great Ancestors magnificence,  
And ow'st thy growth to that blessed influence:  
Then what that gave, thou must return again,  
And to his service consecrate thy pen.  
Young Celladon, the glory of our Plains,  
Joy of the Nymphs and envy of the Swains;  
Whose charming voice each melting passion moves  
As gentle Zephyrs bend the yielding Groves.  
To him the Nymphs their easy hearts resign,  
For him despairing Shepherdesses pine.  
Serene his face, as a rejoicing sky,  
And Glorious, as a rising Sun, his Eye.  Dam. 
Sweet, as a blooming Spring, Clorinda's face,  
More sooth and clear than her own crystal Glass;  
For her with folded Arms and heads hung low  
The hopeless Shepherds vent their restless woe;  
While o'er the Plains their flocks neglected stray,  
As in love's maze themselves have lost the way.  
But she does all for Celladon despise,  
And at his heart alone, the noblest Prize,  
She darts the pointed Glories of her Eyes.  Men. 
The God of Love had not another Dart,  
Able to pierce the wondrous Shepherd's heart.  
Had he alone attacked th' Heroic Swain  
The mighty Conqueror had been captive ta'en,  
For Celladon inur'd to wars Alarms  
And, though all peaceful, takes delight in Arms,  
Best pleased when most exposed, with noble heat  
He danger seeks and dares the hand of Fate.  
Once he pursued it to a foreign shore,  
Where his great Father's name was feared before.  
France.  
But all the damage by that terror done  
Has ample reparation from the Son:  
The favour, they from his Access received,  
Atoned for routed Troops and Towns relieved.  
Monts.  
Not only glory did engage his Sword,  
Duty unsheathed it too to serve his Lord.  
When bold Rebellion did the Throne invade  
With broken faith, and fortune for ' its aid.  
The Western War.  
With early zeal the Shepherd did appear;  
His valour now had found' its proper sphere:  
Called to the Battle by these loud Alarms.  
He broke away even from Clorindas' Arms.  
Death, in the Royal cause had more, than Beauty, charms.  Dam. 
He left Clorinda's Arms but not her heart,  
There he was still, nor thence could ever part:  
That, to the bloody field marched bravely out,  
And there with pious prayers and wishes fought.  
While she at home was never free from fear,  
For the rich venture she had trusted there;  
Yet hoped him safe in her great Father's care.  
Nor could she justly any danger dread  
For him who fought along with Diomedes:  
Duke of Beaufort  
Eternal Laurels Crown that happy name,  
The dear, the sweet, the noble theme of fame;  
To all his proofs of Loyalty before  
The glorious Hero still is adding more.  
Firm to his Prince and faithful to his trust  
And daring to be hazardously just:  
Profuse of Life in his great Master's cause,  
And better pleased with service than applause.  
Some happy Muse, worthy a Theme so great,  
In lofty strains thy fame shall celebrate.  
Whose noble blood, which no corruption stains,  
Gives the rich Tincture to Clorinda's veins.  Men. 
While Diomedes with Arms protects the Throne,  
Nestor with Council does support the Crown;  
Duke of Ormond.  
Nestor, no less courageous still than wise,  
And able once to act as to advise.  
Nestor, the partner of his Master's fate,  
Did all his injuries participate,  
When usurpation banished him the Throne,  
Nestor endured not he should go alone,  
His Kingdom lost, and loyal subjects few,  
Himself a King in Nestor's heart he knew;  
The Monarchy for which he was designed  
Was there preserved as thither 'twas confined.  
Nor were his limits scant, for his large soul  
Has ' its unbounded sphere above the pole.  
One subject of such vast Magnificence  
Might make at any time a Glorious Prince.  
But time sits heavy on his shoulders now,  
And his declining head begins to bow;  
Yet still so gracefully he treads the stage,  
He makes th' admiring World in love with age,  
Long may he cause their wonder and delight,  
Long be his day and far remote his night,  
The night, when he to us shall disappear,  
Called hence to gild some other Hemisphere.  
Excellent Prince! in whom the World does see  
A Species of untainted Loyalty.  
May Heaven indulge our wishes long in thee,  
But if the fates deny this bliss to give,  
The Phoenix will in Celladon revive:  
To him our Homage we must then transfer,  
As much thy virtues, as thy fortunes, Heir.  Dam. 
See, Swain, the Sun exalts his shining head,  
Brisk as a Bridegroom from Aurora's Bed,  
While, like a blushing Bride, the dawning morn  
Does in her Gay attire herself adorn.  
'Tis time the lovely pair, like them, should rise,  
And we their presence want to bless our Eyes;  
The expecting World ' its patience has outstayed,  
Le's hast and wake 'em with a serinade.   

A Song.  

AH! Blame me not, if no despair,  
A passion you inspire, can end.  
Nor think it strange, too charming fair,  
If Love, like other flames, ascend.  
If to approach a Saint with Prayer  
Unworthy votaries pretend,  
Above all merit Heaven and you  
To the Sincere only are due.   

Long did respect awe my proud aim  
And fear t' offend the madness cover,  
Like you it still reproves my flame  
And in the friend would hide the Lover.  
But by things that want a name  
I the too bold truth discover.  
My words in vain are in my power  
My looks betray me every hour.    

A PASTORAL On the Death of His late Majesty  written by Mr. Otway. 

WHat horrors this that dwells upon the Plain,  
And thus disturbs the Shepherd's peaceful Reign?  
A dismal sound breaks through the yielding air  
Forewarning us somedreadful storm is near,  
The bleating flocks in wild confusion stray  
The early Larks forsake their wand'ring way  
And cease to welcome in the newborn day.  
Each Nymph possessed with a distracted fear  
Disordered hangs her lose dishevelled hair,  
Diseases with her strong convulsions reign,  
And deities not known before to pain  
Are now with Apoplectic seizures slain:  
Hence flow our sorrows, hence increase our fears  
Each humble plant does drop her silver tears.  
Ye tender Lambs stray not so fast away,  
To weep and mourn let us together stay,  
O'er all the universe let it be spread  
That now the Shepherd of the flock is dead.  
The Royal Pan, that shepherd of the sheep,  
He, who to leave his flock did dying weep,  
Is gone, ah gone, ne'er to return from deaths Eternal sleep.  
Begin, Damela, let thy numbers fly  
Aloft, where the safe milky way does lie,  
Mop'sus who Daphnis to the Stars did sing  
Shall join with you and hither waft our King.  
Play gently on your Reeds a mournful strain  
And tell in notes through all th' Arcadian Plain  
The Royal Pan, the Shepherd of the sheep  
He who to leave his Flock did dying weep  
Is gone! is gone, ne'er to return from death's eternal sleep.    

SONG.  

NO more will I my Passion hide  
Tho' too presuming it appear,  
When long despair a heart has tried  
What other torment can it fear?  
Unloved of her I would not live  
Nor die till she the sentence give.   

Why should the fair offended be  
If virtue charm in Beauty's dress:  
If where so much divine I see  
My open vows the Saint confess.  
Awaked by wonders in her Eyes  
My former Idols I despise.    

Strephon's complaint banished from Sacarisa.  

HOW long shall I thus live condemned to mourn  
In vain my Sacarisa's cruel scorn?  
For ever let these Eyes be shut to light,  
Since the bright Nymph has robbed me of her sight  
All other objects dull and useless grow  
No more their wont form of colour show.  
In glooming shades may I for ever live  
Sad as my sorrows, silent as my grave.  
Since Sacarisa's Eyes withdraw their light  
Darkness to me is Day, the Morning Night.  
No more the Sun, the World's majestic Eye,  
Shall dart his golden Beams through th' Azure Sky:  
Let sullen darkness on the Earth display  
His sable wings t' eclipse the hated day  
As when in Chaos, uncreated night  
Sat Brooding on the seeds of Infant-light,  
And no kind Beams did on the surface play  
Till the Sun rose and made a perfect day;  
So till my Nymph brings back her sparkling light  
Darkness to me is Day, the Morning Night.    

An Elegy  written by Mr. W. O. 

