AMASIA, OR, THE Works of the Muses.  
A Collection OF POEMS.  
In Three Volumes.  
By Mr John Hopkins.  
VOL. I  
Sunt bona, sunt quaedam mediocria, sunt mala plura, Quae legis hic, aliter non fit (Avite) liber.  
LONDON, Printed by Tho. Warren for Bennet Banbury, at the Blue-Anchor in the Lower-Walk of the New-Exchange, 1700.   

To her GRACE THE Duchess of Grafton.  
MADAM,  
SHall I be guilty of Tautologies? Shall I Name Grafton first, and say she's Beautiful? Or shall I say your Ladyship is most Beautiful, and need I than Name Grafton?  
What is it I feel inspiring me, while I address you? What is it Transports my Senses and my Soul with Ravishment? 'Tis Grafton; 'tis the Duchess of Grafton, Love's Goddess, and the Queen of Beauty.  
I see your Ladyship in Idea, but even the Idea represents not any form so Amiable.  
The fanciful Poet's Mistress in imagination wears Charms Divinely shining, wears Beauties gloriously Aerial, yet far inferior.  
To whom but to your Grace should I present Amasia? To you, the Mistress, the Amasia of the World.  
O Paris! O happy Son of Royal Priam! Who saw three Goddesses at once, three Graftons! Not Helena, made both the bribe and the reward for the Golden prize which he decreed to Venus, knew any Charms, like Grafton's: Not Helena; Not Venus' self; not, not the three Goddesses could make up, with Charms united, Glories so tightly Celestial.  
Had your Grace on Ida's Mount appeared, 〈◊〉 you stood there a Candidate; in vain, had Wisdom, in vain had Empire too, and the Fair, Fatal Charming Beauty 〈◊〉 all in vain been offered; Justice had prevailed o'er all.  
O Grafton! 'Tis almost Impious for a Poet to approach you, not in Verse; where is the incense I should offer at the Shrine of Beauty? Where is the Praise, through which the Poet claims his Privilege to adore? Where are the Flights, the Raptures of Extatick Poetry? Why soar they not? Why? 'Tis because they Flag beneath you.  
I cannot Praise you; I will not than attempt it; I have not Venus' sufficiently Divine, before me, to draw this Venus by. Scarce other Beauties are bright enough to be the shadows of your Picture; I shall therefore resist the Torrents of my fancy, and withhold my Artless, my unable Pencil.  
If sorrow in the Face of the Grecian Chief could be no otherwise expressed than by a Curtain drawn to veil it, how shall I presume to hope that the Superlative excess of Beauty can be described which blooms in yours! I too must draw the Curtain here, and rather choose to hid the Charming object, than, by exposing it in a faint, glimmering Light, to darken, and obscure it more.  
'Tis Elysium, 'tis the Kingdom of Love, which Courts your Grace's presence; both Silvius and Amasia Joined (but in a fanciful enjoyment,) claim in this Poem the Tenants right of doing Homage to your Ladyship, both Court your Grace to give a visit to their humble Groves, to that Elysium which we can possess only in your Grace's Smiles, for wheresoever your Grace appears, Love sways, and fixes his unalterable Kingdom there.  
I am, May it Please your Grace, Your Grace's most Obedient, and most Humbly Devoted Servant. J. Hopkins.   

THE PREFACE.  
SInce 'tis inevitable that Books must be Published, when Printed, 'tis almost a necessary Conclusion that Prefaces must be written, whether they will be read or not. I have been in a thousand various Thoughts how to manage in a Point so very Nice; sometimes I have inclined to attempt in some sort a Vindication, at lest of some of the following Poems; than, I have condemned them all, with Censures on myself, as severe, I am positive, as my Muses and I can meet with from the most rigidly-good Judgement of the most Malicious Critic: Again I thought to Muster up all the Poetical excuses the doubting Author swells with, Just before his Offspring comes to Light; as the Juvenile Years in which I writ them; (which by the way, gives me Occasion to say, that on that account I called the Book the Works of the Muses, having a Notion that the Title bears in it an Air of Puerility.) The undesigning the Publication of most of them, when written; the Publishing them at last not through any vain Popular ends, but for Private necessary Reasons; and the having destroyed a larger Collection than I now Publish, I thought might be of weight enough for so light a thing as an excuse. The two last Reason's 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 my Approbation, for the one excuses me to myself, which I think most Material; and the last of all will in a great measure excuse me to the World. I think it necessary only to say three or four Words more, and those partly in Vindication. I have writ several Copies on very 〈◊〉 Occasions; Mr. Waller has writ some. There are several of Ovid's Stories which I have 〈◊〉, many of them have been already attempted, some by several Hands; and most of them have been very well performed by my Brother, and Published some Years since; mine were written in an other Kingdom before I knew of his. There is nothing now remains, for my own satisfaction to be said, but to assure the Ladies that they will meet with nothing in my Writings that need 'cause a Blush; and so, humbly recommending my Book to their Protection, I am wholly indifferent, and shall be unconcerned at what the Grave and the Precise shall say.  

Pascitur in vivis livor: Post fata quiescit,  
Tunc suis ex merito quemque 〈◊〉, honour.  
Ergo etiam cum me supremus adusserit ignis,  
Vivam: Parsque 〈◊〉 magna superstes erit.    

THE CONTENTS.  

Vol. I. Book I  TO the God of Love. A Pindaric 
Page 3  Elysium, or the Kingdom of Love, A Poem, (Addressed to Amasia) Containing 
9  Passionate fondness 
12  Despair 
16  Admiration 
19  Address 
21  Parting 
22  Absence 
24  Jealousy 
25  Platonic Love 
26  Elysium. 
28   

Book II.  THE Mistress of Love, being some Copies, written on Occasions to Amasia, by her own Command. 
 To Amasia, on her drawing her own Picture 
39  To Amasia, holding a drawn Sword in her hand 
40  To Amasia, tickling a Gentleman. 
41  To Amasia, playing with a Clouded Fan 
42  To Amasia, ask me if I slept well after so Tempestuous a Night as the last was, when we parted, and desiring me to describe it 
p. 43  To Amasia, speaking an Extempore Verse. 
48  To Amasia, still promising to Sing, but never performing 
ibid.  Meeting Amasia at a Young Lady's Funeral 
50  To Amasia, on her recovery from a fall 
ibid.  To Amasia, holding a Burning-glass in her Hand 
51  To Amasia, looking at me, 〈◊〉 a Multiplying-Glass 
52  To Amasia Singing, and sticking Pins in a Red-Silk-Pincushion 
53  To Amasia, on her Correcting a line of Mr. Waller's, as she read it 
54  To Amasia, troubled with a redness in her Eyes, on her saying she would Charm me with them 
56  To Amasia, on the falling of her Terras-Walks 
57  The Dream, beginning with the 〈◊〉 of Night, Written to Amasia 
59  To Amasia, who, while I awfully admired her at her Window, withdrew, and sent 〈◊〉 Black in her Place 
63  To Amasia, Dancing before a Looking-Glass 
64  To Amasia, on the burning of her 〈◊〉 Muslin-Nightrail, which took Fire, while she was asleep, and 〈◊〉 she was herself unhurt 
65  To Amasia, who having pricked me with a Pin, for a subject to writ on, accidentally 〈◊〉 herself with 〈◊〉, when in my 〈◊〉 afterwards 
68  〈◊〉 to a Painter to draw Amasia, with some 〈◊〉 on the Artist's skill, resolving to 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 myself, much better with my 〈◊〉. 
69   

Book III.  THE Address of Love. An Epistolary Poem. Written to Amasia, 
79  Female Epistles of Love. Containing 
 Deidamia to Achilles 
95  A Lady to her Lover 
99  Scylla to Minos. 
110    

TO SILVIUS, ON HIS AMASIA.  

I Read; and all your Works my wonder raise,  
Thou gav'st me Pleasure, and I'll give thee Praise.  
With Wit so Charming thy soft Passions move,  
Minerva now should grow the Queen of Love.   

Silvius—  
—— To thee a double Fame is due,  
Both as the Poet, and the Lover too.  
She too grows doubly famed, whom Silvius woos,  
Amasia, both the Mistress and the Muse.  
If thou hast Loved, and thy Complaints be Just,  
I pity thee,— and every Woman must.  
She's dead— our Sex's glory, and their shame;  
Can she be Mortal, yet despise thy Flame!  
If thou hast Loved, but half as thou hast writ,  
(But o! Who Loves, with such a World of Wit.!)  
The Maid, the Cruel Charming Maid you Sung,  
With darts by Death, not Cupid, should be stung.  
Death has 〈◊〉 thee of thy Constant vow;  
〈◊〉 the Maid, Fame be thy Mistress now.  
〈◊〉 which you Court not, to your Arms will flee,  
〈◊〉 World will give, but take it first from me.  
In vain— she gives you Fame, whom you adore,  
Your Passion gives you that, but gives not more.  
Such natural turns in all your Numbers roll,  
Were there no sense, the strain would move the Soul.  
Their force is such as is in Music found,  
We should be Charmed, by the bore Power of sound.  
Thou none can better writ, do you writ on,  
You can be only by yourself outdone.  
All other Poets, reading thee, Despair,  
And grieve to think thou hast so vast a share.  
Ashamed of their own labours may they grow,  
Whilst from thy Pen whole Helicon does flow.  
Thy growing Laurels spread above us high,  
Spring through the Air, and mounting, reach the Sky.  
When Echoed from the Stars by sounding Fame,  
A lasting glory shall secure thy Name.  
Go on, and let thy thoughtful, 〈◊〉 Muse,  
Ravished with Love, no other subject choose.  
Let thy soft numbers still 〈◊〉 thy Pen,  
Thy Muses Works surpass the Works of Men.  
In after Ages may thy glory 〈◊〉,  
And may thy name great 〈◊〉 name survive.  
Thou dost our Souls with thy soft Passions move,  
Thou Art a Poet, like the 〈◊〉 of Love.  
You and the God of Love 〈◊〉 mourn,  
The God of Love and you are Poets born.  
Hold, I'm your Friend, and I must need advice,  
Be wise, yet e'er it be too late, be wise.  
Nor from the Press, nor the ingrateful Stage,  
To your own ruin, Charm a thankless Age.  
Amasia's dead— some solid good pursue,  
Since every Muse has done a task for you;  
Merit 〈◊〉 ever meets reward— Adieu.  
Yet hold; if still you would yourself excel,  
Leave of— so Wicherly did more than well.    

AMASIA, OR, THE Works of the Muses. Containing ELYSIUM, OR, THE KINGDOM of LOVE.  
Vol. I. Book I  
Non mihi mille placent; nisi sum desertor amoris:  
Tu mihi (si qua fides) cura perennis cris.  

TO THE GOD of LOVE. A PINDARIC.  
Sine Numine nihil.  

(1)  
SOme loose themselves to gain a lasting Name, of Fame:  
And eat those Rocks which bar the Coasts  
Art does the skilful Pilot sit,  
To guide in the full Sea of Wit,  
The Poet flies with fancy's Sails,  
Fame's wanton Breath affords him Gales,  
A mighty Voyage now he takes  
The Muse's Indieses must be sought,  
The choicest Oar must thence be brought,  
Whole Floods of Sense upon him roll,  
Behold, what wondrous way he makes!  
His course will soon be run,  
Thou adverse Winds control,  
And 〈◊〉 toss a while his Soul,  
He Sails about the World of thought,  
And Journeys like the God of Wit, the Sun.  
Me Love shall guide, tho' Love be blind,  
To thee alone thy Poet flies,  
Thy Mother sprung from Seas we 〈◊〉  
Thou, little, Infant God, behind,  
No Winds but gentle Sights shall rise,  
I'll steer my course by my Amasia's Eyes,  
Amasia lies the Golden Coast,  
Which I shall reach at last, or in the Search be lost.   

(2)  
Famed by their Muse's flights let others prove,  
While I am Born upon the Wings of Love.  
Some climb the Poet's Hill with pain,  
Yet 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 arrive,  
Like Sisyphus his stone, in vain  
Rolled up, to be thrown down again,  
When tired, at length, they cease to strive,  
And on the barren plain dejected lie and live,  
Me my Ambition only leads  
Beneath the Hill to seek out pleasing Groves,  
The Charming 〈◊〉 haunt the shades,  
And there in Laurel Bowers I would reveal my Loves.  
Congreve, and 〈◊〉 are great,  
Upon Parnassus' tops they 〈◊〉,  
Not raised by 〈◊〉, but by Fate,  
Their Praise is to their Merits late,  
They lord it o'er the World of Wit,  
The Mighty Dryden, o'er their Heads,  
Like a vast cloud appears,  
Gilt with late Sunbeams, wide he spreads,  
And grateful dew upon them sheds,  
Fruitful, yet shining too in Evening Years.  
His fancy still swift does in Light'ning fly,  
And loudly rolling Words run Thundering from his Sky.   

(3)  
Behold his Laurels scattered from him far,  
Those Wreaths not proof against the Bolts of War.  
The Godlike, great Nassaw is Crowned;  
A while we Martial noises 〈◊〉,  
Shrill  
The  
Branches that deck the Conqu'rour's brow,  
Made wet with Blood, still blooming grow,  
The Poet now that hopes to be renowned,  
Should his Just Praise, loud as his Trumpets, Sound.  
Alcides, when an Infant, strove  
With Serpents which against him risen,  
His 〈◊〉 proved his claim to Jove,  
He smiled to see them gaily move,  
And in their own bright Folds he chained the hissing Foes,  
His Praise by mighty labours came,  
In Paths of Glory still he trod,  
His weighty Club beaten out the Road,  
His own great Pillars raised his Name,  
High, soaring Praise he drew  
From the Stymphalideses he slew,  
Their gaudy Plumes Feathered the Wings of Fame.  
His great Exploits such vast Applauses bore,  
The Lion which he killed ne'er could so loudly roar.   

(4  
Godlike Nassaw the bloody Field has won,  
Herculean labours have by him been done,  
No Club does this great Hero wield,  
Yet drives vast flying Legions far,  
He makes no Monsters skin his Shield,  
Himself's the dreadful Thunderbolt of War.  
The giddy Goddess, Fortune Knelt,  
Fond of her Conqu'rour's Love,  
Joys in the Ravishment she feels,  
Secure upon her Chariot Wheels,  
Fixed with his weight of Glory, they want Power to move.  
The bliss of Heaven no living Man can know,  
But Love to me, gives all the Joys below.  
In the loud Field nor Arts, nor Arms I use,  
I only Amorous Battles fight,  
thou, little Boy, my chief I choose,  
I live, and die in vast delight,  
The Gods gave me a Mistress, and a Muse.  
In Beauty's Camp alone I lead,  
How sure of Triumph must I grow  
When taught to Conquer by the Maid  
Who is alone my Foe?  
Love is my War, Love is the Train that lies  
To be blown fond up by my Amasia's Eyes.   

(5)  
Proud as the heavens, she sees us clouds below,  
We Weep, and drive, when e'er her Tempest's blow,  
Her Smiles, like Radiant Sunshine, play,  
She makes our Days appear,  
Or Gloomy, or Serene and clear,  
Each Glance she gives, like Lightning cuts her uva  
And, with 〈◊〉 Angry word, she does like Thunder, slay,  
Thou, God of Love, dost Merit Fame,  
Greatness, and Honours are but Toys,  
Compared with thy more real Joys,  
A while the Bubbles gay appear,  
Gazed at, they break, and scatter in the Air,  
They yield but Smoke, while you give warmer Flame.  
The thunderer may unenvied sway,  
And rule his Powers above,  
As they his Laws, so he does thine obey.  
How truly great would be the name of Jove,  
If both the God of Thunder, and of Love!  
Whenever you Please to Smile or Frown,  
His Bolts fall to the pavement down,  
Your Flames more fiercely than his lightnings fly,  
You make him quit his Heaven, & lay his Godhead by.  
He has his Bolts, Sol has his Silver Bow,  
Nuptune is for his Trident feared, and for your Quiver, you.    

ELYSIUM, OR, THE KINGDOM of LOVE. A POEM Addressed to AMASIA.  

You Wilds, and Plains, you Groves, and grateful Woods,  
You pleasing Streams, and you delightful Floods  
To your blessed shades a Lovesick Swain retires,  
Be you the Scenes of my neglected Fires.  
A generous Friend till now possessed my Soul,  
But now Amasia has usurped it whole.  
A real Friendship our desires can move,  
Yet still there's something more Divine in Love.  
Driv'n by her Scorn, and by my own despair,  
I seek your shades, yet she pursues me there.  
Her Beauteous Image in my Thoughts appears,  
And every Form, I think of, borrows here's.  
Wildly I run through all the Thickest Groves,  
And in despairing Accents tell my Loves.  
To Fair Amasia I am doomed to pray,  
Though Deaf as Winds, and Raging as the Sea.  
Proud as the heavens, and Brighter than the Sun,  
Like that, for Men to fix their wonder on.  
To Sing of War once Silvius tried in vain,  
His Numbers failed him, and his lofty strain.  
To peaceful Reeds his Martial Lances turn,  
It is the business of his Muse to Mourn.  
From Nassaw's Camps She Sings Amasia's Charms,  
Her Eyes, are Conquering as the Hero's Arms.  
I with Amasia only wage my War,  
And only wish that I may Triumph there,  
The World be his, let me but Conquer her.  
She Wounds my Soul, yet can't my Flames approve,  
She want be bought with Poetry or Love.  
Here, Mourning here, than will I sadly Sing,  
And bless those Eyes from which my sorrows Spring.  
Here, all consumed, all languishing I'll lie,  
And speak of her in the sad honour I die.  
My latest Breath shall beg the Gods by prayer,  
To make my Mistress their peculiar care.  
Not Delia shall, Amasia, vie with thee,  
You excel her, as Sacharissa, she.  
O that I now could writ in moving strains,  
Soft as her Daphnis does, when he complains,  
His Charming Courtship so her Soul could fill,  
That she was pleased to hear him woo her still.  
In after times your Praise shall Lovers move,  
With Fonder Passion than their present Love.  
Through eating Ages safe your Fame shall fly,  
Ne'er shall Amasia, nor her Silvius dye.  
Both by my Poem shall immortal grow,  
I for my Love, as for your Beauty you.  
Whilst Wit and War give some a lasting Name,  
I from my Flames shall draw a brighter Fame.  
In glorious Arms the thunderer shines above,  
Caesar, and greater Nassaw come the next to Jove,  
I am the Caesar here—  
I am the Nassaw in the Field of Love.  
Thou not my Verse, all shall my Passion praise,  
It is .  
 