Damon,  
and Thirsis.   Dam. 
WElcome, dear Thirsis far above,  
The sweetest Emphasis of Love.  
More welcome than the fairest Dame  
That ever crossed this awful Plain,  
With all her tender Virgin Train.  Thirs. 
I thank thee, Shepherd, for thy Love,  
But how canst thou so soon remove  
The Passion which enraged thy breast,  
And kept thy better part from rest?  Dam. 
Believe me, Thirsis, for 'tis true  
They that Love long are very few,  
I piped, I sung, I lived in pain,  
In hope the Shepherdess to gain;  
Now vain my suit, in vain I cry,  
I sigh in vain, unhappy me,  
Condemned to such a Destiny  
Only to see the once loved Deity.  Thirs. 
Tell me, Damon, prithee do,  
Who's this Nymph that grieves thee so,  
By great Pan's all sacred name  
The wildest heart for thee i'll tame:  Dam. 
Oh my friend! she's gone too far,  
Thou canst not reach the charming fair:  
She's fled into the wished for place,  
Where Love is acted o'er in every grace.  Thirs. 
What's her name? I can't contain,  
My blood runs swift in every vein.  
I'll ravage all the Woods and Groves,  
Th' intreguing Court for billing love's:  
No pains nor toil for thee I'll spare,  
Come— let me know the cruel fair.  Dam. 
Phillis, the Glory of our Isle,  
Who charmed my Soul with every smile,  
Ah she! the lovely torturing maid  
H'as now my heart, my all, betrayed;  
And my adoring Love with scorn repaid.  
Unhappy swain! dejected and forlorn,  
Ah me! how sadly am I left alone,  
To envy those Transporting charms  
She yields up to my happy Rivals Arms.  Thirs. 
I'll go—  Dam. 
Stay, Shepherd, 'tis in vain to try  
To disappoint the Nuptial tye.  
No, no, she's gone to make my Rival blest,  
And left her Image only in my breast.  
Hence forth in Lovers tales let it be said,  
That thy poor friend, thy Damon, died a maid.  
While no one part of me remains with her,  
But constant wishes and this humble Prayer.  
Fairest of Nymphs—  
May all your Glories, like the youthful Sun,  
Beam forth and in their purest lustre Burn.  
May all your days be as a day of bliss,  
And all your sorrows close still with a kiss;  
Happy the God, that succoured your desire,  
And set the Hymenaean Lamp on fire:  
May he in whole blessed Arms you slumb'ringly,  
Be sensible of the vast envied joy,  
While I who lost you lay me down and die.   

A PINDARIC To Mrs. Behn on her Poem on the Coronation.  Written by a Lady. 

HAil, thou sole Empress of the Land of wit,  
To whom all conquered Authors must submit,  
And at thy feet their fading Laurels lay,  
The utmost tribute that a Muse can pay,  
To thy unlaboured Song o'th' Coronation day.  
The subject was Divine we all confess,  
Nor was that flame, thy mighty fancy, less.  
That clothed thy thought in such a pleasing dress,  
As did at once a Masculine wit express,  
And all the softness of a Female tenderness.  
No more shall men their fancied Empire hold,  
Since thou Astrea formed of finer mould,  
By nature tempered more with humid cold,  
Doth man excel—  
Not in soft strokes alone, but even in the bold.  
And as thy purer Blood,  
Through more transparent vessels is conveyed  
Thy spirits more fine and subtle do thy brain invade.  
And nimbler come uncalled unto thy aid;  
So the gay thought—  
Which thy still flowing fancy does inspire  
New, uncontrolled, and warm, as young desire,  
Have more of kindling heat and fiercer fire;  
Not to be reached, or praised, unless by such  
As the same happy temperament possess;  
Since none with equal numbers can reward thy Lays,  
May the just Monarch, which you praise,  
Deign to acknowledge this.  
Not with a short applause of crackling Bays  
But a return that may revive thy days;  
And thy wellmeaning grateful loyal Muse  
Cherished by that blessed theme its zeal did choose.  
Mayst thou be blest with such a sweet retreat,  
That with contempt thou mayst behold the great;  
Such as the mighty Cowlies well-known seat.  
Whose lofty Elms I would have all thy own,  
And in the midst a spacious shady Throne,  
Raised on a Mount that should Parnassus be,  
And every Muse included all in thee.  
On whose cool top alone thou shouldst dispense  
The Laws of Wit, Love, Loyalty and Sense:  
The new Arcadia should the Grove be named  
And for the gift our grateful Monarch famed.  
Amidst the shade, I'd wish a well built House,  
Like Sidneys Noble Calendar should stand,  
Raising its head and all the rest command.  
It's outside gay, its inside clean and neat  
With all of life's conveniencies replete,  
Where all the Elements at once conspire  
To give what man's necessities require,  
Rich soil, pure Air, streams cool, and useful fire.  
The fertile spot with pleasure should abound  
And with Elysium-spring be ever crowned.  
When thou thy mind unbendest from thoughtful hours,  
Then shouldst thou be refreshed with Fruits and Flowers,  
The Gods and Nymphs of Woods and Springs  
Shall Dance in Antique Rural Rings:  
While scaly Tritons and grim Satyrs play  
Such Tunes, as Birds compose, to welcome day.  
Till the glad noise to distant shores resound,  
And flying Birds join in th' Harmonious sound.  
Which listening Echoes catch at the rebound.  
Here without toil, or pining want perplexed  
Thy Body easy and thy mind at rest,  
With all Lifes valued pleasures blest,  
Thy largest wishes still thou shouldst enjoy  
Environed with delights that ne'er can cloy.   

Accept, thou much loved Sapph of our Isle,  
This hearty wish, and grace it with a smile,  
When thou shalt know that thy Harmonious Lyre  
Did me, the meanest of thy sex, inspire.  
And that thy own unimitable lays  
Are cause alone that I attempt thy praise.  
Which in unequal measure I rehearse  
Because unskilled in numbers Grace, or Verse;  
Great Pindars flights are fit alone for thee,  
The witty Horace's iambics be  
Like Virgil's lofty strains, alas too hard for me.  
And if enough this do not plead excuse,  
Pity the failings of a Virgin Muse.  
That never in this kind before essayed,  
Her Muse till now was, like herself,— a Maid.  
Whose Blooming labours thus she dedicates to you,  
A Tribute justly to your merits due;  
At least her part of gratitude to pay  
For that best Song o'th' Coronation day.  
How bad would the Ill-natured World requite  
Thy noble labours if they do not write,  
Who have, perhaps, been happy in this kind  
To own thou'st now outdone all that they e'er designed.  
Sure none with malice e'er was so accursed,  
This to deny but will with envy burst,  
Since even thy own more envious sex agree  
The glorious theme had right alone from thee;  
The female Writers thou hast all excelled,  
Since the first mother of mankind rebelled.    

To Mr. Wolseley on his Preface to Valentinian.  By a Lady of Quality. 

TO you, the generous task belongs alone  
To clear the injured and instruct the Town:  
Where, but in you is found a mind so brave  
To stretch the bounds of Love beyond the grave?  
Anger may last, but friendships quickly die,  
For anxious thoughts are longer-lived than joy.  
Yet those, whom active fancies have misled  
So far as to assault the mighty dead;  
Now, taught by your reproofs a noble shame,  
Will strive by surer ways to raise their fame.  
But from our sex what praise do you deserve?  
We by your help may all our rights preserve,  
While others rob the Deities they serve,  
For never sacrilege could greater be  
Than to steal Honour from a Deity.  
Such are the paths to fame, in which you tread,  
You baffle envy, while you nobly aid  
The helpless living and more helpless dead.    

Mr. Wolsely's Answer to the foregoing Copy.  

WHile soaring high above Orinda's flights,  
Equal to Sapph famed Urania writes;  
And fearless of an Host of biased men  
In my defence draws her all-conquering pen.  
While forcing every caviller to submit,  
Her approbation stamps my questioned wit.  
And a new way, by all the Nine inspired,  
Commending mine she makes her own admired.  
While that kind Balme's restoring virtue cures  
The Critics bite and lasting life assures.  
Delight extreme rewarding all my pain,  
Spirit's my genius and improves my vein.  
A useful pride the unhoped Honour brings,  
Like that which from a sense of virtue springs.  
While thro' her Sexes finer mould she pours  
Thoughts of the substance and the strength of ours.  
And in her draughts, graced with a sweeter Air,  
The Poet borrows softness from the fair:  
While with a wit that does the Age surprise,  
Just as her heart and powerful as her Eyes,  
My Panegyrick's fame she does intend,  
Her easier turn instructs me how to mend,  
Her still-fresh flights enriching every Theme  
Flow equal, like a smooth untroubled stream,  
Whose cheerful current, without tides is strong  
And through green Meadows purling glides along.   

How rare is praise in fitting words expressed  
With judgement heightened and with skill addressed  
Those who deserve it most can give it best.  
How flat and tasteless is a fool's applause,  
Whose want of knowledge does his wonder cause?  
More fulsome is the fawning of a knave  
Whose narrow mind his little ends enslave:  
Whose Pen for ever fear and interest guide  
Whom each his stage which like contemning Pride  
All wealthy fops and prosperous villains ride;  
Who can to none but fortune faithful be,  
False to desert, and Prostitute as she.  
But just Urania, truth and virtues friend,  
Quick to discern, and sparing to commend,  
Whom inborn worth above mean aims does raise  
Can no more give than need such hackney Bays.  
Her mind to Earth, wits rightful Sovereign came,  
By Heaven instructed to distribute fame;  
What Stoic soul has temper to refuse  
Th' uncommon favours of so chaste a Muse?  
While her soft strain, in which no toil appears,  
With divine Music bribe's our ravished ears.  
And her wit varying a thousand ways  
With that strong Philtre baits her powerful praise,  
Her flowing lines such skilful measures bound,  
The sense is not more charming than the sound:  
So does her verse in words well-placed and chose  
Her rich Invention's beauteous store disclose.  
As calm Favonius with his gentle wing  
Opens the Flowers and spreads the sweets of spring.  
When stopped by Trees, chance into arbour weaves  
His murmuring voice, some Lover's care deceives,  
And breathing Roses whistles through the leaves   

When thus like Her's which no rich Rogue can share  
Praise comes both from the knowing and sincere,  
Just is the pride, as the delight is rare.  
Like Hope, it flatters; like Ambition, warms;  
And like a Lovers happy moment, charms.  
When first to ease the long unpitied swain  
His cruel fair confesses equal pain,  
When first he sees within her kindling Eyes  
A guilty care and Bashful sweetness rise.  
Oft when perplexed with timorous doubts unrest,  
I read her praise in which my Muse is dressed  
With all the grace and all the power of Poetry expressed.  
Raptures so strong my happier thoughts employ,  
As pain perception, and oppress with Joy.  
The rich Ragoust, wit's too profuse expense,  
A flavour gives that conquers human sense;  
A taste too high for weak man to digest,  
Ambrosia 'tis, on which Immortals feast,  
The Fruit of life's fair Tree to Martyrs given  
When fined from flesh and purged of Earth's dull Leaven  
Their frames can bear the Luxury of Heaven.   

Cease England, thy late loss so high to rate,  
Here learn thy mighty sorrow to abate,  
By her instructive gentle song half reconciled to fate.  
Your tender moan, you tuneful Nine give o'er,  
Lament your darling Bion's death no more.  
In her loved Lays his better part survives,  
He dies not all, while soft Urania lives.  
Her Heaven has warmed, with the same pleasing fires 
The Earl of Rochester, her Uncle,   
In her like nobleblood, like noble thoughts inspires.  
His perishing goods to others let him leave,  
To Her his deathless Pen he did bequeave;  
And if my humble Muse, whose luckless strain  
Was used alone of Beauty to complain  
And sing in melancholy notes love's unregarded pain,  
Raised by that theme, above her usual height  
Could clear his fame, or do his virtue right,  
How well does she the trifling debt acquit,  
She whose resembling Genius shows her fit  
To be his sole Executrix in wit.    

On the Honourable Sir Francis Fane, on his Play called the Sacrifice.  by Mrs. A. B. 

LOng have our Priests condemned a wicked Age,  
And every little critics senseless rage  
Damned a forsaken self-declining stage:  
Great 'tis confessed and many are our crimes,  
And no less profligate the vicious times,  
But yet no wonder both prevail so ill,  
The Poet's fury and the Preachers skill;  
While to the World it is so plainly known  
They blame our faults, with greatones of their own,  
Let their dull Pens flow with unlearned spite  
And weakly censure what the skilful write;  
You, learned Sir, a nobler passion show,  
Our best of rules and best example too.  
Precepts and grave instructions dully move,  
The brave Performer better does improve,  
Verest in the truest satire you excel  
And show how ill we write by writing well.  
This noble Piece which well deserves your name  
I read with pleasure though I read with shame.  
The tender Laurels which my brows had dressed  
Flag, like young Flowers, with too much heat oppressed.  
The generous fire I felt in every line  
Showed me the cold, the feeble, force of mine.  
Henceforth I'll you for imitation choose  
Your nobler flights will wing my Callow Muse;  
So the young Eagle is informed to fly  
By seeing the Monarch Bird ascend the sky.  
And though with less success her strength she'll try,  
Spreads her soft plumes and his vast tracks pursues  
Tho' far above the towering Prince she views:  
High as she can she'll bear your deathless fame,  
And make my song Immortal by your name.  
But where the work is so Divinely wrought,  
The rules so just and so sublime each thought,  
When with so strict an Art your scenes are placed  
With wit so new, and so uncommon, graced,  
In vain, alas! I should attempt to tell  
Where, or in what, your Muse does most excel.  
Each character performs its noble part,  
And stamps its Image on the Readers heart.   

In Tamerlan you a true Hero dressed,  
A generous conflict wars within his breast,  
This there the mightiest passions you have showed  
By turns confessed the Mortal and the God.  
When e'er his steps approach the haughty fair  
He bows indeed but like a Conqueror,  
Compelled to Love yet scorns his servial chain,  
In spite of all you make the Monarch reign.  
But who without resistless tears can see  
The bright, the innocent, Irene die:  
Axalla's life a noble ransom paid,  
In vain to save the much-loved charming maid,  
Nought surely could but your own flame inspire  
Your happy Muse to reach so soft a fire.  
Yet with what Art you turn the powerful stream  
When treacherous Ragallzan is the theme:  
You mix our different passions with such skill,  
We feel 'em all and all with pleasure feel.  
We love the mischief, though the harms we grieve,  
And for his wit the villain we forgive.   

In your Despina all those passions meet,  
Which woman's frailties perfectly complete.  
Pride and Revenge, Ambition, Love and Rage,  
At once her wilful haughty Soul engage;  
And while her rigid Honour we esteem,  
The dire effects as justly must condemn.  
She shows a virtue so severely nice  
As has betrayed it to a pitch of vice.  
All which confess a Godlike power in you  
Who could form woman to herself so true.   

Live, mighty Sir, to reconcile the Age  
To the first glories of the useful Stage.  
'Tis you her rifled Empire may restore  
And give her power she ne'er could boast before.    

Cato's Answer to Labienus, when he advised him to consult the Oracle of Jupiter Ammon.  
Being a Paraphrastical Translation of part of the 9th Bookof Lucan, beginning at— Quid quaeri, Labiene, Jubes, etc.  

WHat should I ask my friend, which best would be  
To live enslaved, or thus in Arms die free?  
If any force can Honour's price abate?  
Or virtue bow beneath the blows of fate?  
If fortunes threats a steady Soul disdains,  
Or if the Joys of Life be worth the pains?  
If it our happiness at all import  
Whether the foolish scene be long, or short.  
If when we do but aim at noble ends  
The attempt alone Immortal fame attends?  
If for bad accidents, which thickest press  
On merit, we should like a good cause less?  
Or be the fonder of it for success?  
All this is clear, wove in our minds it sticks,  
Nor Ammon, nor his Priest's can deeper fix;  
Without the Clergy's venal cant and pains  
Gods never-frustrate Will holds ours in chains,  
Nor can we Act but what th' Alwise ordains.  
Who needs no voice, nor perishing words to awe  
Our wild desires, and give his creatures Law:  
What e'er to know, or needful was or fit.  
In the wise frame of human souls 'tis writ,  
Both what we ought to do, and what forbear,  
He once for all, did at our births declare.  
But never did he seek out Desert Lands  
To bury truth in unfrequented Sands;  
Or to a corner of the World withdrew,  
Head of a sect and partial to a few.  
Nature's vast fabric is his house alone,  
This Globe his footstool, and high Heaven his throne.  
In Earth, Air, Sea, and in who e'er excels  
In knowing heads and honest hearts he dwells;  
Why seek we then among these barren sands,  
In narrow shrines and temples built with hands,  
Him whose dread presence does all places fill?  
Or look but in our reason for his will?  
All we e'er saw is God in all we find  
Apparent Prints of the eternal mind;  
Let floating fools their course by Prophets steer  
And always of the future live in fear;  
No Oracle, or Dream the crowd is told  
Can make me more or less resolved and bold.  
But surer death, which equally on all  
Both on the coward and the brave must fall.  
This said, and turning with disdain about,  
He left scorned Ammon to the vulgar Rout.    

To his Grace the Duke of Ormond, upon his leaving the Government of Ireland.  

HAve we a farther trouble yet in store,  
And can our destiny afflict us more?  
To lose our Prince we thought too great a blow,  
And must we lose his glorious Image too?  
Ireland for more than twice seven years has been  
Envied without, for being so blest within;  
While Plague, Fire, Famine, War abroad has Reigned,  
This only was the safe and happy Land;  
Which happiness, great Sir, to you we owe  
Next to the God above and God below.   