 
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 that kill me, make me ever live.  
Mine shall be dies, have Eyes.  
While Swains have hearts, and Charming Maids  
In all my Lines they shall such softness see,  
That the whole World shall Learn to Love of me.    

Passionate Fondness.  

MY Passion sure might be enough to move,  
The tend'rcst pity in the Queen of Love.  
But she herself, not even she can know  
The racking Pains that I endure for you.  
My Flames are more than I myself believe,  
I know I Love, but know not if I live.  
My Passions far beyond my Thoughts extend,  
Soon shall my Life—  
But Oh! my 〈◊〉 Love shall never end.  
Pity your Silvius, dear Amasia, do,  
That wretched Youth, whom you have rendered so.  
Oh! you can Cure me, who have Power to kill,  
You must relent, my Fair,— I know, you william.  
Your Thoughts are soft, but I want Arts to Charm,  
I can't express how my desires are warm.  
Who speaks hisFlames shows they but faintly shine,  
His Love ne'er, flew to such excess as Mine,  
The Passion Silvius feels Mounts all Divine.  
Oh! could you, but one Moment, know my Pain,  
Know all the tedious sufferings of your Swain,  
Be well convinced how I sincerely Burn,  
Sure you at last would make me some Return.  
Reward your Silvius with a Mutual Love,  
Both will be happy as the blessed above.  
How does the thought through all my vitals run!  
How does the very thought transport alone!  
That were itself, but Oh! it hasts to flee,  
That were itself reward enough for me.  
For you I live, to you alone I pray,  
And your Loved Name is all that I can say.  
Thy Dear Idea still my fancy Frames,  
Thou art the Charming Phantom of my Dreams.  
Through Clouds of Night thy Beauteous Image flies,  
And wantoness loosely where your Lover lies.  
You are my Dearer self, my Life, my Soul,  
Silvius is only yours, you have him whole.  
When e'er you speak, my Senses wait your tongue.  
And they are all on each Dear accent hung.  
There lives a Charm in every thing you do,  
Whom e'er you hate, I hate extremely too,  
And Love, with Passion, all beloved by you.  
You are alone all I desire to see,  
For I have all the World in having thee.  
While you are safe, I no misfortunes know,  
Nor am I well, but when Amasia's so.  
You, you alone are all I wish to please,  
And when you die, shall Silvius being cease.  
What mighty dangers could I brave for thee,  
If but thy pity the reward might be.  
What could I stand at, if desired by you!  
What could not Silvius for Amasia do.  
Inspired with Love, my Soul sits raised on high,  
And Burns with Noble rage, when you are by.  
From you my Thoughts, from you my Actions flow '  
'Tis you created all I can think or do.  
'Tis you can give me an Eternal Name,  
And make it bright, and glorious as my Flame.  
With thee alone I would desire to live,  
Had I but thee, what could I more receive.  
In Sandy deserts I could devil with thee,  
Blessed, where no Creature ever stepped, but we.  
Nor Woods, nor Wilds, nor Seas could make me fear,  
Wherever you are, there is a Tempe there.  
Lost in some Isle, where raving Oceans roar,  
And dash the rocks upon the barren shore.  
Where breaking Waves make all the place resound,  
And Echo Thunder the whole Island round.  
Where Monstrous Fish through all the Surges play,  
With Voices louder than their Mother Sea.  
Where Billows Foam, lashed by the raging Tide,  
And naught but horrid Savages reside.  
With thee, Amasia, I could there be blest,  
With thee, my Love, were I of thee possessed.  
My great concern would be to guard thee there,  
To save my Mistress should be all my care.  
Secure from Storms, and every Beast of prey,  
Thou thou art sure more cruel far than they.  
A Scene not very 〈◊〉 here I choose,  
A place Convenient for the Mourning Muse.  
To dark Recesses, and to Groves I run,  
But carry with me all I wish to eat,  
You shoot through Thickets, like the Noonday Sun.  
Well might I fancy thee Divine to be,  
For thou art every where alike to me.  
O could I think that I were so to you,  
That I were always with Amasia too.  
Here, a long exile from my Love I bear.  
Repeated slights thus drive me to despair.    

Despair.  

DIstracted now through every den I rove,  
Search each recess, and visit every Grove,  
Swift through confusion to sinned out my Love.  
Through Woods, and Wilds, in Caves I Search in vain,  
To Heaven I look, and through the Fields complain,  
But all unkindly answer not again.  
Next, to some Brook; or shady Vale I fly,  
Thinking my fair may in some grotto lie.  
In vain! alas! my weary Limbs I bear,  
I only sinned thou art a stranger there.  
Than, stung with Passion, and o'ercome with Pain.  
To Heaven I loudly of my wrongs complain.  
The panting Beasts which 〈◊〉 ' the Forests rove,  
Have now not longer any Power to move,  
But stand amazed to hear my tale of Love.  
Than, all confusion, all despair, I rise,  
And throw my Arms to the regardless Skies.  
Thence to the Ocean's Sandy banks I run,  
View both the rising, and declining Sun.  
Like that, my Thought a constant motion bears,  
And when I rest, I set in Seas of Tears.  
Raised with my griefs, and overcome with woes,  
I sadly sigh to every Wind that blows.  
Wild with despair, I view the Billows round,  
Thinking some wave may with my love be crowned,  
While my complaints o'er all the shores resound.  
Tell me, I cry, ye Surges, tell me true,  
Is not Amasia hid in some of you?  
No thought alas! can my Mind's Storms appease,  
No second Venus will arise from Seas.  
Than, fierce as Whirlwinds on the strands I Walk,  
And loud as Thunder to myself I talk;  
When from my Eyes I shed a gentle shower,  
And lay those Tempests I had raised before.  
Racked with my gridfs, my Anxious Soul survives,  
Dashed like a ship which with the Billows drives.  
Thence, to the plains my fainting Limbs I bear,  
Lost still in Love, and lost in Error there.  
In a deep Vale, where a thick Covert grows,  
I fond strive to be at soft repose.  
But there I found, nor Sea, nor Cave, nor Wood,  
Nor Stars, nor Heaven itself can do me good.  
Wild Thoughts distracted me in those grateful bowers '  
I take each gentle Breeze's Voice for yours.  
Whilst by Succession day and night return,  
I, greatly cursed, must never cease to mourn.  
Yet Groves like these did once the Joys improve,  
Of blessed Adonis, and the Queen of Love.  
So might I rifle my Amasia's Charms,  
And clasp my Goddess in my burning Arms.  
How strangely blest might she her Silvius see,  
And make herself more happy, blessing me.  
Securely close, and from all Cities far,  
Remote from tumults, and the noise of War.  
In secret shades she might my Passion crown;  
There my Amasia might be all my own.  
As boisterous Storms endear the distant shore:  
And hardship always shows our Joys the more.  
So should she make me Court her even there,  
And e'er she blest me, let me taste despair.  
Whilst peaceful silence Reigns through all the bowers,  
And even no Whispers can be heard, but ours.  
There we shall ne'er fear any watchful Spies.  
None but the Moon sees where Amasia lies.  
Such Thought as these my waking wishes fly,  
Thou none, Amasia loves so fixed as I.  
Even tho' you hate me most, I Love you still,  
Nor would be cured of my Tormenting ill.  
My very pain yields me some pleasure now,  
I joy to smart, since 'tis imposed by you.  
A greater bless Lives in my deep despair,  
Than in the Smiles of any other Fair.    

Admiration.  

FIrst when I saw you! how all changed I grew!  
My Blood thrilled quick, and lightning pierced me thro'.  
I viewed, all ravishment, your Charming Powers,  
When my Eyes dazzled with the sight of yours.  
〈◊〉 I looked on, and pleasingly was fired,  
〈◊〉, and gazed, and as I gazed, admired.  
My kindling Flames your sunny glances fed,  
And your each motion made them rage and spread.  
Strange, unknown Passions wrought my fancy high,  
Raised with desires, when I beheld you 〈◊〉,  
I longed extremely, Charmed at every view,  
While to excess my eager wishes flew.  
When e'er you stepped, how brightly did you move!  
You were all Charms, and made my Soul all Love.  
What Beauteous awe in all your form was seen!  
And Oh! how Sweet, how taking was your mien!  
Not fancied Goddess does so brightly shine,  
Oh! you were all, all ravishing Divine.  
No Pencil here, were it a task assigned,  
Can Paint your Face, no Pen describe your Mind.  
Believe your Swain, by thy Dear self 'tis true,  
Thyself I Love, and I Love only you.  
I prise thee high as fancied Joys above,  
I would not quit thee for the Queen of Love.  
Not, not to sway the Sceptre of the Skies,  
For you can give me more than Monarch's Joys.  
In thee the Powers made all their wonders shine,  
They made thy Form, they made thy Breast Divine,  
Can it but Pity all the Pains in mine.  
How hard alas! is your lost Lover's Fate,  
How often did I for your admittance wait?  
Denied the freedom to reveal my ill,  
And show the racking Tortures that I feel.  
To tell how much the wretched Silvius burns,  
Fond to tell, but meet no kind returns.  
To stand all languishing beside my fair,  
To move the truest, and the tenderest Prayer,  
Gently to press her hands, to melt, and swear.    

Address.  

ONce at your Feet you saw your Silvius Kneel,  
Unmoved with anguish he was doomed to feel.  
You heard his Sighs, you saw his Tears run down,  
You saw them all, but you returned him none.  
How shall I now my swelling Passion tell,  
Which best my silence did even than reveal?  
Your Charming form kindles excessive Fires,  
And something wondrous as itself inspires.  
In looks, and sighs, I faintly spoke my Soul,  
Naught but Possession could express it whole.  
While on your Knees the ruin'd Silvius hung,  
Imperfect Words fell from his faltering Tongue  
In sighs and wishes lost, did Silvius lie,  
And his sick Soul lay melting in his Eye.  
Fastened with long on your Charming Face,  
And scarce he risen to the last dear embrace.  
In vain, in vain, was all his Passion moved,  
The wretched Swain must never, never be beloved.    

Parting.  

PArting I felt most Mortal pangs, and smart,  
I felt your scorn, and I resolved to part.  
Think! think, Amasia, with what pains I strove  
My long fixed Eyes from thy dear Face to move.  
Not Men condemned with deadlier anguish go,  
To meet their fate, than I to part from you.  
Yes, I remember, too, too well I may,  
When my despair denied my longer stay,  
And urged me from myself, and thee more dear, away.  
With forward steps to seek my fair I ran,  
Resolved to part, resolved to part a Man.  
Resolved not more to be a Slave, and pine,  
But be myself, and be not longer thine.  
Onward in haste to thy abode I flew,  
To see, to leave, and not to Love thee too,  
But with dry Eyes to bid a long Adieu.  
To thy Apartment boldly now I came,  
And hoped, and fancied that I felt no flame.  
Not as a Lover I approached thee near,  
Asked what Commands you had for me to bear.  
Scornful you Smiled, and answered you had none,  
Than, sixth I stood, a perfect Lover grown.  
With silent Admiration there I gazed,  
The more I looked, I grew the more amazed.  
My awful, trembling, wishing Eyes I drew,  
I took them of, but to look on anew.  
On thy dear Face fond glances still they cast,  
They looked, to see when they should look their last.  
With wakeful Eyes so have I often lain,  
Expecting Sleep to case my Mortal pain,  
But Expectation made the blessing vain.  
Thus, he who sees thee, and expects to go,  
Stands still expecting, and may still do so.  
With wat'ry Eyes I strove in vain to see,  
Take the last sight, since that the last must be.  
That I not more must thy dear Beauty's view,  
Made streaming Tears flow from my Eyes anew,  
Denying than the Power of seeing too.  
Straight, staggering on, as to Salute, I bowed,  
And stumbled near you, and you laughed aloud.  
With slow approaches, to your Lips I came,  
While your Eyes sparkled with disdainful flame.  
A glance so fierce robbed me of all my Sense,  
It did no Sunshine on your Lips dispense,  
But blasted the dear Fruits I should have gathered thence.  
Leaving no Kiss lodged on thy Lovely Face,  
I tottered feebly from the wished Embrace.  
My Heart beaten thick, and now alarmed me whole,  
Alarmed my Senses, and alarmed my Soul.  
It's motion's rose, to call me thence away,  
But ah! that very motion urged my stay.  
By slow degrees from thy loved sight I drew,  
I sighed, and stood, to take another view,  
Turned often back—  
And gazed, and gazed, but could not bid adieu.    

Absence.  

LIke wretches banished where no Sun appears,  
Your hopeless Lover all his sufferings bears.  
Darkness and horrors spread before my view,  
I knew no light, since here removed from you.  
Yet still thy Image in my Breast I bear,  
Spite of my Soul, I found you always there.  
Would to my Thoughts you might be absent too,  
〈◊〉 Thoughts alas! do all my Pangs renew.  
My fancy brings thee to my ravished Eyes,  
But ah! thy form even from my fancy flies.  
O'twere some ease to all the pains I feel,  
If I knew when I could remove the ill.  
But to the damned revolving Ages prove  
A Hell of Absence, not a Heaven of Love.  
Eternal Racks, and Tortures must I 〈◊〉,  
And know no change, but to more deep despair.  
Unhappy Orpheus, of his Wife bereft,  
With sad remorse the gloomy Mansions left.  
Lethe's dark streams he did to light prefer,  
Yet, spite of Lethe, he remembered her.  
On those sad Banks the tuneful Poet 〈◊〉,  
And with regret back to the World returned.  
Worse far than his mies fated ills I found,  
'Twas Hell he 〈◊〉, but I leave Heaven behind.    

Jealousy.  

GReat are the griefs which in my absence move,  
And still my Jealousy torments my Love.  
Thou I myself must ne'er thy Charms possess,  
'Tis Death to think you should another bless.  
O let my Rival's flames be ne'er returned,  
'Tis Hell enough that I in vain have burned,  
For envy rages in a Passion scorned.  
Now, now perhaps some favourite Youth is blest,  
And clasps thee panting to his ravished breast.  
Hark, how he speaks, and sighs!—  
He Knelt, and Bows, and languishes the rest.    

Platonic Love.  

HOW with Amasia could I wish to live;  
The dearest blessing that the Gods could give.  
What Heaven of Joys, what Raptures would be mine,  
Were you my darling, and were I but thine!  
What vast delight your Passion would disclose,  
He, who with transport sees it, only knows.  
How sweet's the Balm which from your Lips distils,  
The ravished Man, who gets the blessing, feels.  
Whose Love's returned, who hears your tender Sighs,  
And sees kind looks from your relenting Eyes.  
Who now no more must languish all in vain,  
But makes his pleasure what was once his pain.  
Receives vast bliss for his orerated Toils,  
Views all his Heaven Serene, and dressed in smiles.  
Secures you gently in his longing Arms,  
And is all Joys, as you are all o'er Charms.  
Presses your hand, and slowly steals a Kiss,  
To show consent, you softly too press his.  
He hears ten thousand moving Words from you,  
You think, Amasia, his Words moving too.  
With often repeated transports, you express,  
Great as his Passion is, yours is not lesle.  
Such tender things you speak, so much they move,  
His Soul lives yours, and every pulse beats Love.  
In vast Elyziums of delight he feeds,  
No other bliss, no other Heaven he needs.  
He feels your fragrant Breath, surveys your Air,  
Views all the Charms of his transporting fair.  
Beholds the taking Beauties of your Face,  
And struggles inwards to a near Embrace.  
Raised by peculiar glories which surprise,  
With softest glances from your kinder Eyes.  
Such as you ne'er to any Mortal show,  
But him alone who is beloved by you.  
Still new Delights, new Pleasures always Crown  
That Happy Man, whom you could call your own.  
What Heavenly Joys, what vast, what Sacred bliss,  
Can be expressed, or thought of, more than this!  
That is the point, where circling Pleasures move,  
When Happy Lovers have returns of Love.  
Such Sweets can scarcely be by Death destroyed,  
Where, not the Body, but the Soul's enjoyed.  
Such blessed delight I was not born to feel,  
For 〈◊〉 too truly, Love too well.  
Yet, when from hence, to darker Groves I go,  
And view the Shades, and Fragrant Bowers below.  
When griefs not more, but lasting Joys appear,  
There in some Grotto shall I sinned my Fair.  
Freed from those pangs which long have racked my Breast,  
None shall be there more Happy, none more blest.  
Since here my Passion was all o'er Divine,  
My Loved Amasia will be only mine.    

Elysium.  