The Irish Harp, which long abused had lain,  
Your skilful hand first brought in tune again.  
And when some others by our King were sent  
To play upon the noble Instrument,  
Such was their Ignorance, or their Error such  
They proved but foils to your Melodious touch.  
Into your hands then, which before it graced,  
The noble Instrument again was placed.  
On which a long, soft tune again you played,  
When Jarring discord did all else invade,  
And we rejoiced to think you would play on:  
But Heavens and the Kings will must still be done,  
While we submit as humbly to that power  
Which can the bliss, it takes away, restore,  
More we can't have, nor do we wish for more.   

Adieu then, much loved Prince,  
With mournful hearts we make this Prayer for you,  
Greatest and best of uncrowned Heads adieu,  
And since you must go hence—  
We'll waft you o'er with steady Gales of Prayers,  
And bear you on a Sea of humble tears,  
All the Amends which for your mighty toil,  
Can be returned by a poor widowed Isle.  
Such now alas, She is, and ne'er till now  
That Ormonds noble house did wholly from her go,  
Not leaving to support her mighty Mind,  
An Arran, or an Ossory behind.   

May Heavens choice blessings on 'em all attend,  
And bring'em to a calm and glorious end.  
Glorious and calm may all their passage be  
As was the hour in which they put to Sea.  
And landed, wheresoever her Ormond goes,  
May England dote on him as Ireland does.    

SONG.  

BReak, Break, sad heart, unload thy grief,  
Give, give, thy sorrows way.  
Seek out thy only last relief,  
And thy hard Stars obey:  
Those Stars that doom thee to revere  
What does themselves outshine.  
And placed her too in such a Sphere  
That she can ne'er be mine.   

Because Endymion once did move  
Night's Goddess to come down,  
And listen to his tale of Love,  
Aim not thou idly at the Moon.  
Be it thy pleasure and thy Pride  
That wrecked on stretched desire,  
Thou canst thy fiercest torments hide,  
And silently expire.    

To Damon.  
To inquire of him if he could tell me by the Style, who writ me a Copy of Verses that came to me in an unknown Hand,  by Mrs. A. B. 

OH, Damon, if thou ever wert  
That certain friend thou hast professed,  
Relieve the Pant of my heart,  
Restore me to my wont rest.   

Late in the Silvian Grove I sat,  
Free as the Air, and calm as that;  
For as no winds the boughs oppressed,  
No storms of Love were in my breast.  
A long Adieu I'd bid to that  
Ere since Amintas proved ingrate.  
And with indifference, or disdain,  
I looked around upon the Plain.  
And worth my favour found no sighing Swain;  
But oh, my Damon, all in vain  
I triumphed in security,  
In vain absented from the Plain.  
The wanton God his Power to try  
In loan recesses makes us yield,  
As well as in the open field;  
For where no human thing was found  
My heedless heart received a wound  
Assist me, Shepherd, or I die,  
Help to unfold this Mystery.   

No Swain was by, no flattering Nymph was near,  
Soft tales of Love to whisper to my Ear.  
In sleep, no Dream my fancy fired  
With Images, my waking wish desired.  
No fond Idea filled my mind;  
Nor to the faithless sex one thought inclined;  
I sighed for no deceiving youth,  
Who forfeited his vows and truth;  
I waited no Assigning Swain  
Whose disappointment gave me pain.  
My fancy did no prospect take  
Of Conquest's I designed to make.  
No snares for Lovers I had laid,  
Nor was of any snare afraid.  
But calm and innocent I sat,  
Content with my indifferent fate.  
(A Medium, I confess, I hate.)  
For when the mind so cool is grown  
As neither Love nor Hate to own,  
The Life but dully lingers on.   

Thus in the midst of careless thought,  
A paper to my hand was brought.  
What hidden charms were lodged within,  
To my unwary Eyes unseen,  
Alas! no Human thought can guests;  
But ho! it robbed me of my peace.  
A Philter 'twas, that darted pain  
Through every pleased and trembling vein.  
A stratagem, to send a Dart  
By a new way into the heart,  
Th'Ignoble Policy of Love  
By a clandestine means to move.  
Which possibly the Instrument  
Did ne'er design to that intent,  
But only form, and compliment.  
While Love did the occasion take  
And hid beneath his flowers a snake  
O'er every line did Poison fling  
In every word he lurked a sting.  
So Matrons are, by Demons charms,  
Tho' harmless, capable of harms.   

The verse was smooth, the thought was fine,  
The fancy new, the wit divine.  
But filled with praises of my face and Eyes,  
My verse, and all those usual flatteries  
To me as common as the Air;  
Nor could my vanity procure my care.  
All which as things of course are writ  
And less to show esteem than wit.  
But here was some strange something more  
Than ever flattered me before;  
My heart was by my Eyes misled:  
I blushed and trembled as I read.  
And every guilty look confessed  
I was with new surprise oppressed.  
From every view I felt a pain  
And by the Soul, I drew the Swain.  
Charming as fancy could create  
Fine as his Poem, and as soft as that,  
I drew him all the heart could move  
I drew him all that women Love.  
And such a dear Idea made  
As has my whole repose betrayed.  
Pygmalion thus his Image formed,  
And for the charms he made, he sighed and burned.   

Oh thou that knowst each Shepherd's Strains  
That Pipes and Sings upon the Plains;  
Inform me where the youth remains.  
The spiteful Paper bore no name,  
Nor can I guests from whom it came,  
Or if at least a guess I found,  
'Twas not t'instruct but to confound.    

SONG of Basset,  by Sir George Ethrege. 

LEt Equipage and Dress despair,  
Since Basset is come in,  
For nothing can oblige the fair  
Like Money and Morine.   

Is any Countess in distress  
She flies not to the Beau,  
'Tis only Coney can redress  
Her grief with a Rouleau.   

By this bewitching Game betrayed  
Poor Love is bought and sold.  
And that which should be a free Trade,  
Is now ingross'd by Gold.   

Even sense is brought into disgrace,  
Where company is met  
Or silent stands, or leaves the Place,  
While all the talk's Basset.   

Why, Ladies, will you stake your hearts,  
Where a Plain cheat is found,  
You first are rooked out of those Darts,  
That gave yourselves the wound.   

The time, which should be kindly lent  
To plays and witty men,  
In waiting for a knave is spent  
Or wishing for a ten.   

Stand in defence of your own charms,  
Throw down this Favourite,  
That threatens with his dazzling Arms  
Your Beauty and your Wit.   

What pity 'tis, those conquering Eyes,  
Which all the World subdue,  
Should while the Lover gazing dyes  
Be only on Alpue.    

To the Lord Bishop of Rochester, on His History of the Plot written by His late Majesty's command. And an Apology for these Verses called the Advice to a Painter, by the same Author.  
My Lord,  

WIth humble hope your goodness will excuse  
The hasty zeal of an aspiring Muse;  
I with unequal pace your steps pursue,  
And thought I trod securely following you,  
Repenting now, like Phaeton, too late  
I feebly sink beneath the Glorious weight.  
And own the work for all but you too great:  
The hand that rivalled Heaven took thence its fire  
Ere he the senseless Machine could inspire;  
And the rash Author would attempt in vain,  
Unless he borrowed your diviner Pen;  
To imitate or praise with equal flight  
What only Charles could Dictate, only you could Write.   

If trouble passed by repetition please,  
Tho' meaner tongues the grateful tale rehearse,  
What mighty Raptures must these Ills create,  
Which bravely, as he conquered, you relate;  
Our joys without our sufferings had been less,  
And for the remedy, the wound we bless.  
So did not Catiline's defeated rage  
Your much-loved Tully's daring Pen engage,  
His Rome would want one Glory of his tongue,  
The World a Masterpiece, and Fame a Song.    

Upon the Arrival of his Excellency Henry Earl of Clarendon, And his entering upon the Government of Ireland, Jan: 1685/6.  by a M. of A. Mart: Ep: Phosphore, red diem, quid Gaudia noster moraris, Caesare venturo, Phosphore, red Diem. 

WHen Glorious Ormond, as beloved as Great,  
His gentle course of Government being run,  
With the Day's ruler in the Ocean set  
And laid the burden of his Empire down.   

Like Northern Mariners, our longing Eyes  
A thousand times towards the East were sent,  
Expecting still the same bright Sun would rise,  
And bring us back the joys that with him went.   

Mean while, the wished-for blessing to ensure,  
Our earthly God designed for us below,  
His absence that we better might endure,  
Two shining Planets did on us bestow.   

Stars to benighted Travellers still dear,  
Benign and Joyful, as the God of Light,  
Who whensoe'er together they appear,  
Quickly remove all terrors of the Night.   