LOW in the thought that pleasant Kingdom lies,  
Which is o'erflown, and Hemmed around with Joys.  
Bright, Silver Gates lead to it's peaceful Lands,  
Round which a Wall of lofty Crystal stands.  
The Happy Dwellers here are ever young,  
And flowing pleasures gently roll along.  
Not chilling Winter, no cold Frost is here,  
But Spring, and Summer make up all the Year.  
Not Stormy Night showers gloomy Terrors down,  
Fair Morn's and Evening's here are only known.  
Here Thousand Flowers of divers sorts are found,  
And Nature's hand paints all the Gaudy ground.  
The blushing Roses here for ever bloom,  
No hurtful Blasts to their soft Beauties come.  
But tender Winds their pleasing Odours bear,  
And breathe them sweetly in the Fragrant Air.  
Through all the Meads clear, Liquid Crystal Glides,  
And softly twines by the Banks flowery sides.  
Silent it runs, where it delights to stray,  
And gently cuts its rich, enamelled way.  
Here, the bright Field a Shining Harvest bears,  
The Corn has Silver stalks, and real Golden Ears.  
The glorious Trees a Sparkling Lustre show,  
With glittering Jewels, which they bear, they bow.  
Of these, the blessed, bright Crowns and Bracelets wear,  
And every Lover Walks in transport there.  
Just o'er their Heads there hangs a Silver Sky,  
And painted Clouds above them slowly fly.  
Each Beauteous Maid does her Swain's flames approve,  
And all are Happy here in Poetry, and Love.  
Harmonious Music plays through every Shade,  
O'er which their Wings Coerulean Turtles spread.  
To grateful Groves the blessed Pairs retire,  
With Charms still new, and ever sierce desire.  
In Shining bowers, which Silver leaves adorn,  
They reap those Joys, for which their flames were born.  
There, in those Mansions I shall shortly move,  
And Halcyon Days shall Crown my sated Love.  
All o'er in tansport shall I meet my Fair,  
And offer than another tender Prayer.  
Sighing my flames, all prostrate shall I fall,  
And, kneeling to her, softly whisper all.  
Till forced, at length, for her own ease to tell,  
Since through her scorn the wretched Silvius fell,  
She knew he Loved, and owns she Loves as well.  
Than, hand in hand, wherever our pleasure leads,  
We walk together through the flowery Meads.  
When both with heightened raptures full expressed.  
Vent all our Passion in each other's Breast.  
Than shall Amasia to her Swain declare  
Her Flames were here reserved, to show them there.  
Such Love is subject to no Anxious fears,  
Too blest for troubles, too Serene for cares.  
There shall we all our tender Thoughts express,  
Her's Will be wondrous, nor can mine be lesle.  
Ravished with Joys, in Ecstasies we move,  
And think, and talk of nothing else but Love.  
Revolving Days shall Crown your Swain, and you,  
And both our pleasures shall seem always new.  
Whilst all the blessed with Admiration see  
No pair so Happy in those Shades as we.    
The End of the First Book.   

AMASIA, OR, THE Works of the Muses. Containing the MISTRESS of LOVE.  
Vol. I. Book II.  
Est quoque carminibus meritas celebrare puellas  
Does mea.  

TO THE Right Honourable THE Lady SANDWICH.  
MADAM,  
AS your Great Father Reigned our Monarch in Wit throughout all its Spacious Regions, but Resided most in the most Flowery Fields of Poetry, I, who am a Tenant, (tho' a Poor one) of the Muse's land he swayed, claim thence a Subject's right of throwing myself into your Ladyship's Protection. And as there is no Salic Law imposed the Throne of Wit, permit me to salute your Ladyship the Muse's Queen; the Crown is yours by True Descent, and Just Succession; but why should I, raised to no Eminency in Verse, pretend to make the Declaration, when the World already has Proclaimed you so. Your Ladyship's Character of Wit sits Crowned by the Universal Admiration, as well as the Universal Consent of Mankind. And had not this noble Empire of the Soul devolved on your Ladyship by Birth, Succession must have been excluded, and by Election you had been courted to receive the Sceptre. But 'tis your Ladyship's by Descent, as well as by Desert; so equally by both, I found myself at a loss to determine, whether your Ladyship receives more glory by the World's acknowledging the late, and ever admirable Earl of Rochester, your Father; or his Memory, by the World's boasting the incomparable Lady Sandwich his Daughter.  
Thus, Madam, your Ladyship and your Father become Rivals in Fame: And indeed, none besides, can without Arrogance pretend any Claim, where such a Candidate as your Ladyship appears. Your Father swayed the Heaven of Poetry, at once the awful and the Youthful Jove, his Judgement, and his Fancy, were the lightning and the Thunder which he brandished. Thus great he ruled,— and all his Attributes are yours. Your Ladyship lives the Minerva, and seems the charming Offspring of the very brain of Jove. 'Tis your Ladyship's to be beauteous, but yet to be above it. Your Ladyship's Soul transcends all outward form, your Wit's the truest Venus; not like the light, fictitious Goddess, sprung from froth, but from the noblest Fountain, the very Helicon of Poesy. Your Ladyship thus derived, I would insinuate thence the freedom of this Address, and turn my presumption to a Duty; for every Poet stands obliged to approach, and to revere the Streams which flow immediate from the Muse's Spring. 'Tis part of the Muses Works I here presume to present your Ladyship, and if there shall be any offence to be conceived at the present, it cannot be because I offer this, but because I withhold the rest, for all the Works of every Muse are yours. The Mistress of Love lies a suppliant at your Ladyship's Feet, at the Feet of the Mistress, and the Queen of Wit; and, (ever fond of his inseparable Amasia,) with her, lies prostrate too,  
MADAM, Your Ladyship's Most devoted Humble Servant.   

THE MISTRESS of LOVE.  
Being some Copies, written on Occasions, to Amasia by her own Command.  
To Amasia, on her drawing her own Picture.  

SO just a form you to your Picture give,  
So like your own, that it appears to live.  
Your very shadow Charms beholders more,  
Than any real substance could before.  
O view it not, such is its Power to move,  
Narcissus like, you may your Image love.  
So wondrous lively is the shade you drew,  
That Heaven alone could finer Painting show,  
In one fair Piece, when it had finished you.  
In me your skill does fond desires created,  
And Painted fires, I found, can 'cause a heat.  
If to your draught my Passion life could give,  
I, like Pygmalion soon should make it live.  
Great as Prometh'us his, your Work appears,  
And from your Eyes it got the fires it bears.  
Justly you knew no other's hands could draw,  
The kill Charms which in your Face you saw.  
Painting your lightnings, any else would prove,  
Like him, who flashing from his Bridge above,  
Fell by those arms which he assumed from Jove.  
He will with Phaeton dire hazards run,  
Who dares attempt the Chariot of the Sun.  
'Tis you alone have Power to play with fire,  
And not like Mortal Semele expire.  
Her Lover, here, if in your paths he trod,  
Had been inflamed, tho' the great thundering God.  
He, whilst attempting what by you is done,  
Would have felt lightnings fiercer than his own.  
This, like Saints pictures, with design I view,  
To raise my Zeal, when I would Worship you.    

To Amasia, holding a drawn Sword in her Hand.  

THus like destroying Angels do you stand,  
Brandishing vengeance with your Charming hand.  
Thus with your flaming Sword do you appear  
To guard that Paradise Heaven planted here.  
Thus are you like the Ruler of the Skies,  
With thunder in your hands, and lightning in your Eyes.  
Attempting you, Man would worse rashness prove,  
Than Capan'us, who braved the mighty Jove.  
All Mortals sure must with this sight be charmed,  
A Venus' Naked, and a Pallas armed.    

To Amasia, tickling a Gentleman.  

MEthinks, I see how the blessed Swain was laid,  
While round his sides your nimble Fingers played  
With pleasing softness did they swiftly rove,  
Raising the Sweet, Delicious pangs of Love,  
While, at each touch, they made his Heart strings. move.  
As round his Breast, his ravished Breast they crowed,  
We hear their Music, when he laughs aloud.  
You ply him still, and as he melting lies,  
Act your soft Triumphs, while your Captive dies.  
Thus, he perceives, thou, Dearest, Charming Fair!  
Without your Eyes, you can overcome him there.  
Thus too he shows what's your unbounded skill,  
You please, and charm us, tho' at once you kill.  
Lodged in your Arms, he does in transport lie,  
While through his Veins the fancied lightnings fly,  
And, gushed with vast delights, I see him haste to die.    

To Amasia, playing with a Clouded Fan.  

WIth such resistless grace your Fan you wield,  
'Tis now your Sword, and 'tis, when spread, your Shield.  
In your Fair hand so great a Power there's found,  
You guard yourself with what may others wound.  
This, your Famed Ensign, to the World does prove  
You Queen of War, as well as Queen of Love.  
Yet, by your charming skill, you make it show  
A greater force than is in Cupid's Bow.  
For, from your art my growing Passion came,  
And what cools you, has set your Slave on flame.  
That Windy Wing, on air it causes, flies,  
And wafts bright glories from your radiant Eyes.  
But should it now bestow me all its aid,  
It would but make those fires, it kindled, spread.  
To what excess must you Victorious grow,  
If, when you cool us, you can burn us so!  
This Fan may you from the Sun's-Beams preserve,  
But against your Eyes no such slight shade can serve.  
Not all those Clouds the pitying Artist drew,  
Can bar those brighter rays, which dart from you.  
From your dear Face, as from a fairer Sky,  
Through the thick painted Fogs, swift, shining glances fly.  
So like true lightning is the flashing flame,  
As if, from those dark Clouds, not from your Eyes it came.  
The fatal Sword, which Paradise did guard,  
With threatening fire Mankind from blessings barred.  
The dreadful Engine with hot Vengeance burned,  
And with wild Danger, as it flamed, it turned.  
But from your Toy thick Clouds of smoke arise,  
While in the Cheat much a worse ruin lies,  
Hiding the flames of your destructive Eyes.  
In all things else, it does like that appear,  
And 'tis a Cherub too that does this Weapon bear.  
Almost for the same ends they both were given,  
To fence from Par'dise that, and this, from Heaven.    

To Amasia ask me if I slept well, after so tempestuous a Night as the last was, when we parted, and desiring me to describe it.  

YES, Dear Amasia, I slept Heavenly well,  
Not Poets raptures could my blessings tell.  
Not Jove himself slept more a God than I,  
Thou at thy door I did dejected lie.  
He on a flying state-bed richly made,  
Rocked by young thunder, is in transport laid,  
Where little Gods sit smiling o'er his head.  
A gaudy Cloud for his gay quilt he wears,  
With Sunbeams fringed, and studded o'er withStars.  
A little Heaven his Canopy above,  
Where the pale Moon with her Attendants move.  
The watching lights in drowsy twinkle peep,  
And wink by turns, as if they wanted sleep.  
There, painted dreams round his lulled temples Swarm  
And Clustered fancies break in Forms that Charm.  
Whilst profound silence fills the Heavenly round,  
And the Night seems in its own darkness drowned.  
In purling streams the Crystal Water flows,  
And by its murmurs seals his soft repose.  
Thus Jove lay, truly Jove—  
I had a dream, O most Celestial sweet,  
Which but to think of, yields me transport yet:  
Mars in possession of the Paphian Queen,  
Felt no such Ecstasies as mine have been.  
Such heights of rapture but in thought can lie,  
There they will live, but would in Speeches die,  
And the glad Winds would with their accents fly.  
Not that I dreamt I fought, or conquering, road  
In a Triumphant Chariot like an Earthly God.  
Not, my Amasia, the big breath of Fame  
Can not puff me beyond what now I am.  
Soon as I found you could not longer stay,  
I walked near half the lonely Night away.  
The Night, which seemed in gloomy shades to Mourn,  
And put on sadness till your bright return.  
With me, it seemed your absence to deplore,  
When you, all sparkling lustre, shined not more.  
The Silver Moon, with Joy, while here you stayed,  
(As if from you her borrowed stores she had,)  
Shone at the full with more than usual Light,  
And, swelled with Pride, reigned Empress of the Night,  
O'er all Heaven's Vault she road in Pompous show,  
As if she gloried to be seen by you.  
But when thou, Fairest charming Sun, wert gone,  
She put her darkest, cloudy Mantles on;  
No gaudy Star appeared through all the Skies,  
But they wept dew, till they lost all their Eyes.  
Why should those lights remain, since after thee  
There is no object worth their while to see.  
From the scorched heavens large flakes of lightnings flew,  
The very heavens have suffered flames for you;  
For on the Gods your Eyes have flashes thrown,  
Moore bright, and far more Conquering than their own.  
Even Jove himself for thy lost presence hurled  
His flaming Bolts o'er all the frighted World.  
Thus did He once for Semele deplore,  
And speak in thunder— She is now not more.  
In mildest flames he that lost Mistress Mourned,  
But in more fierce for bright Amasia burned.  
His Skies have twice a mighty hazard run;  
By one before, now by a brighter Sun.  
The sleeping flowers did their gay Beauties hid,  
As if their paint should be not more descried,  
And hung their heads, robbed of their blooming Pride.  
The Mourning Spheres did with slow motions roll,  
And groans of thunder ran from Pole to Pole.  
Themselves the Clouds with pangs of anguish tore,  
With their ripe Birth of Vengeance first they roar,  
Than fly, as frighted at what late they bore.  
The wondering Echo from the hollow ground,  
In fearful Voice returned the thundering sound.  
The angry Winds wrought up the Ocean so,  
The flashing Seas appeared to lighten too,  
Where curling Clouds of roaring Billows drew.  
Than, while I lay, rocked by the thundering Night,  
I soon beheld my Scene of vast delight.  
Thy dear Idea to thy Lover came,  
And I embraced thee in a Charming dream.  
Our blisses flew not in the Common road,  
You were all Heaven, and Silvius all a God.  
As when in trances ravished Infants lie,  
They see the boundless Blessings of the Sky,  
So, at that time, that happy time, did I.  
Alas! how weak their Judgement, and how poor,  
Who call Death sleep, but on a longer score,  
For I did ne'er so truly live before.  
Oh! that the Night could have for ever stayed!  
Ah! too, too soon its fleeting glories fled;  
When lovelier far, than was the Fairest Day,  
Her Shield of Clouds to pointed rays gave way,  
And on her Wings bore thee, and all my Joys away.    

To Amasia speaking an Extempore Verse.  

YOU shoot such darts they cannot fail to hit,  
You Charm with Beauty, and you Charm with Wit.  
Thus by your Art you raise my envy more  
Than all your Charms could my desires before.  
Minerva's strife with the Fair Venus' ends,  
Both joined in you, the Goddesses grow Friends.  
Sweet is your form, and in your Verse we found,  
The lovely Notions of as Sweet a Mind.  
So softly smooth your Charming numbers flow,  
Scarce can your own Fair Bosom smother show.  
You, like creative Heaven your Labours Frame;  
You spoke the Word, and at your Breath they came.    

To Amasia, still promising to Sing, but never performing.  

(1.)  
AMasia wrongs me of my Song,  
Yet is not much to blame,  
She knows my fate hangs on her Tongue,  
She knows her breath would spread my flame.   

(2.)  
With sounds as pleasing as the Spheres,  
The lovely Fair denies,  
To Charm my Soul into my Ears,  
And sing the triumphs of her Eyes.   

(3.)  
Mean tho' she thinks the prize she won,  
Her Slave not worthy of that Grace,  
Yet knows by what he was undone,  
An Angel's Voice, an Angel's Face.   

(4.)  
Your every Breath does Music bear,  
A Song from you might kill;  
I only now desire to hear  
You sweetly thus deny me still    

Meeting Amasia at a Young Lady's Funeral.  

YOU mourn the Nymph deceased, mourn Silvius too,  
For since forgot, sure I am dead to you.  
These gloomy Torches, Hymen, hence remove,  
And from their fires light thy fair Lamps of Love.    

To Amasia, on her Recovery from a fall.  

UNhurt, undaunted at the Impious ground,  
You only struck, that you might higher bound.  
The Amorous Clay, that it might closer cleave,  
Sunk down so deep, that it appeared a Grave.  
But long it could not the loved burden bear,  
Not you, but it's own hopes lay buried there.  
The ruder stones, with tremble, loser grew,  
And felt a softness, when but touched by you.  
Oh! had you lain, soon all the Winds would Jar,  
And, making Love, they would have made a War.  
But your recovery, from the danger, shows,  
You fell like thunder, and like lightning rose.  
Not Atlas here of your loved weight is proud,  
This Heaven can't fall, tho' it has lately bowed.    

To Amasia, holding a Burning-Glass in her Hand.  

WHilst in your hand this Crystal Glass I view,  
It seems almost to be as bright as you.  
Whilst your Eyes dazzling glories on it run,  
You make me fancy 'tis another Sun.  
This Glass an Emblem of your coldness proves,  
For that increases, and inflames my Loves.  
So, when on me your snowy hand you turn,  
The solid Ice you hold, boasts Power to burn.  
I now believe the Sun in Ocean's lies,  
Here, on a frozen Sea, we found Amasia's Eyes.  
Ah! charming Fair, you seem, while thus you stand,  
Like Heavens' dread thund'er armed, with lightnings in your hand.  
Flashes from thence must vain, and useless prove,  
For, who but once sees you, feels fiercer flames in Love,  
The proud Salmon'us ne'er such lightnings threw,  
As from your Silver Cloud are cast by you.  
He had with that been thought a God below,  
But, had he your fair Eyes, he had been truly 〈◊〉  
His Sky of brass had the vast heavens excelled,  
And the great thunderer there, had been by him 〈◊〉  
'Tis he the real Deity would prove  
Thy Beauty's flashes would have kindled Love,  
And, worse than Jove did him, he would have blasted Jove.    

To Amasia, looking, at me, through a Multiplying-Glass.  

BY the strange Power, which in this Glass is shown,  
You view a thousand Slaves, yet all your own.  
Justly, so many Lovers do you see,  
For there is Love enough for all in me.  
Thus may you found, before your sight displayed,  
Almost as many, as your looks have made.  
No wonder still I loved those Eyes, before,  
By whose bright rays this Cloud is Silvered over.  
Thus, by your Art, the World your Power descries,  
You make this Glass more Fair than others Eyes.  
Strange seems this Charming skill of yours to me,  
How can this Winter with your Spring agreed!  
What rigid Coldness in your Breast must lie,  
When all this Ice dwells solid at your Eye!    

To Amasia, sing, and sticking Pins in a Read Silk Pincushion.  

(1.)  
AS the vexed Tyrant, when for Blood designed,  
Stabs the dull ground, and Murders in his Mind  
So, Fair Amasia, with a Barbarous skill,  
Piercing the Cushion, shows how she would kill.   

(2.)  
All this you do, to prove what Power you have,  
The Cushion seems to Bleed, such Wounds you gave;  
Whilst I, in Emblem, all my tortures see,  
Your Pins pierce that, as your Eyes wounded me.   

(3.)  
This flaming Mount with AEtna may compare,  
Here, Cupid's shafts, there are the Arms of War;  
Sure than Love's AEtna must be only here,  
That, holds Jove's thunder, this, Amasia's Spear.   

(4.)  
See now, with how small force her Lance's fall!  
Just with such carelessness, she wounds us all.  
To kill, not toil to her, the Tyrant Joys,  
And Siren like, she Sings, while she destroys.   

(5.)  
Orpheus' his lyre did Ancient Woods remove,  
None e'er, but you, with Music set a Grove.  
Your Silver 〈◊〉 come dancing to your hand,  
And, where you place them, there they rooted stand.    

To Amasia, on her correcting a line of Mr. Waller's, as she read it.  

IN reading Waller's, so your Wit is shown,  
That, what he wrote, is most esteemed your own.  
If you should think, what might we hope from you,  
Who can so carelessly, such wonders do!  
Just so, your Beauty's shown in Charming ways;  
You are admired, yet, take no pains to please.  
At once obliging, you at once offend,  
You spoil the Poet, and the Poem mend.  
If in his Age you had adorned the Isle,  
He had preferred you to his loved Carlisle.  
Carlisle and you had been in all he writ,  
For Beauty she, you famed for that, and Wit.  
Amphion like, from a disordered heap,  
You make harsh Words in Beauteous numbers leap.  
Your Work shall last, when his is wholly gone,  
Moore firm than that, tho' 'tis composed of stone.  
High as his Theban Walls, your stile appears,  
Yet, like the Plains, a Fruitful crop it bears.  
Through confused letters so your fancy shines,  
Like the Sun's Rays, it lightens Waller's lines.  
His Sense, like some rude, unformed Chaos lay,  
In gloomy Night till you Commanded day.  
From your creating Breath its form it drew,  
His discord is made Harmony by you.  
So, jarring seeds, and undigested, came,  
By Heav'en's strange Power, to an Harmonious frame.  
His happy Verses, tho' obscure a while,  
From your Fair Eyes put on new looks, and smile.  
Such Charming force in your each Glance I see,  
As they light them, they 'cause a heat in me.  
All must admire your numerous Powers to move,  
The Queen of Wit, and yet the Queen of Love!  
We, in your Verse transporting Beauties found,  
The Muses most to their own Sex are kind.  
Since Charming Daphne to a Laurel turned,  
For whom so long the young Apollo burned.  
When brighter Fires shot from her Radiant Eyes,  
Than those his Chariot bears through Summer Skies.  
E'er since that time, for none so much she grew,  
With bending boughs, as she does now for you.    

To Amasia, troubled with a redness in her Eyes, on her saying, she would Charm me with them.  

(1.)  
THose threats, which once I feared, will prove  
A Fatal truth, I see,  
Thy Eyes so scorched with flames of Love,  
Must quickly kindle me.  
Those Spirits, which chained to Circles, now I view,  
Will quite destroy me, when let lose by you.   

(2.)  
By their own Radiant Glances fir'd,  
Your Charming Eyes themselves did wrong,  
But, when their lightnings are expired,  
Assume the thunder of the tongue.  
Now Cupid claims the Salamander's fame,  
Basked in your Eyes, he's nourished so in flame.   

(3.)  
But whilst you thus would others Charm,  
And make your Conquests full,  
Perillus like, yourself you harm,  
And try, the first, your burning Bull.  
The wondering World, should you want sight, would found.  
The Queen of Love, like her famed Son, were blind.    

To Amasia, on the falling of her Terras-Walks.  

SUch was Amphion, so his Airs could move,  
That the stones danced to his softSongs of Love.  
Can I like Power in Charming Numbers use,  
(Charming indeed, since you inspire my Muse,)  
Soon should your lofty 〈◊〉 delight our view,  
Like their Fair Mistress, high, and pleasing 〈◊〉  
Than should my Verse in softest measures flow,  
Soft as those streams which gently glide below.  
My Thoughts should like their Silver Fish's shine,  
With quick, bright glitterings thro'each moving line.  
Than might these Walks 〈◊〉 a Noble Theme.  
When like the lovely Paphian Queen you seem,  
Presiding here o'er your own Native stream.  
Than might I sing how from these Walls, afar  
Your Guns, and Eyes subdue in Love and War.  
Sing, how we might along your dreaded shore,  
Your lightnings view, and hear your thunder roar.  
How, like a Goddess, from these Walls on high,  
You see your Floods beneath spread out a watrySky.  
How justly those transcend the Silver Thames,  
How your bright Eyes play on them with their Beams,  
And so Love's Fires rise from the Silver streams.  
How they would ne'er flow o'er the flowery meads,  
Or any paths where their Fair Mistress treads.  
Thus might I sing what thoughts the prospect yields,  
Nymphs in the Rivers, Sylvans in the Fields;  
Describe the flowery Banks, and spreading Groves;  
Where Swains, and Virgins, tell their Mutual Loves.  
But that the Walks, fond of what once they bore,  
When they were Crowned with your dear Feet not more,  
Fallen, to complain along the murmuring shore.  
And yet such greatness in their ruins lies,  
Their fall, methinks, but makes my fancy rise.  
So, when your Beauties (if that time can come)  
Shall loose the Sweetness of their present bloom,  
Even your decays shall raise our wonder more,  
Their Ebbs shall show the vastness of their store,  
Which Charmed Admirers Eyes who saw their tides before.    

The Dream, beginning with the Description of Night. Written to Amasia.  

AN awful silence, like a full swollen main,  
Does in deep Pomp o'er the Creation Reign.  
The quiet night it's gloomy darkness spreads,  
O'er all the Plains, o'er all the flowery Meads,  
And sits in dismal triumph o'er the Shades.  
Dissolved in silence all the World appears,  
As if entranced for many thousand Years.  
The sullen Heaven no dusky twilight yields,  
But thick, damp Fogs lie heavy on the Fields.  
Through all the Lawns not fleeting shadow flies,  
So drowsy now, they have not Power to rise.  
Not Golden drops of light the Skies adorn,  
Nor ruddy East displays a rising Morn.  
The gathered Heaven it's dull Creation Shrowds,  
And drooping Mountains lean their Heads on Clouds.  
The bending Trees with full grown Fruits appear,  
As so at first they had their being here.  
The Ripened Corn with it's own burden pressed,  
Not longer Nods, but seems unmoved, to rest.  
The very Winds not further discord keep,  
For they have Sung, and sighed themselves asleep.  
The absent Moon seems now no Power to know,  
Nor are the Oceans heard to Ebb or flow.  
Not longer now the raving Billows roar,  
But softest Breezes lull them on the shore.  
The Brooks not more the Woods with Murmurs fill,  
But, hushed with purl, as their fish, are still.  
All this great Landscape of one Colour seems,  
As if the Shining Sun ne'er painted it with Beams.  
When racked with griefs, which from my pangs arose,  
I seek my Bed, expecting there repose.  
Methought, while Night thus kept her perfect Noon,  
And no faint light came from the watchful Moon,  
You, loved Amasia, blest your ravished Swain,  
You filled my Soul in a delightful Scene.  
On a calm, silent, Silver stream we road,  
Whilst thousand Tritons on the Waters trod,  
You like a Venus, I, the Ocean's God.  
The River's Banks were with tall Myrtles crowned,  
And spreading Groves, and Shades grew all around.  
The tuneful Birds their sweetest Voices raised,  
As if they knew whom their soft strains had pleased.  
And the tall trees did all their branches bow,  
Not with their weight, but with respect to you.  
Our guilded Barge was by Young Dolphins drawn,  
Just like a Chariot o'er the flowery Lawn.  
Trappingss adorned with Pearls, and Gems, appear,  
And Plumes of Coral their strong Heads did rear.  
Our painted Seats bright, shining Beauties bore,  
Which Gods might, (if not Charmed with thee) adore.  
Our Silver Oars, 〈◊〉, smiling Cupids held,  
While, filled with Pride, our Silken Topsails swelled.  
The Ivory Masts sustained Coerulean Doves,  
Which could, and murmured in transporting Loves.  
With wanton Gales blue Flags in furlings rolled,  
And Scarlet streamers flew, wrought over with Gold.  
All o'er divine did the great Pomp appear,  
The Watery Gods on Shells were sounding there,  
And Sea-Nymphs dancing in soft measures here.  
All the Attendance, Charming bright, like these,  
The Paphian Queen has on her Mother Seas.  
At the rich stern we sat, and all the while,  
As if delighted, you appeared to smile.  
I saw your Eyes fixed on the Crystal stream,  
And with new long mine were sixth on them.  
Trumpets Marine did at a distance sound,  
And all the Virgins softly Sung around,  
For than our Joys, Just than were to be Crowned.  
The gentle Zephyrs in mild Breezes flew,  
And the waves danced, as they were joyful too.  
The stately Canopy above our head,  
Shone with the blaze which glowing Roses made.  
Strewed all beneath, they in their blushes lay,  
Like setting Skies in a Fair Summer's day.  
When, O ye Gods! You dear, You darling Fair,  
Looked such kind looks as quite 〈◊〉 my care,  
All o'er in transport, with a gush of Joys,  
On me you cast your lovely, loving Eyes.  
Rushed to my Arms, and did my Neck entwine,  
While I with Ecstasies hung fast on thine,  
And clasped thee closely, as a circling vine.  
O all ye Powers! our raptures were above  
The vastest heights of any Mortal Love.  
Not in the vulgar way did we enjoy  
Where short Fruition does the Sweets destroy.  
To a more Sacred height our wishes flew,  
And our Souls mixed, as others Bodies do.    

To Amasia, who, while I awfully admired her at her Window, withdrew, and sent a Black in her place.  

(1)  
LOng stood I gazing where my Fair was placed,  
While my bright Sun shone radiant in the East,  
And Beams Divine fired all my ravished breast.  
Than, like adoring Persians', often bowed,  
But the gay Vision fled, the Sky was all a Cloud.   

(2.)  
Persist not thus delusively severe,  
Let not for ever smoke pursue the Fair,  
Nor when Heaven vanishes, let Hell appear;  
Whilst thus you vanquish me, your Conquests prove,  
You triumph here in horror, not in Love.    

To Amasia, Dancing before a Looking-Glass.  

THus you in numerous measures sport, and play,  
Like the Sun dancing to its Glass, the Sea.  
Strange! how you move in Air! if I have Eyes,  
If I have any Sense the fleet Amasia flies.  
All here subdued, your Glances now are hurled,  
To raise new Trophies in this Crystal World,  
The famed Pellaean Conqueror bravely won  
All lands, and Seas by his bold Arms o'erun.  
The Spacious Globe he triumphed nobly over,  
But, that sufficed not, and he wept for more.  
Here, in this Icy Ocean he might view,  
What yet no Mortal Conqueror could subdue,  
Here he had wept again, o'ercome by you.  
A triumph here had added vastly more,  
To his loud Fame, than the whole World before.  
O'er all the Earth his spreading Laurels grew,  
But, were Amasia won, Heaven had been Conquered too.    

To Amasia, on the burning of her flowered Musling-Nightraile, which took fire, while she was asleep, and yet she was herself unhurt.  

(1.)  
WHile gentle slumbers close your Eyes,  
As you all soft, and Charming lay,  
The Amorous Flame towards you flies,  
And would around your Body play,  
But straight you wake, and as you view the 〈◊〉,  
Your glancing Beams make its weak light expire.   

(2.)  
While Flames 〈◊〉 you about,  
And with their close embraces twine,  
Ah! who should strive to put them out,  
Since you 〈◊〉, and nourish mine?  
By their own light, these your Fair form have seen,  
Your form without, but ah! none ever went 〈◊〉.   

(3.)  
The 〈◊〉 your Snowy hands surround,  
And seem to beg they might not go,  
And tho' your nimble Finger's wound,  
They kiss them still at every blow.  
Forced from your outworks, they at last retire,  
And in a sad, and gloomy smoke expire.   

(4.)  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Fires they did appear,  
Nor did 〈◊〉 mean you any harm,  
〈◊〉 as those which Lovers bear,  
〈◊〉 would your tender Bosom warm.  
Posting from the Sky,  
, while the flames round you fly.   

(5.)  
With all their Wings they soared above,  
And to your Beauteous Face they drew,  
Till near your radiant Eyes they move,  
And aim to get new light from you.  
As if they could, when they had lost their own,  
Like Vesta's Fire, draw lustre from the Sun.   

(6.)  
Or else their towering may declare,  
Their envy to you so appears,  
Seeing your Eyes Excessive fair,  
With brightness far surpassing theirs.  
But you, like Jove, saw your Skies round you fired,  
And showed no fear, but the rash act admired.   

(7.)  
Whate'er your fancy pleased to yield,  
If Birds, or Beasts, or Trees you made,  
In your new planted, snowy field,  
Thou wrought by you, they are decayed.  
So, at the last, must the Creation burn,  
And what Heaven formed, to Dust and Ashes turn.    

To Amasia, who having pricked me with a Pin, for a Subject to writ on, accidentally scratched herself with it, when in my hand afterwards.  

WHY, Cruel fair one, did you wound me so?  
Too well o'er me your mighty Power you know.  
Thus sure you thought not to have Conquered more,  
Whom your Pin entered, your Eyes pierced before.  
Perhaps, you did it with design to see  
How small a touch of you prevails on me.  
Your harmless Weapon has your wonders shown,  
You wound our Sex with what adorns your own.  
This little Blood without a wrong you drew,  
For all I have I would expend for you.  
Yet here by chance, a full Revenge is found,  
And thus at lest, you feel a Mutual wound.  
The Juster Spear against its Mistress turns,  
And points revenge for which the Actor mourns.  
Your Finger blushes for the wound it gave,  
Far deeper that which made me first your Slave.  
Your precious Blood with mine is justly paid,  
For my Heart bleeds for what my hands have made.    

Instructions to a Painter to draw Amasia, with some reflections on the Artist's skill, resolving to describe her, myself, much better with my Pen.  

Lest future Ages should my Passion blame,  
And think my Mistress worthless of her fame;  
Lest daring Lovers should presume to raise  
Some other fair to my Amasia's, praise;  
And with an impious boldness proudly boast  
Their Conqueror greatest, and her Charms the most;  
Lest of their Chains grown foud, they 〈◊〉 to prove  
That theirs excels my vast excess of Love;  
Painter, exert your utmost Power and Art,  
To draw Amasia just in every part,  
As she is drawn here in her Silvius heart.  
Still in my Breast you may her image see,  
(O would her Image could be truly She!)  
〈◊〉, in my Soul you may her Picture sinned,  
Love drew it there, but drew it soft and kind,  
For Love Paints always best, though Love is blind.  
The famous Artist, that his Work might move,  
That he might justly draw the Queen of Love,  
Had several Beauteous Nymphs before his view,  
And something Charming from each Feature drew;  
But ah! no Mortal can Amasia draw,  
Unless ten thousand Venus'es' He saw.  
O that some God would Work his fancy over,  
To paint her Beauties true, he cannot paint them more.  
Not Phoebus' self could draw her justly bright,  
Thou for his Pencil he used rays of light.  
But you, good Artest, Summons all your skill,  
Her Charms will raise your Power, I know they william.  
Draw her, ah! draw her most Divinely Fair,  
Soft, Charming, Sweet, and with a taking Air;  
Draw her all Heavenly, Affable, and Free,  
Haughty, yet Courteous let her Carriage be,  
O draw her as she is, that all may know 'tis She.  
Yet hold—  
For sure her Beauties would be lost in Paint;  
My Pen must draw her, since the Pencil can't.  
— You are a Species, Lovely fair, alone,  
A Godlike something in your Face is known;  
Which can't by Pencil, or by Pen be shown.  
Such are the Charms of your Attractive mien,  
They only are expressed by being seen.  
Gods! how successful would that Painter be  
That could make Pictures look Divine like thee!  
Who could those Eyes with all their motions draw!  
Alas! it cannot be—  
Unless, like thee, the very Picture saw.  
What Paint, what Image can with thee compare?  
Even our Idea shows not aught so fair.  
Can fancy bring some form before my view,  
All wondrous bright, and charming sweet as you,  
I with that form would be Enamoured too.  
What reason could I for my Passion give,  
Did any equal to Amasia live?  
The World will own, all who your Beauties see,  
I am not blind as other Lovers be,  
For 'tis the Fairest only that can Vanquish me.  
Believe, Amasia, since you Cruel prove,  
It is thy Beauty, 'tis not thee I Love.  
Beauty, which, like the Vestal Fire, may boast,  
You the World's Empress, till its flames are lost.  
Beauty, which I so lively will display,  
Mankind shall yield to your Imperial Sway,  
And every Amorous Youth, like Silvius shall Obey.  
So shall I Charm, by telling my desires,  
All shall feel Flames from the reflected Fires.  
And when the World thus shall your Picture see,  
Your Sex at once shall wonder at, and envy thee.    
The End of the Second Book.   

AMASIA, OR, THE Works of the Muses. Containing the ADDRESS of LOVE.  
Vol. I. Book III.  
— Nil hic nisi triste videbis,  
Carmine temporibus conveniente suis.  

TO THE Right Honourable THE Lady Mary Edgerton, Eldest Daughter TO THE EARL of Bridgwater.  
MADAM,  
THE Fair and the Young, the Poet and the Painter, are equally proud to draw; the Pencil, or the Pen, may be happy in those Draughts; but the Beauties of the Mind, not the Sun himself, whose light Paints the whole Scene of the Creation, even with a Pencil made of Beams, can represent in their Meridian Lustre. The more they shine, the more they are perceived, the lesle can they be shadowed; hence 'tis the Poet finds his the harder task to describe your Ladyship's Virtues, than the Painter's to do you Justice in your Person; yet, Madam, that Painter (if any can) who does you Justice in your Picture, plays there the Poet too; for the Sweetness of your Temper, the Sweetness of your Face displays. Instead of the rude sketches of my Pen, your Ladyship's Picture, prefixed to this Poem I present you, had been the most agreeable Dedication, for that would give the World the truest Image of your Character: But doing your Ladyship that imagery of Justice, the Patroness would be read more than the Poet; the Reader would hold his Eyes 〈◊〉 there, and look not further for Amasia. There would he found both Love and Poetry, both Charming, both Divine, and never regard the Works of the Muses, but gaze with silent Admiration on the Fairest Muse. Your Ladyship, the bright Original, Nature in all her Blooming Colours has already 〈◊〉 she has not only given your Ladyship Beauty, her common Gift to the Fair Sex, and that in an uncommon measure, but she has given you a Mind so Charming, that your Face is a true Emblem of your Soul, and thence it arises your Ladyship appears so every way agreeable. As Beauty is best expressed in being seen, Virtue is so too; for tho' the Original can't be equalled, your Ladyship may by your Conversation draw fair Copies in the Minds of others; thus may your Affability, Generosity, and several other Graces, which your Ladyship is adorned with, and adorn, appear Conspicuous to the World, as the Splendour of the Sun (tho' all Mankind is Conscious that it shines) cannot in itself be viewed, but may however be Admired in those pieces of the skies it guilds.  
I am, MADAM, Your Ladyship's Most Obedient Humble Servant. Silvius.   