Ever Immortal Castor first did shine,  
The Church's Angel and the kingdoms Eye,  
With whom our Jove did noble Pollux join,  
To share in Castor's Immortality.   

The Radiant pair both now and heretofore  
Have made us safe with their united Beam.  
We feared no Rocks, nor heard we Tempests roar,  
Enlightened once and influenced by them.   

Perhaps some noisy bugbears of the Night  
Or stalking shade, which dares not see the Day  
May howl and menace and the feeble fright  
And huff the timorous— because they may.   

Such empty Mormo's possibly might scare  
The unexperienced Mariners awhile,  
But these bright Stars such happy omens are,  
As make the knowing at their threatenings smile.   

For now the shining Twins about to set  
Point out to us another rising Sun,  
Which will the fantôms of the Night defeat  
And make grim Spectres from his presence run.   

Not the Illustrious Ormond, whose bright ray  
So long had cheered us, we desired it still.  
But a new Sun will walk in Ormonds' way  
And all that Princes brave desire fulfil.   

Sprung from a Loyal Sire! Renoun'd, and wise;  
Akin to Princes and to Crowns allied:  
Whom Great men Honour and whom Good men prize.  
How happy are we in so blest a guide!   

Hail, Glorious light! long looked for Sun, all Hail,  
Welcome as Day to Winter Passengers,  
Whose warm and powerful influence will not fail  
To raise our Spirits and repress our fears.   

He with wise conduct and resistless Art  
Will charm our foes and all our doubts will clear,  
Fresh vigour and new courage will impart,  
A frighted Church and fainting Kingdom cheer.   

Then, Ireland, once more lift thy drooping head,  
And read thy safety in thy Ruler's face;  
His Power which could even raise thee from the Dead  
Will soon restore thee to thy former grace.   

From forth an Orb of able Statesmen chose  
By our discerning Monarch, wise, and just.  
He's judged most fit thy troubles to compose,  
And to make good thy Princes mighty trust.   

Our Churches firm support, and friend he'll prove,  
The Laws Instructor, Learning's Patron too,  
The good will cherish, and the Loyal love,  
All this, and more than this he'll be, and do.   

Arise then, Gracious Clarendon, and sway  
That People who have longed for your Arrive  
Who love your Person, and with joy obey  
Even while the Godlike Ormond is alive.   

The Sun and you do now together get,  
And give new life, new influence to men,  
May you, (unlike to him,) or never set,  
Or like him ever rise to us again.    

A Poem against fruition written on the reading in Mountain's Essay:  By Alexis. 

AH wretched Man! whom neither fate can please  
Nor Heavens indulgent to his wish can bless,  
Desire torments him, or fruition cloys,  
Fruition which should make his bliss, destroys;  
Far from our Eyes th' enchanting objects set  
Advantage by the friendly distance get.  
Fruition shows the cheat, and views 'em near,  
Then all their borrowed splendours plain appear,  
And we what with much care we gain and skill  
An empty nothing find, or real ill.  
Thus disappointed, our mistaken thought,  
Not finding satisfaction which it sought  
Renews its search, and with much toil and pain  
Most wisely strives to be deceived again.  
Hurried by our fantastic wild desire  
We loathe the present, absent things admire,  
Those we adore, and fair Ideas frame,  
And those enjoyed we think would quench the flame  
In vain, the Ambitious fever still returns  
And with redoubled fire more fiercely burns.  
Our boundless vast desires can know no rest,  
But travel forward still and labour to be blest.  
Philosophers and Poets strove in vain  
The restless anxious Progress to restrain,  
And to their loss soon found their Good supreme  
An Airy notion and a pleasing Dream.  
For happiness is no where to be found,  
But flies the searcher, like enchanted ground.  
Are we then masters or the slaves of things?  
Poor wretched vassals, or terrestrial Kings?  
Left to our reason, and by that betrayed,  
We lose a present bliss to catch a shade.  
Unsatisfied with Beauteous nature's store  
The universal Monarch Man is only poor.    

To Alexis in Answer to his Poem against Fruition. ODE.  by Mrs. B. 

AH hapless sex! who bear no charms,  
But what like lightning flash and are no more,  
False fires sent down for baneful harms,  
Fires which the fleeting Lover feebly warms  
And given like past Beboches o'er,  
Like Songs that please, (though bad,) when new,  
But learned by heart neglected grew.   

In vain did Heaven adorn the shape and face  
With Beauties which by Angel's forms it drew:  
In vain the mind with brighter Glories Grace,  
While all our joys are stinted to the space  
Of one betraying interview,  
With one surrender to the eager will  
We be short-lived nothing, or a real ill.   

Since Man with that inconstancy was born,  
To love the absent, and the present scorn.  
Why do we deck, why do we dress  
For such a short-lived happiness?  
Why do we put Attraction on,  
Since either way 'tis we must be undone?   

They fly if Honour take our part,  
Our Virtue drives 'em o'er the field.  
We lose 'em by too much desert,  
And Oh! they fly us if we yield.  
Ye Gods! is there no charm in all the fair  
To fix this wild, this faithless, wanderer.   

Man! our great business and our aim,  
For whom we spread our fruitless snares,  
No sooner kindles the designing flame,  
But to the next bright object bears  
The Trophies of his conquest and our shame:  
Inconstancy's the good supreme  
The rest is airy Notion, empty Dream!   

Then, heedless Nymph, be ruled by me  
If e'er your Swain the bliss desire;  
Think like Alexis he may be  
Whose wished Possession damps his fire;  
The roving youth in every shade  
Has left some sighing and abandoned Maid,  
For 'tis a fatal lesson he has learned,  
After fruition ne'er to be concerned.    

To Alexis, On his saying, I loved a Man that talked much.  by Mrs. B. 

ALexis, since you'll have it so  
I grant I am impertinent.  
And till this moment did not know  
Through all my life what 'twas I meant;  
Your kind opinion was th' unflattering glass,  
In which my mind found how deformed it was.   

In your clear sense which knows no art,  
I saw the error of my Soul;  
And all the feebless of my heart,  
With one reflection you control,  
Kind as a God, and gently you chastise,  
By what you hate, you teach me to be wise.   

Impertinence, my sex's shame,  
(Which has so long my life pursued,)  
You with such modesty reclaim  
As all the Woman has subdued.  
To so divine a power what must I owe,  
That renders me so like the perfect— you?   

That conversable thing I hate  
Already with a just disdain,  
Who pride's himself upon his prate  
And is of word, (that Nonsense,) vain;  
When in your few appears such excellence,  
They have reproached, and charmed me into sense.   

For ever may I listening sit,  
Tho' but each hour a word be born:  
I would attend the coming wit,  
And bless what can so well inform:  
Let the dull World henceforth to words be damned,  
I'm into nobler sense than talking shamed.    