THE ADDRESS of LOVE AN Epistolary POEM. Written to AMASIA.  

YOU are surprised, I know you blush, and frown,  
You tear the Paper, and you hurl it down.  
O blame not me, but your own Conquering Eyes,  
For, from themselves their present troubles rise.  
Let them not than, thou dear, prevailing Maid,  
Blindly refuse what they have wrote to read.  
See here what always in my looks you see,  
And mark the Passion that I feel for thee.  
The Passion will not a description bear,  
Look in my 〈◊〉, 'tis fully written there.  
My press of 〈◊〉 no way for speech 〈◊〉,  
It can't 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, and 〈◊〉 into Words.  
With no relation will it Justly hold,  
I tell it most, to say it can't be told.  
Verse after Verse will all but fruitless prove.  
Verse after Verse can ne'er declare my Love.  
Did I Love lesle, did I not Love so well,  
Than I, perhaps, might all my sufferings tell;  
But o! I burn to such a high degree,  
I scarce have Power to beg a smile from thee.  
So, Zealous Men, when in their Souls sincere,  
From Meditation cannot fall to prayer.  
Think of the Love I did already show,  
Think that the Love will be for ever so,  
Think, while I live, that I shall Love thee still,  
Think it! Be sure; for, by thyself, I william.  
Spite of your scorn, tho' you contemn my flame,  
Still shall I own that from your Eyes it came.  
Why need I tell you, since too well you know  
That I admire you, and must still do so.  
Spite of my Soul, spite of all Manly Powers,  
Spite of myself, I found that I am yours.  
Vain is all force, I must your Captive be,  
I must be thine, even in despite of thee.  
〈◊〉 this, you think of no return to make,  
〈◊〉 I give, what you refuse to take.  
O still be harsh, the bliss no Man could bear,  
If you should grow as kind as you are fair;  
If your disdain and scorn so much can move,  
How would you Charm with Transport, could you Love!  
That would overcome me with surprise of bliss,  
Too great for Monarches, by their Crowns, it is,  
Yet would I feign to dazzling ruin run,  
Like the rash Youth, who dared attempt the Sun;  
Daring as his, does my Ambition fly,  
Full of thy Fires, I would run o'er my Sky,  
Pursue my great attempt, tho' thundered till I Dye.  
Proud in the Spicy nest your Bosom frames,  
I, Phoenix like, would set in glorious flames.  
But you are great in Fortune, and will show  
Esteem for none, but who like you are so.  
Like the Sun's Beams, your radiant Glances hold,  
Fixed on no place, but what may 〈◊〉 to Gold.  
You have Estates, and I, you know, have none,  
I ask them not, they shall be still your own.  
They stand beneath the bent of my desires,  
For Gold's Reflection makes but seeming sires;  
I 〈◊〉 all such as would for interest sue,  
My soaring wishes fly at naught but you,  
Believe— I Love yourself, for, by your 〈◊〉, I do.  
Relent than quickly, O thou Charming fair,  
And listen kindly to your Lover's Prayer,  
For else— you Mad me, Kill me, with Despair.  
Forgive me, Fairest, for I must complain,  
How can a wretch, like me, forget his pain,  
And loose his torture, while he drags his Chain?  
All the unhappy may have leave to grieve,  
Despair does in the deepest sorrow live.  
Fruitless my cries, fruitless are all my moans,  
Fruitless my rising sighs, and my distracted groans.  
In vain alas! To move your Soul I try,  
In vain alas! I Pine, and Bleed, and Die.  
Without redress I bear your proud disdain,  
Echo and you return those Words— in vain.  
Can naught this coldness from thy Breast remove,  
Soften, and melt thee into warmer Love!  
O if you felt my pangs, or if you knew  
But half those sufferings which I bear for you,  
Sure, you would pity, and would Love me too.  
What pleasures than, what raptures shall I boast,  
If your Compassion be not wholly lost!  
Believe me, Charmer, by thyself I swear,  
By thy dear self, and thou art all that's dear,  
For thee alone I bear my sierce desires,  
And burn, and rave, wild with my raging Fires.  
How can true Passion, such as mine, be born!  
How can I live, and you make no return!  
Not,— Scorned! henceforth, I will not stoop to live,  
But slight that Life, which you deny to give.  
Yet, unrevenged, I will not poorly fall,  
For than, my Rival would engross thee all.  
Not, by my hopes of happy Joys above,  
Not other Mortal shall possess thy Love,  
Not meaner Soul deserves the mighty bliss,  
I boast a Spirit nobler far than his;  
While he, should he possess thee, would be cloyed,  
And slight those Charms which he had late enjoyed,  
My Tides of Passion should for ever roll,  
And with new springing floods overflow thy Soul.  
'Tis I alone should have the Power to move,  
If Love be Merit in the claim to Love.  
O could the wretch but keep his wishes warm,  
And sigh, as long as you have ways to Charm,  
Such is my Passion, such my sacred flame,  
Can he but bless thee, I should quit my 〈◊〉;  
Full of thy image would I hast to go,  
Thoughtful of thee, to gloomy Groves below;  
Still should my wishing Soul thy Charms pursue,  
Even in Oblivion's shades rememb'ring you.  
But think, ah! think, thy Charms by me possessed,  
How we might both be to a wonder blest!  
O could your Soul excessive fondness show,  
O could your Passion for me freely flow,  
Eternal Joys would every smile pursue,  
And you, while blessing me, should be transported too.  
Such are your Charms, such is your Power to move,  
I Love you still, and still must urge my Love,  
The Passion grows no greater than before,  
For it was boundless, and could ne'er be more,  
Theirs that increases, and can hourly flow,  
As well may Ebb, but mine can ne'er do so;  
I, like a Watch, to a vast height am wound,  
In which no slow, no erring motion's found,  
But while Life's Wheels shall last, they shall run ever round;  
Still in one constant course of Passion move,  
From various Figures still to thee I'll rove,  
But ne'er, I fear, point out the hour of Love.  
To thee I'll writ in everflowing strains,  
You shall be sung in all the Flowery Plains,  
And tender Maids, shall, where thy Fame is born,  
Admire thy Beauty much, but more, thy Scorn.  
Where any Wit in all my Verse shall shine,  
You are my Muse, and it is chief thine.  
When to a pitch my Towering fancy flies,  
My Soul's Emotion with my stile must rise.  
And Judge, Amasia, by my fonder flight,  
That I feel all, and more than all I writ.  
You 'cause soft Thoughts, and all their Charming Powers,  
'Tis your brightRays produce those Blooming flowers;  
Like Summer's Sun, through all my Clouds you shine,  
And with your Beams, enlighten every line;  
You, by strange Power, my young invention move,  
Through all my Verse there is an Air of Love;  
That makes me writ, and writ alone of you,  
Yours is the Poem, and the Poet too.  
To you alone does my whole fancy roll,  
You possess all the flow of my Soul.  
Only by thee shall I acquire a name,  
While Love, Eternal Love, stands my continued Theme;  
Thy wondrous coldness, which my Passion blames,  
Still Fires me more than any other's Flames.  
Thou I must ne'er possess the 〈◊〉 I see,  
I'll smile on Fortune, while she frowns on me.  
I shall another wretched Midas 〈◊〉,  
And turn what e'er I touch, to the rich Metal, Love.  
If I desired lesle fond than I do,  
Than might I all that I have suffered show,  
But to that height, that mighty height I burn,  
I cannot hope for any kind return.  
'Tis you alone urge my conceptions on,  
All but soft Notions from my Mind are gone.  
To you alone do all my fancies fly,  
Those scattered Wings which bore 〈◊〉 so high.  
Now all my flights but weak, and 〈◊〉 show.  
Not reaching you, they 〈◊〉 flag 〈◊〉.  
Such are your Beauties, such 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Charm,  
Your Eyes burn Hearts, which 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
I through my Love am so submissive 〈◊〉,  
You call my Crime, what is my 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
Unhappy Passion! which my Soul 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
And makes me hated, where I would be loved.  
Now all my 〈◊〉, fond, and humble show,  
My Eyes revolt, when Beauty is my foe,  
Racked with your scorn, let me not longer lie,  
Raise me to Life, or urge me on to die.  
You, my bright Sun of Beauty, light me here,  
Just as you make them, all my Days appear,  
Like you, when Clouded, or like you, when clear.  
For, still of loved Amasia shall I sing,  
With thy dear Name shall all the Valleys ring,  
To you alone shall all my Numbers flow,  
And all my Verse shall be adorned with you;  
To you no Mortal can due Trophies raise,  
Above my Thoughts, much more above my praise;  
You shall be famed, wherever Swains can read,  
In every City, every Flowery Mead,  
And you shall live, when many Ages dead;  
Whilst I, myself, shall likewise deathless grow,  
Esteemed for Love, Immortal Love of you;  
For that alone I shall be named aloud,  
For 'tis through that, I rise above the Crowd.  
Me Fortune placed not with her wealth heirs,  
Yet sure my Soul sits as Sublime as theirs.  
With bold Ambition I to greatness move,  
For only you shall e'er my flames approve,  
I am not poor, who have a World of Love.  
The haughty Tyrants, and the humble Swains,  
In every Court, and throughout all the Plains,  
Blest with my Verse, shall soft Emotions found,  
And every Beauteous Virgin shall be kind.  
With me no Man shall ever equal be,  
No Mortal Lover shall be great, like me.  
On Love's bright Throne I shall in Triumph sit,  
Like mighty Dryden on the Throne of Wit.  
O'er Earth and Seas our lasting praise shall fly,  
The greatest Poet, He, the greatest Lover, I.  
While Winds shall blow, & while the Seas shall roar,  
Whilst Billows beaten against the foamy shore,  
Till Day, and Night, and all things are not more.  
While Heaven and Earth shall last, while Stars shall shine,  
Thy constant Lover shall be ever thine.  
Such Love, so great, can't be by Mortal born,  
How than, Amasia, shall I bear your scorn!  
Above all thought my wondrous Passions move,  
Hear, good and gracious Powers! all Powers above!  
For I am Sick, quite Mad, and Lost in Love.  
When 〈◊〉 from thee my suffering Heart is given,  
May I by Daemons to despair be driven,  
Dashed against Rocks, and struck with bolts from Heaven.  
O thou Regardless, Happy, Charming fair,  
You can't imagine how beloved you are,  
Nor know I how to tell you, but I know,  
I Love, as never Mortal Man loved so.  
I Love you, for (by Love iself 'tis true,)  
Above what e'er Romantic Lovers knew,  
I Love you now, as I shall ever do.  
My Flames are such as to the Gods are given,  
I Love Amasia as I Love my Heaven.  
How could I wish you would Love Silvius so!  
That you would this return of Passion show,  
That you would Love him— Just as Heaven Loves you.  
Oh! when you know but half my mighty ill,  
You may relent, Amasia, yes, you william.  
When once my racking griefs are understood,  
You will relieve me, for I know you good.  
When you but found what through your scorn I bear,  
You will the blessings of a Goddess share,  
You will be Heavenly kind, as Heavenly Fair.  
Than, you not more will use your Silvius so,  
To doubt those truths, which, well as Heaven, you know.  
No room for falsehood my desire affords,  
You rule my Thoughts, than sure you rule my words.  
Speak, is my Passion unsincere believed,  
Or can you think you can be e'er deceived!  
You all my tender Declarations blame,  
And you deny that I have felt a flame,  
Deny at lest, that from your Eyes it came.  
'Tis than decreed, that I must rack my Mind,  
To prove my Passion, when you prove unkind.  
Believe, Amasia, who does truly Love,  
Can't by expressions half his Passion prove.  
True Flames can never, never be expressed,  
He, who speaks most imperfect, speaks them best.  
How shall I, all my racks, and 〈◊〉 show?  
You know I Love you, and Love none but you;  
Love you! Like truth— I Love you Heavenly well,  
How, not my Tongue, not, nor my Eyes can tell:  
If it could be that Man could Love you more,  
Feel fiercer pangs than I have felt before,  
O I would spend an Age, to tell the story over.  
Heaven Witness for me what my flights should be,  
All made of Love, and all adorned with thee,  
Till Echoing Hills proclaim that thou alone art She.  
As some poor Youth, who, by his Parents crossed,  
Submits himself to be by Billows tossed,  
Submits to all the threaten of the Sea,  
For those, he knows, are lesle enraged than they:  
However, concerned, he thinks on Friends behind,  
Weeps with each shower, and sighs with every Wind;  
His Native soil with sad remorse he leaves,  
A soil, lesle safe than the tumultuous Waves;  
When first he hears the dreadful Ocean's roar,  
And Tempests louder than he feared before,  
With wat'ry Eyes he views the lessening shore.  
So, I, when urged by your unkind disdain,  
In absence hoped to found a Calmer Main,  
But Storms of Thought thus drove me back 〈◊〉  
Think! How we parted, we did ne'er embrace,  
I spread no balmy Kisses o'er your Face.  
Pressed not your hand, nor did I sigh, or swear,  
I did not speak, for o! You would not hear.  
I should have looked, and gazed, and talked a while,  
Murmured, and Kissed, and than received a 〈◊〉  
I should have melted, when my silence broke,  
Farewell— farewel— with fonder looks have spoke.  
In softer Voice I should those Accents tell,  
And bid a thousand, thousand times, Farewell;  
With trembling Lips I should have drawn from you,  
With trembling Lips, and with Eyes trembling too,  
Forced my 〈◊〉 feet, and groaned a long Adeiu.  
Sure, loved Amasia will my Flames approve,  
Sure you will make me some returns of Love.  
How happy than must ravished Silvius be,  
Who now is filled with Anxious Thoughts of thee!  
Thy Beauteous form still dances in my sight,  
By day in Visions, and in Dreams by night.  
Often my wild Thought thy darling Image frames,  
Often do I see thee wanton on the streams.  
Where you look always so divinely Fair,  
Where, in such Charms you to my view appear,  
You seem a brighter Venus risen there;  
O'er the calm Floods with Wings of Rays you fly,  
An Angel posting through a Cloudy Sky.  
My flames more raging from the Waters grow,  
And while I see the Dear, Deluding show,  
I bless myself that I could fancy so.  
Often, when alone, and in my silent Bed,  
I think, Ah! whither is Amasia fled,  
Where is the Beauteous, Lovely, Fatal Maid.  
Than, through my Curtains, straight I see you come,  
And fill, with shinings, all the gloomy room.  
With airy flights, and with deluding Eyes,  
You loosely dance where your fond Lover lies,  
And I, to seize you, all in Transport rise.  
Than how I catch! than, how I rave to found,  
That you could go, and leave me there behind,  
I spend my Breath, and rack my troubled Mind.  
Like swelling Waves, my Thoughts come raging on,  
A second rises, e'er the first is gone,  
They roll, and dash me, when their rowling's done.  
Than, mad with all my Anxious griefs and pain,  
I lie dejected on my Bed again,  
And gaze to found you, but I gaze in vain.  
Than, do I strive, but no repose can take,  
For, Thoughts of you my short'ned slumbers break,  
And rack me equally as when awake.  
Restless I drag each tedious Minute there,  
For all my Joys are vanished with my Fair.  
'Tis too much Love has wrought my Rigid fate,  
And do I Love you? Is that cause for hate!  
Command me all things, and your lover prove,  
Command me all,— but to forbear my Love.  
That is the only thing I cannot do,  
And that alas! is all required by you.  
Believe, Amasia, Cruel fair believe,  
I shall die yours, since yours I cannot live,  
And this is all I ask you now to give.  
While glimmering Tapers light my Darkened room,  
` And my near Friends to see my end are come,  
While now, all pale, and in my pangs I lie,  
I beg, Amasia may sit Mourning by;  
Even than, my Passion will be Nobly great,  
My flames more raging, tho' in fainter heat,  
Not rising brighter, than they than shall set.  
I shall embrace you in my trembling Arms,  
And there admire your lovely, fatal Charms,  
Those Fairest Eyes, which I esteem Divine,  
Those Fatal Eyes, which do so brightly shine,  
And have such Power to rule the looks of mine.  
All over Rapture, while all over pain,  
I'll look, and sigh, and than I'll look again,  
Still will I gaze, with ravishment, on thee,  
And thy dear, lovely Face shall be the last I see.    

Female Epistles OF LOVE.  
Deidamia to Achilles. Epist. I  
The ARGUMENT.  
Achilles, having lain a long time disguised like a Woman, in the Court of Nicomedes, King of Bythinia, so carrying on the better his Amours with Deidamia, Nicomedes his Daughter, was at last by the subtlety of Ulysses, (who put a Sword into his Hand, which he wielded too Dexterously for a Woman) betrayed, and carried to the Trojan War, Greece having been warned by the Oracle, that Troy should never be taken, unless Achilles assisted at the Siege. Thus, while he continued in the Graecian Camp, Deidamia, impatient of his absence, Writes him the following Epistle.  

READ this Achilles, and be grieved to see  
How Deidamia Mourns, and Mourns for thee,  
Read, and than think who must the Author be.  
Who, but fond I, would the weak Passion tell?  
Fond, foolish I, who Love you, too, too well.  
You seem to doubt, and in amaze you stand,  
Having my Heart, you needs must know my Hand.  
What here you found, my dear desires indite,  
Ah! kindly read, what I too kindly writ.  
Naught but her tender wishes thus could move  
Thy Deidamia to confess her Love.  
Nor need I blush the noblest Flame to own,  
I boast I yielded, since to thee alone.  
To thee, whose Charms, wound tender Virgins far;  
O may you so be prosperous in the War.  
May you Victorious, and Triumphant be,  
And Conquer all, as you have Conquered me;  
But let no Laurel shades about you rise,  
To bar the glances of my longing Eyes,  
Their sacred wreaths can free from thunder live,  
But not from flashes Beauty's lightnings give.  
I'll think you not a Lover, while I sue,  
But call you Warrior, the Name's dear to you.  
Ah! than, be generous to the yielding Foe,  
I have surrendered to your Arms, you know.  
Proud of submitting to Achilles, more  
Than all the Conquests I had gained before.  
When I was gazed at by a Noble Crowd,  
And other Princes with Submission bowed.  
When, all around, far as my Eyes could see,  
There was no Youth but would my Captive be,  
Than, than it was, I gave my Heart to thee.  
I gave thee that, I gave thee all my Soul,  
Gave Deidamia, you possessed her whole.  
My Virgin spoils I offered to thy Arms,  
The Thought alas! My tender Bosom warms,  
You rifled all my Beauties, all my Charms.  
My dearest Treasures, and my Richest stores  
Were all your own, and I was wholly yours.  
To my loved Bed, full of a vigorous flame,  
Dressed like a Woman, often Achilles came.  
Your public Gestures still did Female show,  
But, when in private, sure they were not so.  
My Maids of thee were in no sort afraid,  
For they believe thee, like themselves, a Maid.  
Think, in what sweet, what soft, and wanton play,  
Locked in my Arms, you passed the Hours away!  
Alas! My Love, writing these tender Words,  
The very Thought some Ecstasies assords.  
Some faint Emotions of my Soul it frames,  
All our past Pleasures now appear but Dreams.  
Ah! Lovely Youth, often in my Widowed Bed,  
I think of you, and wonder why you fled;  
Admire, that War should so delightful be,  
To make its Horrors be preferred to me.  
I thought my Voice Breathed far more pleasing Airs,  
Than the shrill Trumpets could Proclaim in theirs.  
Why should you rashly Combat in the Field?  
And slight such spoils as I would gladly yield.  
There you must hazard, and buy Conquest dear,  
When all your business was to triumph here.  
Ah! Come again, once more, my Life, return,  
To comfort me, who now extremely Mourn.  
How should I Joy to hear what you have done,  
To hear of Battles by your Valour won!  
To hear yourself, in my Embraces, tell,  
How such a Hero in the onset fell.  
Than would I clasp thee closely to my Breast,  
And Sigh, and Kiss thee, more securely pressed,  
And, still endearing, lull you so to rest.  
Hast than, Achilles, from the Battle flee,  
And join in Combat with no Foe, but me.    

A Lady to her Lover. Epist. II.  
The ARGUMENT.  
A Lady, forsaken by her Lover, to whom she had not denied even the last favours, having been newly recovered out of a Violent Sickness, which, 'twas believed, he occasioned, and hearing he was gone to be Married to another, and to take Shipping soon after in the North, having with him her Fortune, which she had entrusted him withal, according to the various transports of her Passion, Writes him this following Epistle.  

TO you, (false Man) I make my sufferings known,  
Whom once I thought I could have called my own.  
'Tis only you, who should these lines receive.  
Who used to Mourn, when I had cause to grieve.  
Scarce can my Life of this sad change allow,  
When you torment, who shall redress me now?  
How many Lovers have I scorned for thee,  
And is your falsehood my reward?—  
Speak, thou ingrateful Man!— It cannot be.  
When you at first your greater Rivals knew,  
And how the meanest far exceeded you,  
Full of Despair, laid Prostrate at my Feet,  
You cried, ah! Can you, Can you Love me yet?  
Not, you will Titles, and their Lords receive,  
An honest Love is all that I can give.  
The great are false, but I sincerely true,  
Ah! Treacherous Man! Who is so false as you?  
Who could have thought this wondrous change to see,  
How can you live so far apart from me!  
Here, my Companions think my Mourning strange,  
And wonder whence proceeds the dismal change.  
Hiding my Sorrows, they their cause explore,  
So, by concealing, I reveal them more.  
How do they rage's, when they the story know;  
Yet than, even than, I speak excusing you.  
I first Condemn you, call you false, and than  
I fond pled in your behalf again.  
Thus arguing for you, I impeach you more,  
And make your guilt seem Blacker than before.  
Than, in my Soul strange wild disorders move,  
With anxious struggle between grief and Love.  
A new Confusion in my looks appears,  
And, Naming you, I straight dissolve to Tears.  
My swimming Eyes can than no object view,  
What should they look at, since deprived of you!  
Since to the North from all your Vows you flee,  
And left the City, but to hast from me.  
To that cold Air you fled with just design,  
A place most fit for such a Breast as thine.  
It's Chilling coldness I unjustly blame,  
And fear its Frost lesle than a Newborn flame.  
Ye Northern Beauties, his Embraces eat,  
Or yield, like me, to be, like me, undone.  
Laugh at his Sighs, and tell the Cheat he lies,  
Curse his false Tongue, and his deluding Eyes.  
Too late alas! We our Misfortunes see,  
There are no Oaths he has not Sworn to me,  
Ye heedless Maids, I charge ye, ne'er believe,  
He makes it all his business to deceive.  
Lest my Misfortunes other Virgins prove,  
O let them ne'er confess Excessive Love.  
Myself I blame that I did e'er believe,  
For in all Ages your whole Sex deceive.  
The Treacherous Jason, basely perjured, fled,  
From the Fair Mistress, whom he first did Wed,  
And left here's falsely, for Medea's Bed.  
Spite of the Winds, which bore his Sails away,  
He was more Faithless in his Flight than they.  
The injured Princess, who first shared his Love,  
Should by her Rival's Death her wrongs remove,  
And to Medea a Medea prove.  
She, by her spells, did the fierce Serpents tame,  
And still her Charms for Triumph were the same,  
She Conquered him, as he the Bulls overcame.  
But soon, from her did the inconstant run,  
She found herself, spite of her Arts, undone;  
She could the Dragon's baleful Fires assuage,  
But Fires more fatal in her Breast did rage,  
With Poppies Juice in vain she steeps her Eyes,  
In vain those spells, which made them sleep, she tries,  
All case, all quiet with her Lover flies.  
Proud, and Triumphant, he forsook the shore,  
A monster, worse than those he slew before.  
The wanderer next was by Creusa fired,  
Like thee, false Jason to new Flames aspired;  
With his rich prize the Villain falsely fled,  
And scorned Medea's, for Creusa's Bed.  
So, am I left abandoned to despair,  
And your Creusa is your present Fair.  
He, bore a glorious purchase from the Coast,  
But of what Golden Fleece have you to boast?  
In vain you with my slender Fortunes flee,  
Alas! I lost them all, in losing thee.  
Gems I despise, I can such trifles scorn,  
But 'tis my much prized honour that I mourn,  
For that's a Jewel thou canst ne'er return.  
O may no Virgin be o'ercome by Love;  
Man, should he strive, can never Constant prove.  
Moore than I aught, I would thy shame rebate,  
And lay my wrongs, not upon you, but fate.  
Fame speaks of Nymphs by their false Lovers lost,  
Men first submit, but after, Triumph most.  
I could an hundred instances renew  
Of Treacherous Men, but none so base as you.  
With Vows Achilles did Briseis please,  
But Vows as Faithless as his Mother Seas.  
While Phaon to hot AEtna's Mount retires,  
His Sapph wasted with as scorching fires.  
Fair Dejanira of her Lord complains,  
Grieved that the Victor wore his Captive's Chains.  
Alcides once put Woman's Garments on,  
When his vast Club he to a distaff spun;  
The Lion's rugged skin his Mistress wore,  
She Conquered him, as he the Beast before.  
〈◊〉, sure, from Rocks, or Oceans came,  
His Breast so cold, it could not feel a flame;  
By the false Wretch fond Dido was undone;  
Love's Mother could not sure bear such a Son:  
In vain to Cupid did the Queen complain,  
She prayed him pierce his Brother's Heart in vain:  
Got by a Tempest, and on Billows born,  
He would, in haste, to his Loved Seas return.  
False Men should fear 〈◊〉 loud, insulting 〈◊〉,  
The Queen of Love risen thence, and there 〈◊〉.  
Why should his Gods, as 〈◊〉 by cursed 〈◊〉,  
In 〈◊〉 sink, when 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 got free?  
He had a Deity to guide his way,  
The same, no doubt, that steered him on the Sea.  
With that pretence, he left her slighted Coast,  
But of what guiding God have you 〈◊〉 Boast?  
Yes, 'twas a mighty Power your will controlled,  
A Power which Reigns o'er Men, Immortal Gold.  
And now another Virgin you have won,  
That other Nymph must be, like me, undone.  
I wish my Rival could foresee her fate,  
Alas! She will repent, when 'tis too late,  
So much I pity her, I cannot hate.  
She soon, (Poor Innocence!) by scorn oppressed,  
Will grow as Wretched, as she now seems blest.  
Soon will you leave the Sighing Maid behind,  
Her Sighs, alas! will but increase the Wind.  
Methinks, I see you fly with Treacherous Gales,  
Loos'ning your Vows, Just as you lose your Sails,  
You, the proud Sun of Love, a while Shine bright,  
Than, set in Seas, and leave behind you Night.  
But, Ah! beware what watery Course you Steer,  
Eat Scylla's Rocks, nor dare to venture near,  
Ingrateful Men should still her Vengeance fear.  
And let me warn you, (for the time is nigh,)  
When you shall falsely from my Rival fly,  
Take leave at lest, nor use your treacherous tongue,  
Just as you did, when round my Neck you hung,  
And long-breathed Kisses meant your staying long.  
Tell her how lost she is, your flight declare,  
Be honest once, and tell how false you are.  
Tell her she never can from care be freed,  
Never, Ah! never, that's Despair indeed.  
Oh! Can you know, false Man, what I have born,  
Thou Man you be, you would at last return;  
In want, and Sickness I have spent my days,  
Not Heaven, or Earth, but you can give me ease.  
In a hot, raging Fever have I lain,  
But why, unkind! should I to thee complain!  
Thou wilt rejoice, and Triumph in my pain.  
The 〈◊〉 disease Burnt me with scorching Heat,  
It was thy coldness did its Fires Created.  
Yet not so Wild were the last Flames I bore,  
As those you kindled in my Breast before.  
My Amorous Fires, spite of your scorn, could lay  
Their Sicklier rage, and make their warmth decay.  
Where were you than? Where was my Lover fled?  
Who should have sat all pensive by my Bed,  
And in my Bosom laid his Mournful head.  
His Weeping Eyes should pour such Constant streams,  
As should have force to quench the inward Flames,  
Feeling my Pulse, you, Languishing, and Pined,  
Should have from thence of your own Health Divined.  
Like me, Cydippe in a Fever burned,  
But here's raged lesle, for she had ne'er been scorned.  
Her Beauteous Cheeks consumed, and livid grew,  
Her Colour such, as she before did view  
In the Fair Apple, which her Lover threw.  
Ah! Can it be, that you could Faithful prove,  
I should no Fever know— but that of Love.  
And could I found where my dear Traitor flies,  
My flames should dart like lightning through my eyes,  
And melt the Ice, which round your Bosom lies.  
So far at lest I know my Charms could move,  
That I could force you to Dissemble Love.  
But now, alas! no more must I receive  
Those flowing Joys, which you so well could give.  
Not more my bliss, not more my Life I boast,  
When I lost thee, all that was dear I lost.  
Where any Nymph becomes so cursed as I  
The only business of her Life's to die.  
About my Neck I'll cast a Silken twine,  
That Neck, often clasped by those dear Arms of thine.  
My lofty Posts my Wretched weight shall bear,  
For thee I'll offer up my latest prayer,  
And hung the Trophy of thy Conquest there.  
Yet, I should live, for if my Doom were passed,  
Heaven would shower Vengeance on thy Head at last.  
Ah! Perjured Man! my ease, my Peace restore,  
Give me my Heart, and I demand not more.  
Return my own, I shall not vainly sue  
To be again beloved, and dear to you.  
Yet, know (false Wretch!) if e'er you dare to wed,  
My Ghost shall haunt you in your Nuptial Bed.  
Not other Fair one shall a sharer be,  
Of that dear bliss you once enjoyed with me;  
Thou you all Love, and she all over Charms,  
You ne'er shall clasp her in your Burning Arms.  
Whilst Vengeance Prompts me, its effects I'll show,  
Great as the wrongs I have received of you.  
And sure those Powers which heard you falsely Swear,  
Will now redress me, when I make my prayer;  
Their Names profaned, what Mischiefs may you dread!  
〈◊〉, while alive, they will torment you dead.  
Should I avert the Justice they design,  
It were my pity, no desert of thine.  
Ah! Lovely Traitor! should you yet be true,  
I could, methinks, bear an Esteem for you.  
One Look, one Sighs, would yet my Passion move,  
And Fan the faint, expiring Sparks of Love.  
Ah! Where's the hope? I am to writ forbidden,  
Yourself forbidden me, it was you that did.  
Voided of a tender Sense to know the pain.  
Of absent Lovers, when they wait in vain,  
And all their Anxious Thoughts, till met again.  
Thy latest Words, hence (thou ingrateful!) know;  
Yours I departed, to return ever so.  
Nay more, you Wept, by heavens, the haughty you,  
Whlist round my Neck your Treacherous Arms you threw,  
And Wiped my Eyes, for I was Weeping too.  
Think on those things, those tender things you said,  
Those Oaths you Swore, to Cheat an easy Maid.  
When, all the Night, locked in my Arms you lay.  
And past, in transports, the short Hours away.  
Base, Sordid Soul! Which naught that's soft could move,  
No dear Remembrance can recall your Love.  
When, for Heavens' sake, you begged me Crown your Flame,  
I was not sure, despised, as now I am.  
How many Curses did you wish for than,  
If you could ever think one fair again!  
When at that time (you perjured slave!) I hear,  
You had, and loved a Mistress, where you are.  
One, by whose Gold your Heart is made her prize,  
Nor are her Slaves the Trophies of her Eyes.  
'Twas Gold that did your sordid Soul subdue,  
And that, which hires her Servants, Conquered you.  
Whilst I, more Nobly, scorned such Empty gain,  
Nor Sold my Love for lesle than Love again.  
I thought I did so, but too late I know,  
I both am Cheated, and despised by you.  
My right you give to her you now adore,  
And Swear again what often to me you Swore.  
She too, like me, will soon complain of you,  
The same, ingrateful Man will make her Wretched too.  
Than, tell of all the Conquests you have won,  
Speak to the wondering Crowd, wherever you run,  
And name two tender Maids, by your damned Wiles undone.  
But tell not how they slight, and hate thee too,  
And, if they live, will be revenged on you.  
No Fiend in Hell can such a Fury prove,  
As a wronged Woman, one that's wronged in Love.    

Scylla to Minos. Epist. III.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Minos, to Revenge the Death of his Son, landed on the Coast of Lelegia, where he laid Siege to a Fortress held by Nisus, Scylla, Daughter to Nisus, falls in Love with Minos, during the time of the Siege, and writes him the following Epistle.  

HEnce Triumph, Warrior, hence new Conquests see,  
Thou not our Forts, yet, you have Vanquished me.  
I am subdued by Minos' Godlike Charms,  
And you may Triumph in your Captive's Arms.  
It is my fate to Love my Father's Foe,  
I had not known him, had he not been so.  
Often have I seen you Marching from afar,  
Wielding your Sword, than resting on your Spear,  
While your Cask's Noding Feathers threatened War.  
Often I beheld you in the dusty Field,  
And was alas! with every Gesture killed.  
On our High Walls often do I wishing stand,  
And bless the Lance Grasped in your vigorous hand.  
Your shining Arms the longing Scylla views,  
And likes and praises all that Minos does.  
Well might your Mother's Charms a God subdue,  
If she knew ever how to Charm like you.  
The thunderer sure had his Europa won,  
Had he but seemed like her too Beauteous Son,  
By whose dear Eyes poor Scylla is undone.  
Often, as I sat on our famed towers on high,  
Often, My Lord, has Scylla wished to fly  
To your dear Arms, when I beheld you nigh.  
How, How alas! shall I be e'er restored?  
Or how shall Scylla e'er enjoy her Lord?  
Mad with desires, I think in what disguise  
Shall I found out the Tent, where Minos lies;  
How meet the dear disturber of my ease,  
And tell the Charmer whom his Beauties please.  
Feign would I now betray the Gates to you,  
And yield my Country to a potent foe;  
Alas! Poor Scylla knows not what to do.  
I fear in War dear Minos should be slain,  
For, Oh! I doubt he has not Power to gain.  
Our Brazen Gates will all his glories bar,  
Not to be stormed 〈◊〉 by the God of War.  
Often have I wished I were your Captive made,  
And the dear Bribe for your Alliance paid.  
Than might rough War, and barbarous slaughter cease,  
Minos be blest with Scylla, and with Peace.  
But ah! too much, I doubt, my Hero dares,  
Nor fears Misfortunes in revengeful Wars,  
Oh! tho' he does not, yet his Scylla fears.  
Tell me, My Lord, my dearest Minos, tell,  
Declare to me, who Love you too, too well,  
If, for my Country, for my Virgin-Bed,  
My Father's Hair, Nay, for my Father's Head,  
For Shrines, for Temples, tho' the seats of Jove,  
Will you, Dear, Charming Minos, Crown my Love?    
FINIS.   

AMASIA, OR, THE Works of the Muses.  
A Collection OF POEMS.  
In Three Volumes.  
By Mr John Hopkins.  
VOL. II.  
Add manus in vinela meas (meruere catenas)  
Dum furor omnis abest, si quis amicus ades.  
LONDON, Printed by 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉 for 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, at the Blue-Anchor in the Lower-Walk of the New Exchange, 1700.   