A PASTORAL Pindaric. On the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Earl of Dorset and Midlesex, to the Lady Mary Compton. A DIALOGUE.  
Between Damon and Aminta.  By Mrs. Behn. Aminta. 
WHither, young Damon, whither in such haste,  
Swift as the Winds you sweep the Grove,  
The Amorous God of Day scarce hied so fast  
After his flying Love?  Damon. 
Aminta, view my Face, and thence survey  
My very Soul and all its mighty joy!  
A joy too great to be concealed,  
And without speaking is revealed;  
For this eternal Holiday.  
A Day to place i'th' Shepherd's Calendar,  
To stand the glory of the circling year.  
Let its blessed date on every Bark be set,  
And every Echo its dear name repeat.  
Let 'em tell all the neighbouring Woods and Plains,  
That Lysidus, the Beauty of the Swains,  
Our darling youth, our wonder and our Pride,  
Is blest with fair Clemena for a Bride.  
Oh happy Pair! Let all the Groves rejoice,  
And gladness fill each heart and every voice!  Aminta. 
Clemena! that bright maid for whom our Shepherds pine,  
For whom so many weeping Eyes decline!  
For whom the Echoes all complain,  
For whom with sigh and falling tears  
The Lover in his soft despairs  
Disturbs the Peaceful Rivers gliding stream?  
The bright Clemena who has been so long  
The destiny of hearts and yet so young,  
She that has robbed so many of content  
Yet is herself so Sweet, so Innocent.  
She, that as many hearts invades,  
As charming Lysidus has conquered maids,  
Oh tell me, Damon, is the lovely fair  
Become the dear reward of all the Shepherd's care.  
Has Lysidus that prize of Glory won  
For whom so many sighing Swains must be undone?  Damon. 
Yes, it was destined from Eternity,  
They only should each other's be,  
Hail, lovely pair, whom every God designed  
In your first great Creation should be joined.  Aminta. 
Oh, Damon, this is vain Philosophy,  
'Tis chance and not Divinity,  
That guides Love's Partial Darts;  
And we in vain the Boy implore  
To make them Love whom we Adore.  
And all the other powers take little care of hearts,  
The very soul's by interest swayed,  
And nobler passion now by fortune is betrayed;  
By sad experience this I know,  
And sigh, Alas! in vain because 'tis true.  Damon. 
Too often and too fatally we find  
Portion and Jointure charm the mind,  
Large Flocks and Herds, and spacious Plains  
Becomes the merit of the Swains.  
But here, though both did equally abound,  
'Twas youth, 'twas wit, was Beauty gave the equal wound;  
Their Souls were one before they mortal being found,  
Jove when he laid his awful Thunder by  
And all his softest Attributes put on,  
When Heaven was Gay, and the vast Glittering Sky  
With Deities all wondering and attentive shone,  
The God his Luckiest heat to try  
Formed their great Souls of one Immortal Ray,  
He thought, and formed, as first he did the World,  
But with this difference, That from Chaos came,  
These from a beam, which, from his Godhead hurled  
Kindled into an everlasting flame.  
He smiling saw the mighty work was good,  
While all the lesser Gods around him gazing stood.  
He saw the shining Model bright and Great  
But oh! they were not yet complete,  
For not one God but did the flames inspire,  
With sparks of their Divinest fire.  
Diana took the lovely Female Soul,  
And did its fiercer Atoms cool;  
Softened the flame and placed a Crystal Ice  
About the sacred Paradise,  
Bathed it all o'er in Virgin Tears,  
Mixed with the fragrant Dew the Rose receives,  
Into the bosom of her untouched leaves,  
And dried it with the breath of Vestal Prayers,  
Juno did great Majestic thought inspire  
And Pallas touched it with Heroic fire.  
While Mars, Apollo, Love and Venus sat,  
About the Hero's Soul in high debate,  
Each claims it all, but all in vain contend,  
In vain appeal to mighty Jove,  
Who equal Portions did to all extend.  
This to the God of wit, and that to Love,  
Another to the Queen of soft desire,  
And the fierce God of War completes the rest,  
Guilds it all o'er with Martial fire;  
While Love, and Wit, Beauty and War expressed  
Their finest Arts, and the bright Being's all in Glory dressed.  
While each in their Divine employments strove  
By every charm these new-formed l'ghts t'improve,  
They left a space untouched for mightier Love.  
The finishing last strokes the Boy performed;  
Who from his Quiver took a Golden Dart  
That could a sympathising wound impart,  
And touched 'em both, and with one flame they burned.  
The next great work was to create two frames  
Of the Divinest form,  
Fit to contain these heavenly flames.  
The Gods decreed, and charming Lysidus was born,  
Born, and grew up the wonder of the Plains,  
Joy of the Nymphs and Glory of the Swains.  
And warmed all hearts with his enchanting strains;  
Soft were the Songs, which from his lips did flow,  
Soft as the Soul which the fine thought conceived.  
Soft as the sighs the charming Virgin breathed  
The first dear night of the chaste nuptial vow.  
The noble youth even Daphnis does excel  
Oh never Shepherd piped and sung so well.  Aminta. 
Now, Damon, you are in your proper sphere,  
While of his wit you give a character.  
But who inspired you a Philosopher?  Damon. 
Old Colin, when we oft have led our Flocks  
Beneath the shelter of the shad's and Rocks,  
While other youths more vainly spent their time,  
I listened to the wondrous Bard;  
And while he sung of things sublime  
With reverend pleasure heard.  
He soared to the Divine abodes  
And told the secrets of the Gods.  
And oft discoursed of Love and Sympathy;  
For he as well as thou and I  
Had sighed for some dear object of desire;  
But oh! till now I ne'er could prove  
That secret mystery of Love;  
ne'er saw two hearts thus burn with equal fire.  Aminta. 
But, oh! what Nymph e'er saw the noble youth  
That was not to eternal Love betrayed?  Damon. 
And, oh! what swain e'er saw the Lovely maid,  
That would not plight her his eternal faith!  
Not unblown Roses, or the newborn day  
Or pointed Sunbeams, when they gild the skies,  
Are half so sweet, are half so bright and gay,  
As young Clemena's charming Face and Eyes!  Aminta. 
Not full-blown flowers, when all their lustre's on  
Whom every bosom longs to wear,  
Nor the spread Glories of the mid-days sun  
Can with the charming Lysidus compare.  Damon. 
Not the soft gales of gentle breeze  
That whisper to the yielding Trees,  
Nor songs of Birds that through the Groves rejoice,  
Are half so sweet, so soft, as young Clemena's voice.  Aminta. 
Not murmurs of the Rivulets and Springs,  
When through the glades they purling glide along  
And listen when the wondrous shepherd sings,  
Are half so sweet as is the Shepherd's song.  Damon. 
Not young Diana in her eager chase  
When by her careless flying Robe betrayed,  
Discovering every charm and every Grace,  
Has more surprising Beauty than the brighter maid.  Aminta. 
The gay young Monarch of the cheerful May  
Adorned with all the Trophies he has won,  
Vain with the Homage of the joyful day  
Compared to Lysidus would be undone.  Damon. 
Aminta, cease; and let me hast away,  
For while upon this Theme you dwell,  
You speak the noble youth so just, so well,  
I could for ever listening stay.  Aminta. 
And while Clemena's praise becomes thy choice,  
My Ravished soul is fixed upon thy voice.  Damon. 
But see the Nymphs and dancing swains  
Ascend the Hill from yonder Plains,  
With Wreaths and Garlands finely made,  
To crown the lovely Bride and Bridegroom's head,  
And I amongst the humbler throng  
My Sacrifice must bring  
A rural Hymeneal song,  
Alexis he shall pipe while I will sing.  
Had I been blest with Flocks or Herd  
A nobler Tribute I'd prepared,  
With darling Lambs the Altars I would throng:  
But I, alas! can only offer song.  
Song too obscure, too humble verse  
For this days glory to rehearse,  
But Lysidus, like Heaven, is kind,  
And for the Sacrifice accepts the Humble mind.  
If he vouchsafe to listen to my Ode  
He makes me happier than a fancied God.   

On Desire A Pindaric.  By Mrs. B. 

WHat Art thou, oh! thou newfound pain?  
From what infection dost thou spring?  
Tell me— oh! tell me, thou enchanting thing,  
Thy nature, and thy name;  
Inform me by what subtle Art,  
What powerful Influence,  
You got such vast Dominion in a part  
Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart,  
That fame and Honour cannot drive ye thence.   

Oh! mischievous usurper of my Peace;  
Oh! soft intruder on my solitude,  
Charming disturber of my ease,  
That hast my nobler fate pursued,  
And all the Glories of my life subdued.   

Thou hauntest my inconvenient hours  
The business of the Day, nor silence of the night,  
That should to cares and sleep invite,  
Can bid defiance to thy conquering powers.   

Where hast thou been this livelong Age  
That from my Birth till now,  
Thou never couldst one thought engage,  
Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage  
That made it all its humble feebles know?   

Where wert thou, oh, malicious spirit,  
When shining Honour did invite.?   

When interest called, than thou wert shy,  
Nor to my aid one kind propension brought,  
Nor wouldst inspire one tender thought,  
When Princes at my feet did lie.   

When thou couldst mix ambition with my joy,  
Then peevish Phantôm thou were't nice and coy,  
Not Beauty could invite thee then  
Nor all the Arts of lavish Men!  
Not all the powerful Rhetoric of the Tongue  
Not sacred Wit could charm thee on;  
Not the soft play that lovers make,  
Nor sigh could fan thee to a fire,  
Not pleading tears, nor vows could thee awake,  
Or warm the unformed something— to desire.   

Oft I've conjured thee to appear  
By youth, by love, by all their powers,  
Have searched and sought thee every where,  
In silent Groves, in lonely bowers:  
On Flowery beds where lovers wishing lie,  
In sheltering Woods where sighing maids  
To their assigning Shepherds hie,  
And hide their blushes in the gloom of shades  
Yet there, even there, though youth assailed,  
Where Beauty prostrate lay and fortune wooed,  
My heart insensible to neither bowed  
Thy lucky aid was wanting to prevail.   

In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphere  
But thou in crowds wert stifled there,  
Interest did all the loving business do,  
Invites the youths and wins the Virgins too.  
Or if by chance some heart thy empire own  
(Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone   

Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate  
Thy mighty force through every part,  
What God, or Human power did thee create  
In my, till now, unfacile heart?  
Art thou some welcome plague sent from above  
In this dear form, this kind disguise?  
Or the false offspring of mistaken love,  
Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove,  
With the bright piercing Beauties of Lysander's  
Eyes?   

Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now;  
And found to whom thou dost thy being owe,  
'Tis thou the blushes dost impart,  
For thee this languishment I wear,  
'Tis thou that tremblest in my heart  
When the dear Shepherd does appear,  
I faint, I die with pleasing pain,  
My words intruding sighing break  
When e'er I touch the charming swain  
When ere I gaze, when e'er I speak.  
Thy conscious fire is mingled with my love,  
As in the sanctify'd abodes  
Misguided worshippers approve  
The mixing Idol with their Gods.   

In vain, alas! in vain I strive  
With errors, which my soul do please and vex,  
For superstition will survive,  
Purer Religion to perplex.   

Oh! tell me you, Philosophers, in love,  
That can its burning feverish fits control,  
By what strange Arts you cure the soul,  
And the fierce Calenture remove?   

Tell me, ye fair ones, that exchange desire,  
How 'tis you hid the kindling fire.  
Oh! would you but confess the truth,  
It is not real virtue makes you nice:  
But when you do resist the pressing youth,  
'Tis want of dear desire, to thaw the Virgin Ice.  
And while your young adorers lie  
All languishing and hopeless at your feet,  
Raising new Trophies to your chastity,  
Oh tell me, how you do remain discreet?   

How you suppress the rising sighs,  
And the soft yielding soul that wishes in your Eyes?  
While to th' admiring crowed you nice are found;  
Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound   

Informs you, all your virtue's but a cheat  
And Honour but a false disguise,  
Your modesty a necessary bait  
To gain the dull repute of being wise.   

Deceive the foolish World— deceive it on,  
And veil your passions in your pride;  
But now I've found your feebles by my own,  
From me the needful fraud you cannot hide.  
Tho' 'tis a mighty power must move  
The soul to this degree of love,  
And though with virtue I the World perplex,  
Lysander finds the weakness of my sex,  
So Helen while from Theseus' arms she fled,  
To charming Paris yields her heart and Bed.    

SONG.  By a person of Quality. 

AH cruel Beauty, could you prove  
More tender or less fair.  
You neither would provoke my Love  
Nor cause me to despair.  
But your dissembling charming Eyes  
My easy hope beguiles,  
And though a Rock beneath'em lies  
The tempting surface smiles.   

To what your sex on ours impose  
My humble Love complied,  
And when my secret I disclosed  
Thought modesty denied;  
Yes sure, said I, her yielding heart  
Partakes of my desire,  
But nicer Honour feigns this part  
To hide the rising fire.   

Against your mind my suit I told,  
And slighted vows renewed,  
Yet you insensibly were cold  
And I but vainly wooed.  
Then for return a scorn prepare  
Or lay that frown aside,  
Affected coyness I can bear  
But hate insulting Pride.    

SONG.  By a person of Quality. 

UNder the Beams of Celia's Eyes,  
See the fair Shepherd panting lys,  
For whom all other Beauty dies?  
Him though she burn with equal fire  
She suffers at her feet t' expire  
Preferring glory to desire.  
Dye then, oh die, unhappy swain,  
And leave her to lament in vain  
The cruel sports of her disdain;  
You fall a Public sacrifice  
Since she will weep away those Eyes  
By whose each look a lover dies.    

SONG. 1.  by the same hand. 

WHen sable night had conquered day,  
And Beauteous Cynthia rose,  
As I in tears reflecting lay  
On Cloes faithless vows.  
The God of Love appeared to me  
To heal my wounded heart,  
The Influencing Deity  
With pleasure armed each Dart.  
Fond man, said he, here end thy woe,  
Till she my power and Justice know,  
The foolish Sex shall all do so.   

2.  

And for thy ease, believe no bliss  
Is perfect without pain,  
The fairest Summer hurtful is  
Without some showers of Rain.  
The Joys of Heaven who would prize  
If men too cheaply bought,  
The dearest part of mortal Joys  
Most charming is when sought.   

And though with dross true Love they pay,  
Those that know finest metals say,  
No Gold will coin without allay.    

3.  

But that the generous Lover may  
Not always sigh in vain,  
The cruel Nymph that kills to day  
To morrow shall be slain.  
The little God no sooner spoke,  
But from my sight he flew,  
And I that groaned with Cloes yoke,  
Found Love's revenge was true.   

Her proud hard heart too late did turn;  
With fiercer flames than mine did burn;  
While I as much began to scorn.     

A Pastoral Song on the late King.  

WHy, Phillis, in this mournful dress,  
Ah! why so full of Tears,  
These sighs, my dearest Shepherdess,  
Suit not thy tender years.  
Thy sheep lie panting on the plain  
Not one of them will feed;  
Thy Lambs in piercing cries complain  
Whence, whence, does this proceed?   

Ah, Strephon, we are all undone,  
With trembling voice, she said,  
The best of Men to Heaven is gone,  
The great Amintor's dead.  
What will become of thou and I,  
Of these dear Flocks that moan,  
They will be Stole, and we shall die,  
Now wise Amintor's go?   

Best blessings rest upon his Soul,  
The Loyal Swain replied,  
Yet let this thought thy grief control,  
Pan does for us provide;  
And though the brave Amintor's gone,  
Alexis does remain,  
Since he is left we're not undone,  
Nor ought we to complain.   

In him our loss is made amends,  
He'll us in safety keep  
From whigish Swains he'll us defend,  
From the French Fox our Sheep;  
Then cheer thy Flocks and weep no more,  
But stop that pious tide,  
With Voice and Pipe lets Pan adore,  
For sending such a guide.    

The Departure.  [by Damon: Nouem. 78.] 

I Never knew what 'twas to mourn,  
Ere the too hasty glass had run  
Which measured every thought of mine:  
Still as I offered at Love's shrine  
My heart a bleeding Sacrifice,  
The conquest of Aminta's Eyes.  
Those shining objects of my Love,  
How did the searching passion rove,  
O'er all my soul its quickening fire  
Melted my heart with soft desire,  
While my Aminta blest this plain,  
I never felt another pain  
Than Love; which always does belong  
To the gentle Amorous throng;  
But now—  
Oh! wonder not, great God of Love,  
If the strong passion cease to move  
Within my soul; Aminta's gone,  
And left me here to sigh alone.  
How vain does the vast Globe appear  
No sweetening pleasures can live here,  
While bright Aminta is not near.  
No warbling notes which fill the Wood,  
Nor murmurs which the streams afford,  
Can raise in me that harmony  
Which ravished with such ecstasy.  
When the fair she approached, each charm  
Guarded my humble soul from harm,  
Nothing can now transport or cheer  
A tortured soul that's filled with fear;  
Since loved Aminta quits the place,  
Which she with Innocence did Grace.  
Then will I wander to some Grove  
Where I'll lament my absent Love,  
And with cold Winter still complain  
Till the lost spring return again.    

To Amintas, Upon reading the Lives of some of the Romans,  by Mrs. B. 

Hadst thou, Amintas, lived in that great age,  
When hardly Beauty was to nature known,  
What numbers to thy side mightst thou engage  
And conquered Kingdoms by thy looks alone?   

That age when valour they did Beauty name,  
When Men did justly our brave sex prefer,  
'Cause they durst die, and scorn the public shame  
Of adding Glory to the conqueror.   

Had mighty Scipio had thy charming face,  
Great Sophonisbe had refused to die,  
Her passion o'er the sense of her disgrace  
Had gained the more obliging victory.   

Nor less would Massanissa too have done,  
But to such Eyes, as to his Sword would bow,  
For neither sex can here thy fetters shun,  
Being all Scipio, and Amintas too.   

Hadst thou great Caesar been, the greater Queen,  
Would trembling have her mortal Asps laid by '  
In thee she had not only Caesar seen,  
But all she did adore in Antony.   

Had daring Sextus had thy lovely shape,  
The fairest Woman living had not died.  
But blest the darkness that secured the Rape,  
Suffering her Pleasure to have debauched her Pride.   

Nor had he stolen to Rome to have quenched his fire,  
If thee resistless in his Camp he'd seen,  
Thy Eyes had kept his virtue all entire,  
And Rome a happy monarchy had been.   

Had Pompey looked like thee, though he had proved  
The vanquished, yet from Egypt's faithless King  
He had received the vows of being beloved,  
In stead of Orders for his murdering.   

But here, Amintas, thy misfortune lies,  
Nor brave nor good are in our age esteemed,  
Content thee then with meaner victories,  
Unless that Glorious age could be redeemed.   
A. B.   

On the first discovery of falseness in Amintas.  By Mrs. B. 