To her GRACE THE Duchess of BOLTON.  
May it Please your Grace,  
THE Poet in Addressing your Ladyship feels all the Poet's ravishment and transport; Your every Charm Fires every Thought so fast, the labouring fancy struggles for a Passage. Your Youth, your Beauty, Affability and Wit, when separately considered, seem each to be the greatest Excellence, 'tis impossible any Writer can determine which of those Rivals boast the Preference; but every Writer may thus far be certain, that all of them excel. Shall I say (and yet speak properly) I am lost in a Cloud of Beauty? But 'tis a Glorious, 'tis a Golden Cloud, made Lustrous by the Soul which shines within. Can I, without growing old before my task's Accomplished, undertake to describe your Youth in its full Springing Bloom? Should I not grow proud of my own Performance, could I display you at the height to which you rise by your Courteous, Condescending Affability? Or shall I dare to think that I have Wit enough to venture on the praise of yours? Not, Madam, all my Muses can perform no Works like these. Thinking on your Grace's Endowments, I found myself bewildered in a maze of Virtues; lost, like famed Theseus, in a Labyrinth; a Labyrinth, whence no thread of thought can free my wandering sense. Strange! that Perfection should seem as intricate as Error! But Night with over-shadowing Darkness scarce blinds the Eyes so much, as an insufferable Flood of Light. With all submission, Madam, I must own I incline voluntarily, (tho' guiltless) to make a Confession, which yet no guilty Poet ever made. I would flatter your Ladyship, if possibly I could, and boast the Glory of a Work so tightly difficult; but 'tis impossible: All Art falls 〈◊〉 short of Nature here: Were it not so, the ravishing Charms which Fire me now to think I should attempt it, would than seem lesle, and Consequently cool me from the Enterprise. Long may your Grace stand thus sublimely Admirable, Long may your Virtues soar beyond the towering Muses reach,— Long, till at last, (and may it than be late) they mount yet higher, to their Native Skies, and shine a Constellation there.  
I am (May it Please your Grace) Your Grace's most Devoted, and most Obedient, Humble Servant. J. Hopkins.   

THE PREFACE.  
SOME Readers turn over Prefaces, as things impertinent; those few who serve not this after the like manner, I fear, will be impertinent Readers. I scribble at present, more for the sake of Fashion, than any thing else, and I think all who writ Prefaces, do so. If the World is pleased to like a Book 'twill scarce found fault with the want of a Preface, and if the World is pleased not to like a Book, the best Preface in the World will never recommend it. A Poem and a Preface may be likened to a Face, and fine clothes; a good Face, 'tis said, needs none, and a bad one deserves none, but some now, perhaps, may say I have set my Simile with the heels up, for they would have it, by all means, that the Preface must be the Face of the Book, but in Answer to such, they who will be positive in that Opinion are such as are apt to make Faces. I thought in this to have said something of the Original Occasion of writing these Poems, and so to have touched a little on the discovery of the real Person meant by Amasia, but I consider my Book will expose Me sufficiently, without my exposing Her— and a certain Verse which I have read in honest Marshal (who knew the fleering Malice of Mankind) deters me from it.  
Et pueri Nafum Rhinocerotis habent—   

THE CONTENTS.  

Vol. II. Book I  HEro, Priestess of Venus. A Poem, Paraphrastically imitated from the Greek of Musaeus. 
Page 1   

Book II.  THE Forest of Love. Being some Copies written to Amasia, on particular Occasions. 
 To Amasia, who made a present of a Studying-Cap variously Beautified with Trees and Flowers of Needlework 
43  To Amasia, on her filling a Glass with Water, whereon she bade Painted Stags, and Birds and Trees 
44  To Amasia, invested with a Muslin Nightrail, variously beautified with Birds and Beasts of Needlework 
46  To Amasia, wearing a Muslin Apron wrought with Trees and Beast of Needlework 
47  To Amasia, on the beautifying the Lining of her Gown, with Trees and Groves in Needlework 
48  To Amasia, sticking Gardens cut in Paper, on a large Glass 
49  Poems on several Occasions. 
 To three Ladies who presented me their Verses written in praise of one another, and, in return for my Judgement, told my Fortune 
50  On a Fly that flew into a Lady's Eye, and there buried in a Tear 
p. 51  To a Lady, desiring a Visit 
54  Seeing a fair, young Lady Just a dying. 
〈◊〉  A Dialogue between a living Nymph and a Youth who was Drowned. Written thus at the request of a Lady 
〈◊〉  To Amasia, who Commanded me to avoid her presence whenever she appeared 
58  The Description of the Palace of the Sun, and Conflagration of the World, partly imitated from Ovid 
〈◊〉  To the Lord Sy—ney, Created Lieutenant of Ireland, about the time his Majesty went to Flanders 
63  To a Lady, Lamenting her Lover, who was drowned 
64  On a Bee enclosed in Amber 
68  On a China Cup filled with Water, round the sides of which were Painted Trees, and at the bottom a Naked Woman Weeping 
ibid.  The Description of a Tempest and a Fight at Sea 
69  To a Lady, who presented me an Orange 
72  To a Lady, presenting her a Box of Patches 
73  To the same Lady having found a Silver Penny, the first thing she touched, among the Patches, I presented her 
74  To Amasia, offering me a branch of gilded Laurel 
ibid.  To a very Charming Lady, with an unpleasing Name 
75  To a Lady, whose Maid, having given her a 〈◊〉, I sent her, and being asked from whom she received it, replied— from the Conjurer himself, she thought 
76  To a Lady saying she knew I Loved hor 
77  To a Lady, who, (while endeavouring to tie up some Linen with a Ribbond, a little of the shortest) being asked how she would menage, if she Loved a Gentleman without a Fortune, replied, I'll show you— (and so drawing harder) made the ends meet 
p. 77  To a Lady Singing frequently these Words, Youth and Beauty 
78  To a Lady, who, with a Charming Air of Negligence, frequently, when spoken to, replied— Yes, Sir, 
79  To Amasia, having dreamt of me 
ibid.  To Amasia, on the accidental falling of her lose Garments, which discovered to my view her Breasts 
81  To the admired Mrs Cr— fts 
82  To a Lady having lost three Kisses on a Wager with me, and refusing to pay them 
84  Reflections on the Picture of Cupid, imitated from Propertius 
86  To Amasia. 
87   

Book III.  letters of Love 
 To Amasia, 1. 
97  To Amasia, 2. 
99  To Amasia, 3. 
101  To Amasia, 4. 
103  To Amasia, 5. 
106  To Amasia, 6. 
108  To Amasia, 7. 
110  To Amasia, 8. 
113  To Amasia, 9 
115  To Amasia, 10. 
117  To Amasia, 11. 
119  To Amasia, 12. 
122  To Amasia, 13. 
125  To Amasia, 14. 
128  To Amasia, 15. 
130  To Amasia, 16. 
133  To Amasia, 17. 
135  To Amasia, 18. 
138  To Amasia, 19 
140  To Amasia, 20. 
142    


HERO, Priestess of Venus.  