MAke haste! make hast! my miserable soul,  
To some unknown and solitary Grove,  
Where nothing may thy Languishment control  
Where thou mayst never hear the name of Love.  
Where unconfined, and free, as whispering Air,  
Thou mayst caress and welcome thy despair:   

Where no dissembled complaisance may veil  
The griefs with which, my soul, thou art oppressed.  
But dying, breath thyself out in a tale  
That may declare the cause of thy unrest:  
The toils of Death 'twill render far more light  
And soon convey thee to the shades of night.   

Search then, my soul, some unfrequented place,  
Some place that nature meant her own repose:  
When she herself withdrew from human race,  
Displeased with wanton Lovers vows and oaths.  
Where Sol could never dart a busy Ray,  
And where the softer winds ne'er met to play.   

By the sad purling of some Rivulet  
O'er which the bending Yew and Willow grow,  
That scarce the glimmerings of the day permit,  
To view the melancholy Banks below,  
Where dwells no noise but what the murmurs make,  
When the unwilling stream the shade forsakes.   

There on a Bed of Moss and new-fallen leaves,  
Which the Triumphant Trees once proudly bore,  
Tho' now thrown off by every wind that breaths,  
Despised by what they did adorn before,  
And who, like useless me, regardless lie  
While springing beauties do the boughs supply.   

There lay thee down, my soul, and breathe thy last,  
And calmly to the unknown regions fly;  
But e'er thou dost thy stock of life exhaust,  
Let the ungrateful know, why 'tis you die.  
Perhaps the gentle winds may chance to bear  
Thy dying accents to Amintas ear.   

Breath out thy Passion; tell him of his power  
And how thy flame was once by him approved.  
How soon as wished he was thy conqueror,  
No sooner spoke of Love, but was beloved.  
His wondrous Eyes, what weak resistance sound,  
While every charming word begat a wound?   

Here thou wilt grow impatient to be gone,  
And through my willing Eyes will silent pass,  
Into the stream that gently glides along,  
But stay thy hasty flight, (my Soul,) alas,  
A thought more cruel will thy flight secure,  
Thought, that can no admittance give to cure.   

Think, how the prostrate Infidel now lies,  
An humble suppliant at another's feet,  
Think, while he begs for pity from her Eyes.  
He sacrifices thee without regret.  
Think, how the faithless treated thee last night,  
And then, my tortured soul, assume thy flight.    

SONG.  

REason at last has got the day,  
To Silvia's yoke no more I bow,  
The harder 'twas to break away,  
The sweeter is my freedom now,  
Yet I resolve the scornful Nymph to see,  
And tell her, I'm as unconcerned as she.  
But why should I a visit make,  
To her whose charms I did admire,  
Unless my soul her part dost take,  
Unknowing of its amorous fire?  
Alas! my flames are greater than before,  
For he loves most, who thinks he loves no more.    

On a Blue spot made in a Lady's neck by Gunpowder,  by a person of Quality. 

WHat blue is that that does so charming  
show,  
A Hill of Saphire in a Field of Snow.  
Where Love in ambush lies to shoot his Darts,  
And make a prey of the beholders hearts.  
Of that fine spot what cause can be assigned,  
Was it by nature or by art designed?  
Nature so busy was to make your face,  
In beautyfying it with every grace,  
She could not mind any inferior part,  
So that this needs must be the work of Art:  
Powder, which first was for destruction meant,  
Was here converted into ornament;  
But yet retains its wont nature still,  
And from your neck, as from a Port does kill.    

On Dydo.  

UNhappy Dydo, all her life  
As well a Mistress, as a Wife,  
No sooner dies her Husband, but she flies;  
No sooner flies her Lover, but she dies.    

SONG.  

AS the enamoured Thirsis lay  
With his Silvia reconciled,  
Whose Eyes did brighter beams display,  
While the lovely charmer smiled.   

With Joy transported cried, my dear,  
Let us, let us, often jar,  
Peace always sweetest does appear  
After sharp fatigues of War.   

No, said the Nymph, mistaken swain,  
'Tis best our quarrels to give o'er.  
Kingdom's may jar, and close again,  
But broken Love cements no more.    

The Choice.  

SIlvia, of all your Amorous train  
The Black, the Brown, or Fair,  
The wealthy Lord, or humble Swain  
For whom will you declare?   

If wealth or Beauty do prevail,  
My claim I then resign;  
If truth and love, I cannot fail,  
And Silvia must be mine.    

A Letter to Astrea.  

THe Muse, which fair Astrea first inspired,  
Has drooped and lost its flame since she retired;  
And to the feathered Poets which belong  
To Groves resigns her fainting Song.  
Nor is this Lethargy her fate alone  
For general dulness has possessed the Town,  
The Town that now can boast no crowded street,  
Where none but sharp-set younger Brothers meet  
For well they know their mirth and Wit, (alas!  
Their only coin,) will not i'th' country pass.  
Yet in a cloud of smoke o'er Coffee dry,  
What pleasure 'tis to hear the Sharpers' cry.   

Pox o' this business, that still sticks and dwells  
Upon my hands and keeps me from the Wells,  
But I resolve a bold escape to make,  
And to thronged Tunbridg a short Journey take;  
My humblest service to Eliza give,  
And when your Gloriana shall receive  
Your next, let my respects have then a place.  
Let fair Astrea last be pleased to grace  
These lines with her acceptance, and excuse  
The broken Language of a dying Muse.  
Since she's already drawing to a close,  
To write in verse I can no more propose,  
What next I send expect in honest prose.    

To M B. from a Lady who had a desire to see her, and who complains on the ingratitude of her fugitive Lover.  

KInd are my Stars indeed but that so late  
And I stranger to a gentle fate,  
If such a one I meet and chance to know,  
I have not proper words to call it so,  
Wondering at happiness, surprised as far  
As a rough General always trained to War,  
Snatched from the midst of cruel fierce alarms,  
Into a thousand unexpected charms;  
A joy like this, how shall I entertain,  
With a heart wounded, and a soul in pain;  
In my laborious enterprises crossed,  
My life near Finis, and the Day quite lost.  
Cleone had a Swain, and loved the youth,  
Not for his Beauty but his seeming truth,  
Not for a goodly herd or high descent,  
(Ah that no God my ruin would prevent,)  
What though the Swain had neither Sheep nor land,  
I scorned the goods of fortunes partial hand;  
So generous was my passion for the slave,  
Because I equally supposed him brave.  
Oh! give me leave to sigh one sad adieu,  
Then wholly dedicate myself to you.  
I have no business here but to complain  
Of all the treasons of an ingrate Swain,  
Since my inhuman perjured Shepherd 's gone,  
Night four seven times has put her mantle on,  
And three seven times Aurora has appeared,  
Since last I from the cruel Strephon heard;  
Whither he lives, is dead, or on what shore,  
(Patience, ye Gods! alas I know no more,  
Then why my Stars do my destruction press,  
Send me your pity, bounteous Shepherdess;  
That I the face of grief no more may know,  
If I deserve it that could Love so low;  
Consult not that, but charity and give  
One tender pitying sigh that I may live:  
(That I may thus make my complaint to you,)  
Kind are my Stars indeed at last 'tis true;  
Let not my rude and untamed griefs destroy,  
The early glimmerings of an infant joy:  
And add not your neglect, for if you do,  
Cleone finds her desolation too!  
Know this it yet remains in your fair breast,  
To render me the happy or unblessed.  
You may act miracles if you'll be kind,  
Make me true joys in real sorrows find;  
And bless the hour I hither did pursue  
A faithless Swain and found access to you:  
Accept the heart I here to you present,  
By the ingratitude of Strephon rent;  
Till then gay, noble, full of brave disdain,  
And unless yours prevent shall be again;  
As once it was, if in your generous breast,  
It may be Pensioner at my request  
No more to Treason's subject as before  
To be betrayed by a fair tale no more,  
As large as once, as uncontrolled and free,  
But yet at your command shall always be.    

To the fair Clarinda, who made Love to me, imagined more than Woman.  By Mrs. B. 

FAir lovely Maid, or if that Title be  
Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee,  
Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth:  
And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth.  
This last will justify my soft complaint,  
While that may serve to lessen my constraint;  
And without Blushes I the Youth pursue,  
When so much beauteous Woman is in view.  
Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain  
With thy deluding Form thou giv'st us pain,  
While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain.  
In pity to our Sex sure thou were't sent,  
That we might Love, and yet be Innocent:  
For sure no Crime with thee we can commit;  
Or if we should— thy Form excuses it.  
For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes  
A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves.   

Thou beauteous Wonder of a different kind,  
Soft Cloris with the dear Alexis joined;  
When e'er the Manly part of thee, would plead  
Thou tempts us with the Image of the Maid,  
While we the noblest Passions do extend  
The Love to Hermes, Aphrodite the Friend.    
FINIS.