MUse, Sing the Torch which did so useful prove,  
To Light the Lover on his way to Love,  
That Friendly Torch, which o'er the Billows shone,  
And nourished Fires, far brighter than its own.  
Sing him, who purchased an Immortal fame,  
And boldly ventured o'er the swelling Stream,  
Nor could its rolling Surges quench his Flame.  
Through the rough Seas, and rising Waves he goes,  
To Joys tumultuous, and as high as those.  
Exalted Joys, which can no Ebb know,  
But in vast Tides of mighty Raptures flow,  
And where no Winds, but Amorous breezes blow.  
He need not tremble when the Tempest's near,  
Nor the loud threaten of the Ocean fear,  
Who knows Love's Beauteous Goddess risen there.  
And Venus surely will Propitious be,  
To such fierce Flames as can overcome the Sea.  
Methinks, Leander now is swimming fast,  
Methinks, I sce him o'er the Billows haste;  
Now, now he cuts his proud, Triumphant way,  
Where Crowding Waves around his Body play.  
There he is lifted o'er the Towering Flood,  
And Seas are flashing from the breaking Cloud.  
Methinks, the Torch upon the Tower I see,  
By Hero placed, and almost bright as She.  
Blown by rude Winds, I hear its flaring Light,  
Which sputt'ring, Sparkles in the Gloomy Night;  
That Torch, the Burning Emblem of their Love,  
Which the Immortals should from thence remove,  
To shine like Stars, and be a Star above.  
Where it will more than usual kindness show,  
In guiding Lovers, and their Loves below.  
Such was it here, till the rough Winds arose,  
For tender Sighs, Ah! Too unequal Foes,  
For Amorous murmurs, and soft Gales as those.  
Fiercely they raged, and soon they overcame  
That of the Torch, and than Leander's Flame.  
Two Neighbouring Towns, tho' small, are greatly famed,  
Abydos one, the other Cestus named.  
Each had the view of the Adjacent Lands,  
Opposite placed upon the lonely Strands.  
The Ocean's Waves between them Foam, and Roar,  
Washing the Borders of the Patiented shore.  
But Love, Bold Love, will no such Bars allow,  
When even for Gold, the raving Seas we Blow.  
Rarely, Ah! Too, too rarely is it proved,  
That Maids will Love as they have been beloved;  
But here a Beauteous, Charming Fair we sinned,  
Was wondrous Conquering, yet was wondrous kind.  
Leander's Praises through Abydos rung,  
He was alone the talk of every Tongue.  
That was the Place, was blest with his abode,  
Renowned as much as he had been some God,  
For Men who can like him such Passion show,  
Are sure Divine, and must Immortal grow.  
Near Cestus Hero lived, from thence she came,  
From her Leander, did receive his Flame.  
Thus she the greatness of her Power displayed,  
Who at such distance such a Wound had made.  
From a long Line of Noble Blood she Sprung,  
And Venus Priestess, in her Temple Sung.  
Closely retired, and near the Boisterous Sea,  
In a tall Tower that other Venus lay.  
It's Stately Ruins may as yet be seen,  
Which show Spectators what it once has been.  
On it's High Top with her bright Torch she stood,  
To Guide her Lover through the Obvious Flood.  
The Waters now roll Mournful to the shore,  
And, as they did Leander's Fate deplore,  
They curl their Melancholy Brows, and Roar.  
The Beauteous Maid all wanton Sports denied,  
Extremely modest, yet untouched with Pride.  
To public Balls, and Masques she would not go,  
Reserved herself, and thought all others so.  
She did the wits, and censuring Beauties eat,  
Would from fond Youths, and from their Courtship run,  
If she were Loved, she thought she were undone.  
With earnest care, and pure desires she strove,  
To please her Goddess, and her Son to move.  
Now would she Songs of her Adonis sing,  
And odo'rous Wreaths of blushing Roses bring.  
With those she often the hovering Cupids Crowned,  
And strewed fresh Flowers along the Painted ground.  
In vain she thought to make the God grow kind,  
For gifts are lost, where the receiver's blind.  
Now was the time when Venus Yearly Feasts,  
For her dead Lover summoned all the Guests.  
A grateful time, when every Charming Fair,  
And Amorous Youth does to her Shrine repair.  
Drawn to that place by an uncertain Fame,  
All of each Sex from Thrace, and Cyprus came.  
Cythera than scarce could one Virgin boast,  
All it's Young Men Abydos too had lost.  
On Venus' Altar they their Offerings lay,  
But their chief Vows to the bright Ladies pay.  
A Power there is which every Soul beguiles,  
In kill Eyes, and 〈◊〉 seducing Smiles.  
Of all the shining Beauties, not a Maid,  
Not one there was, that in the Temple stayed,  
But was more prayed to, than herself had prayed.  
Before each Charmer's Feet sad Hearts were found,  
In their own Bleedings panting on the ground,  
For the blind God there gave each Youth a Wound.  
He near his Mother's Image laughing stands,  
And shoots, and Wounds, with his unerring hands,  
But now bright Hero through the Fane appeared,  
Whom all the Youth at once both Loved and feared.  
New rising Passion in their Breasts began,  
Their Eyes, their Hearts, their Souls on Hero 〈◊〉.  
Soft, tender Sighs from their warm Bosoms flew,  
And from each look a pleasing pain they drew.  
They came, they saw, and they were there undone,  
O'er her dear Face their eager Eyes would run,  
They wished, and gazed, and sighed, still wishing on.  
Richly attired, in sparkling Garments gay,  
Fit for the Duties of the Pompous Day.  
Glorious she passed through the admiring Crowd,  
Each gave her way, and as she stepped, they bowed.  
An air Majestic in her Face did shine,  
Her clothes, her Dress did with her looks combine,  
Her Mien was Sweet, and she was all Divine.  
Her Beauties darted many Thousand ways,  
As the Noon-Sun which all his Beams displays,  
She with her Glances warms, and he, his rays.  
While all the Maids, (in other places Fair)  
Seemed but like Clouds which she had Silvered there.  
The Ancient Lovers but three Graces knew,  
But Hero's Face did many Thousands show,  
From her each look, and every Glance they flew.  
In wanton play around her Conquering Eyes,  
A guilded 〈◊〉 of hover Graces flies.  
O Lovely 〈◊〉, who so much can move!  
Extremely worthy of 〈◊〉 Queen of Love!  
You who can thus each ravished Youth subdue,  
May seem the Priestess, and the Goddess too.  
With boundless Charms you Conquer every Heart,  
And Maid to Venus, thou a Venus Art.  
The Captived Youths upon her Beauty's gaze,  
She both Fires them, and makes the incense blaze.  
Whilst the Loved 〈◊〉 at the Altar stands,  
She Acts her Conquests with Triumphant Hands.  
The fond Spectators Worship her, much more,  
Than she the Queen, whom she does there adore.  
For her they Burn with purer Flames by far  
Than those she offers to her Goddess are.  
In vain the Lovesick Wretches check their Eyes,  
In vain alas! They would their pain disguise.  
From her dear Charms, and her Attractive Mien,  
They turn their sight, yet straight gaze on again.  
Her dear Idea every Lover drew,  
For with their Souls, their very Souls they view.  
Each glance from her their raging Flames did aid,  
And every motion fanned the Fires she made.  
While one of all the wondering Crowds around,  
Thus spoke his Passion, and declared his Wound.  
O'er Sparta, famed for Beauties, did I rove,  
Yet still, till now, I was untouched with Love.  
Like Hero ne'er did any Charmer Shine,  
Never did Mortal seem before Divine,  
The Graces only are at Venus' shrine,  
In her alone do all perfections meet,  
So wondrous awful, and so wondrous Sweet!  
Long have I gazed, yet wish to gaze again,  
At once delighted, yet at once in pain.  
On her I look, and 'tis with 〈◊〉 still,  
The Sight of her, like 〈◊〉, Allures my william.  
〈◊〉 I could Smile, and thousand Tortures 〈◊〉,  
Can I at last enjoy this Conquering Fair.  
In Hero's 〈◊〉 let me in transport 〈◊〉,  
And than good Gods! I shall all ills defy,  
Give me but her, and I shall never die.  
Would she but favour my Ambitious Flame,  
I were exalted from what now I am.  
〈◊〉 I but her safe at my own abode,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 not loose her to be made a God.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 would I my Joys Forego,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 possess a real Heaven below.  
But you, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, do not my sufferings see,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 be enjoyed by me.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Youth with more prevailing Charms,  
.  
Some Happy Swain, who shall 〈◊〉 prove,  
Of all thy Beauties, and of all thy Love  
〈◊〉 me, O Venus, this is all my prayer,  
Since of thy 〈◊〉 Priestess I Despair.  
Grant me some other Fair one to 〈◊〉,  
Some Loving Nymph that may resemble her.  
Thus spoke the Youth, thus made his Passion known,  
And stirred new Flames, while he revealed his own,  
For every hearer was his Rival grown.  
And now some other, who a Wound sustained,  
Thought to declare the Conquest she had gained.  
In doubts, and fears the Youth had struggled long,  
But had not Courage to unlock his Tongue.  
Close in the Crowd his fond desires he bore,  
And hidden Fires rage ever more, and more.  
At last, Leander did the Virgin see,  
None 〈◊〉 there, none Loving more than 〈◊〉  
Often had he heard of Amorous griefs and 〈◊〉,  
As often been told of Woman's coy disdain,  
He therefore Vowed, he would not only 〈◊〉  
His 〈◊〉 Pangs, and his Tormenting 〈◊〉  
Vowed, he would 〈◊〉 urge his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
〈◊〉 would not fond, and in silence 〈◊〉  
Like simple Swains, who haughty Nymphs adore,  
Content with that, and never sue for more.  
He, with soft Murmurs, and submissive Sighs,  
Would tell her where her greatest Conquest lies,  
And show the spoils of her Victorious Eyes.  
Declare the wounds, which with her looks were made,  
Those Wounds, which she, and only she must aid.  
Bravely the Youth with such resolves was filled,  
But Oh! How little are true Lovers skilled!  
One Glance from her would his late Thoughts confounded,  
Turn his weak, sickly resolutions round,  
And cast his Eyes all bashful on the ground.  
In hopes, and doubts the Anxious Youth remains,  
In pleasing Joys, yet in perplexing pains.  
Unusual Symptoms in his Face appear,  
Of new disorders, and of growing fear.  
Shame, and amaze do there confusedly move,  
The sure Effects of that strong Poison, Love.  
Now Dark, sad Thoughts obscure his Cloudy Mind,  
No Glimpse of Joy can any entrance sinned.  
In hideous forms they lie revolving there,  
Dreadful they seem, and he grows all despair.  
Than, in his Breast feels Infant light begin  
To cast bright rays, and cherish all within.  
Than, glorious Images of Bliss he frames,  
Vast Floods of pleasures in Immortal streams,  
And Swims to Heaven in fancy's Golden dreams.  
Ravished all over with the Transporting tides,  
On Towering Seas of Ecstasies he rides.  
In every Vein a Liquid Fire does Glow,  
And swift desires in mighty Torrents flow.  
Now, with a seeming boldness does he press,  
To ease his Griefs, and make his sufferings lesle.  
Through Crowds of gazing Rivals he appears,  
But as he comes to Hero's sight, he fears.  
With looks astonished, and with folded Arms,  
He views his Mistress in her shining Charms,  
She sees him too, and as she sees, she warms.  
With wishing Glances, and with longing Sighs,  
He meets the glories of her Conquering Eyes;  
Perceives them darting wandering Beams that way,  
Gliding by him did their swift Sunshine play,  
As if they wished, but were afraid to stay.  
He, all the while, stands silent on the place,  
And Feasts his Eyes all o'er her Beauteous Face.  
Sometimes, themselves they would in pain withdraw.  
For Oh! he feared lest she should know he saw.  
Yet he looks on, all ravished with the view,  
Fresh Thoughts, fresh Doubts, and fresh Desires pursue,  
He's more inflamed, and than he Sighs anew.  
Now the Glad Maid Leander's sufferings sees,  
And all his Torments do the Virgin please.  
A secret Joy the Charming Tyrant moves,  
She Veils her Beauties, Since she knows he Loves.  
For what strange ends are Souls of Women made!  
They grieve for Lovers in Romances dead;  
But a true Passion, and a real pain,  
Mects only coldness, and their harsh disdain;  
Not more that Female softness will they show,  
Their scornful Eyes enjoy the kill woe.  
They are all moved, when painted Flames they see,  
Yet burning Lovers shall unpityed be.  
This Charming Fair, however, her Mind betrayed,  
Leander found vast kindness from the Maid.  
Swift, towards him often a wandering Glance she sent,  
A mighty gain, tho' but a Moment lent.  
Than, on a sudden, snatched her Eyes away,  
Ah! Too, too modest, for they wished to stay,  
Such cruel kindness do the Skies allow,  
Which Lightened lately, and grow Darker now.  
Yet the fond Youth conceives an inward bliss,  
And hopes her Fires will rise, sublime as his.  
Now, as he wished, the Grateful Evening came,  
And he resolved he would reveal his Flame.  
The scattered Crowds to their abodes repair,  
And leave the Virgin, and her Lover there.  
All Venus offerings, and her Feasts were done,  
And he beholds his Goddess left alone.  
The growing Darkness does his Courage aid,  
And now he ventures to address the Maid;  
First, bowing low, submissively he stands,  
Than looked, and sighed, and gently pressed her hands.  
She at the first, dissembled all her Mind,  
Forced to grow Angry, lest she should grow kind.  
She made no Answer, but in scorn she flew,  
And from his hold her Lovely Hands withdrew,  
Yet looked so fond, she made him hope anew.  
With Loving Eyes she did invite his stay,  
And all Resentments, which were feigned, betray.  
To the glad Youth her wavering Thoughts were known.  
As well he knew them, as he knew his own.  
Half frowning now, she all her weakness shows,  
For now she smiles, and more Serene she grows.  
The Tortured Lover all Despair appears,  
Dejected seems, and sheds unmanly Tears.  
No wonder Waters of such sort distil,  
When raging Fires his Breast with burn fill.  
Fondly again he does approach his Fair,  
With hated force both to himself, and her.  
Seizes her Hand with a more eager press,  
And now Conducts her to a close recess.  
The trembling Virgin seemed, at first, afraid,  
And an unwilling, Faint resistance made.  
She seemed to 〈◊〉 him, nor was silent long,  
And asked him why he offered such a wrong.  
Prayed him desist, and give his rudeness o'er,  
Struggling with him, but with herself much more.  
How, Sir, she cried, can you such boldness show,  
Is this your Passion, this the Love you own?  
How do you dare to use a Virgin so?  
A spotless Maid should not be thus pursued,  
But with pure Words, and awful Homage wooed.  
Be gone, reply not, but from hence repair,  
All your rash Acts, and lose desires 〈◊〉,  
Such Crimes my Kinsmen are too Just to spare.  
I thought my Office, and my Goddess Shrine  
Might have deterred you from your soul design.  
But if you 〈◊〉 should 〈◊〉 your Passion on,  
I shall 〈◊〉 out, and 〈◊〉 you to be gone.  
Such Words as these did not Leander move,  
He hopes such threats are the effects of Love.  
Maids are like Soldiers in beleaguered Towns,  
With Warlike Pomp they show their Bulwarked grounds.  
They sound their Trumpets, and they beaten the Drum,  
And to the Ramparts all their forces come.  
Fiercely they Fire on the prevailing Field,  
But if they found this fail them, than they yield.  
The Lover now did all his Loves unfold,  
Fond were his Thoughts, which he as fond told.  
A thousand things he spoke to move his Fair,  
With pleasing Voice, and with a taking air.  
Deeply he sighed, and by the Gods he Swore,  
By all the Gods that he did e'er adore,  
He Worshipped them, but her he Worshipped more.  
In Words like these, he did his griefs explain,  
With wishing looks told all his Anxious pain,  
He Vowed, and sighed, and than he gazed again.  
Goddess, he says (for thou art sure Divine)  
Not Mortal e'er had any Charms like thine.  
Forgive this Passion, which your Beauty moves,  
For none can see you, but of force, he Loves.  
And if you would not be reputed dear,  
Your only way is, you must ne'er appear.  
Whate'er my Actions, and my Gestures be,  
They all are caused by my desires for thee.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 have 〈◊〉, from you my error sprung,  
You guide my Heart, as my Heart guides my Tongue.  
And 〈◊〉 your goodness will not Vengeance show,  
And Damn the Sinner, when you made him 〈◊〉.  
Your Office too in my behalf I move,  
Who are the Priestess to the Queen of Love.  
You cannot Duty to your Goddess pay,  
Nor, while a Virgin, her Commands obey.  
〈◊〉, and Maid, a Contradiction cause,  
You are not here's, till you perform her Laws.  
If you for Venus any honour have,  
You show it most, when you admit a Slave.  
For your own sake, I beg a soft return,  
You may provoke her with a further scorn.  
〈◊〉 Atalanta was unkind, like you,  
〈◊〉 still denied to hear her Lovers sue,  
But the 〈◊〉 Goddess, for her haughty Pride,  
Took 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 for all the Youths that died.  
Pity me, Hero, nor my Flames despise,  
Flames, that were kindled at your Radiant Eyes.  
So high they blaze, with such a pure desire,  
Brightly they shine, as Elemental Fire.  
By Nature always do they upwards move,  
A Just excuse for my Ambitious Love.  
Beneath the Concave of the 〈◊〉 they lie,  
But mine, more bold, disdain the lower Sky,  
To you, my Sun, from whence they came, they fly.  
Still Towering up, they somewhat great pursue,  
And aim at nothing lesle than Heaven, or you.  
Hot, Fiery bolts will by the Gods be hurled,  
And wondrous burning will consume the World;  
At that dread time, when all the Seas shall roar,  
With scorchings, louder than with Winds before.  
Even than, my Fair, the Earth more ease shall found.  
Than there is now in my Tormented Mind.  
Believe me, Charmer, by yourself I swear,  
You fill my Mind, and you are all my care.  
While Life shall last, while I have any Powers,  
Your true Adorer shall be always yours.  
Honours, nor Empires, nor the Joys above,  
Shall thy dear Image from my Breast remove,  
The highest bliss that is in Heaven is Love.  
For thee, my Passion is excessive great,  
I suffer more than Man e'er suffered yet.  
I love you, Fairest Maid, to that degree,  
I cannot live, unless possess't of thee.  
This, and much more in pleasing Terms he spoke,  
And all the Virgin's resolutions broke.  
With bashful Eyes, fixed on the Earth, she stands,  
And now, unchecked, she lets him Grasp her hands.  
His eager presses run through every Vein,  
Which she almost wished to return again.  
A conscious Blush her Beautcous Face overspread,  
Which showed her Coyness, and her scorn were fled.  
White Flags hung out, when Warlike places yield,  
But 'tis the Read surrenders Beauty's Field.  
Leander's Words possess her ravished Ears,  
And every accent all anew she hears.  
Charmed with his Voice, and its bewitching sound,  
Each Word he speaks does all her senses Wound.  
Soft, pleasing pains, and gentle heat she feels,  
They fill her Breast, and she perceives their ills.  
Her virtue now, that Frozen Snake, does move,  
Warmed by the Fires of a new glowing Love.  
Her fonder Passions, and her doubts engage,  
Confusedly met in an Intestine rage.  
Her Hopes, and Fears, her Thoughts, and Wishes Jar,  
And fiercely strive in an uncertain War.  
By different gusts of an unsettled Mind,  
Like a Poor Ship tossed by each threatening Wind,  
Now to this point, and now to that inclined.  
By each Tempestuous blast she's wildly tossed,  
Dashed by each Wave, and in an Ocean lost.  
One while, she thinks of Honour, and of Fame,  
And the Prized blessing of a spotless Name.  
Than, she contemns what she before desired,  
For the Sweet Youth again the Virgin Fired,  
She saw his shape, and as she saw admired;  
Was with his Gestures, and behaviour moved,  
And pitied kindly, and now kindly Loved.  
Her pain renews, and every Glance he gives,  
Augments his own, and her dear Flames revives.  
Each sigh Exasperates her fond desire,  
Whispers soft Thoughts, and Fans the raging Fire.  
Thus, Love and Virtue did divide the Maid,  
He saw the War, and for the Conquest prayed.  
While now all bashful, and in strange surprise,  
Fast on the ground she cast her wishing Eyes.  
His in vast transport, wondrous pleasures felt,  
For, on her Neck, her Beauteous Neck they dwelled.  
Than the blessed Epicures had Richer Feasts,  
They saw the rise of her swelling Breasts.  
Seated, like Gods, upon those Snowy Hills,  
They sport, and play, at their own wanton Wills,  
And every look the ravished Lover Kills.  
They Swim in Pleasures, which in Torrents run,  
But ah! How soon is the short Ever gone!  
The Virgin's Love all further bars denies,  
(And Flames by Nature still will highest rise.)  
Soft, fond Emotions had o'ercome the Maid,  
A sweet Confusion o'er her Face was spread,  
And all in Blushes these kind Words she said.  
Who, ah! who taught you this great skill in Love?  
Such Charms as these the very Rocks might move;  
The coldest Rocks, dashed by the roaring Seas,  
Might sure be warmed, with such bright Flames as these.  
Such cunning Arts, and taking ways you show,  
Too well, I fear, how to deceive you know.  
You are a stranger, and are learned to cheat,  
And now would Practise but some new deceit.  
Alas! (and than she blushed) why came you here?  
I cannot Love, and you are lost,— I fear.  
Would you had never seen me, O ye Power's!  
Not seen my Face, nor I have looked on yours.  
Suppose, Sweet Youth, I should return your Flame,  
I must be still the same, as now I am.  
My Parents will not grant that I should wed,  
And so you never can enjoy my Bed.  
And secret Pleasures I will ne'er allow,  
Against stolen Joys I made a solemn Vow.  
And should I grant them, it would soon be known  
In every Village, and Censorious Town.  
Thou Fame flies swifter than the Eastern Wind,  
She leaves no story, no report behind.  
But gathers something, wheresoever she goes,  
And often tells more, than what she Justly knows.  
However, your Name, and your 〈◊〉 declare,  
Thou not soft Passion, I can Pity bear.  
In yonder Tower, with my old Maid I lie,  
None else inhabit there but she, and I.  
The Foaming Waves beneath its 〈◊〉 flow.  
They are the only Visitants we know.  
The Whistling Winds do with the Waters Jar,  
And with loud noise Proclaim a dreadful War.  
Not Nymphs, or Youths do to our Borders come,  
We live all Friendless, and alone at home.  
No sound of Music does my slumbers break,  
The roaring Billows all my Music make.  
No People Travel our deserted ways,  
No Neighbours near us, but the Neighbouring Seas.  
Thus when she said, the Maid again withdrew,  
And hide her Face from her Leander's view,  
Which now with Blushes was overspread anew.  
She thinks she too much fondness has expressed,  
And fears her Language has her Flames confessed,  
For, much she told herself, and Blushes told the rest.  
Each Word she spoke her tender Lover moved,  
Her every look declared how well she Loved.  
And now the ravished Youth, with longing Eyes,  
By slow degrees, Charms still, and thus replies.  
Thus, with Attractive Mien, his silence broke,  
And, humbly bowing, languished, as he spoke.  
Shall Airy nothings our Delights overthrow,  
Without the forces of a real Foe?  
Let Fame, and Honour unregarded be,  
Those Shadows never should discourage me,  
Who with my Flames dare venture through the Sea.  
Not Heaven's bright Flashes o'er the Waves shall fly,  
With greater safety, or more swift than I.  
Thou big with dangers every Billow swell,  
And tumble down to a low depth, like hell.  
Thou the whole Ocean with loud tempests roar,  
And Barks lie scattered on the foamy shore,  
I ne'er shall meet with any dreadful harms,  
Steering my Course to those Loved, happy Arms.  
The hardship only will increase the bliss,  
(If aught increases what Immortal is.)  
I would scorn Joys got in the common road,  
For thee, my Heaven, I would outdare a God.  
Yes, every Night, I will Abydos leave,  
And all the Terrors of the Ocean brave,  
Outface each Wind, and every faithless Wave.  
But this (O Life of Love!) you needs must grant;  
(For 'tis a kindness I shall greatly want.)  
Let a bright Torch shine from your Tower afar,  
While I, Love's bark, make that my guiding Star.  
For you, my Fair, the Hellespont I'll Blow,  
With his own Arms shall your bold Lover Row.  
For you I burn with such a fierce desire,  
That I would swim to thee through Seas of Fire.  
I need not beg you of the storms beware,  
For, if you Love, you will extremely fear,  
And who, Ah! who would loose the blessing near!  
Now, dearest Maid, since you my Name would know,  
It is Leander that adores you so.  
These, and ten Thousand other things he said,  
Soft moving things, which melted down the Maid.  
Till Hero's Flames to such a height were grown,  
She says alas! She is not more her own.  
In conscious Blushes her consent appears,  
In rising sighs, and in new falling Tears.  
Whilst the fond Youth drank up the trickling dew,  
To all her Conquests still she added new.  
Close to her glowing Cheeks his own he pressed,  
How happy than, how greatly was he blest!  
She tells him now, she will a Torch prepare,  
And Cries, dear Youth, ah! Dearest Youth, beware.  
Not her own Life will she more safely guard,  
For Oh! Her Life is not to his preferred.  
With taking fondness, and in softest ways,  
The Lovers languish, and each other please.  
To him her grant did rising Joys afford,  
He 〈◊〉, and stopped her at each broken Word.  
In tender Murmurs he declared his bliss.  
While their Souls met, at every eager Kiss.  
Ten thousand now o'er all her Face he spread,  
He Kissed, and Marked her, with his Kisses, red.  
With willing Lips she the Embrace allows,  
And ravished, he grows lavish of his Vows.  
Often by the Sea, which he must trust, he Swore,  
Often by the Goddess, whom the Ocean bore,  
And wished, if false, he might not reach the shore.  
Without repulse, he would enjoy the Maid,  
But with endearments she his suit declayed.  
With interfering Kisses, which she gave,  
His bliss was such, he could not greater crave.  
Such are the taking ways, which Women show,  
They make their Charming fondness always new,  
And that, which raises, can appease us too.  
With cunning Arts, our full-spread Fires they blow,  
We inward burn, and a pure brightness show.  
His high desires could not have e'er been born,  
Had she repaid them with a kill scorn.  
Such rigid coldness would enrage him most,  
We feel worst scorchings in the hardest Frost.  
But she, kind Beauty! Made a sit return,  
And with like Passion, as himself, did burn.  
Whenever the Youth her hand with presses warmed,  
She grew all ravished, all o'erjoyed, and Charmed.  
Vast were Pleasures, nor could his be lesle,  
She gave him Kiss for Kiss, and press for press.  
Thus took they earnest of the wished delight,  
Which she deferred, till the next happy Night.  
Often they sighed, and many looks they cast,  
Each one of which they did design their last.  
Another still did the fond Lovers crave,  
Another yet, and yet another last they gave.  
Gazing he went, and took a distant view,  
Than stepping short, looked back, and gazed anew.  
Till in fond wanderings from her sight he strayed,  
Than, in Idea he beheld the Maid.  
Frequent remarks he on the ways did make,  
Lest the next Night he should the road mistake.  
And now on Board, he saw the Active Oars  
Blow the rough deep, as they removed the shores.  
That tedious Night he at Abydos lies,  
And fancies Hero still before his Eyes.  
In broken slumbers now he Clasps his Fair,  
In Dreams he Courts her, and Embraces there.  
Thus the Night flies, on slow-winged Clouds away,  
But often he curses the long, lingering Day.  
The Sun stands still to him, nor does he know,  
How to divert himself, or where to go.  
With folded Arms, he wanders up and down,  
Than, finds Acquaintance in his Native Town.  
He, thoughtful still, no talk to Friends affords,  
And hears, unnoticed, all their Pleasant Words.  
Whate'er he did, or whatsoe'er he said,  
His Mind still ran upon the Charming Maid.  
But now the Night it's usual Darkness spreads,  
O'er all the Seas, and o'er the flowery Meads.  
Each Breast it did with Pleasing Calmness 〈◊〉,  
Which was a stranger to Leander still.  
And now he Walks, upon the stormy shore,  
Slights all the Billows, when he hears them roar,  
Impatent grown, and longs to venture over.  
Fancies, he now has stemmed the furious tide,  
And is already at the farther side.  
Fancies, his Hero on the Strands appears,  
Conceives, the Marks her tender Passion wears,  
And meets her smiling, yet all over in Tears.  
Again he doubts she may be grown unkind,  
Or fears to trust him to the Faithless Wind.  
A thousand wild Conjectures does he make,  
And still the old one, for some new, forsake.  
But now the Maid, who could not brook delay,  
Lights the bright guide, to call her Love away.  
Now, to the Tower his longing Eyes he cast,  
And sees the Torch, his Nuptial Star, at last.  
To him, it seems Just from the Seas to rise,  
Appearing sixth in the far distant Skies.  
The grateful object did new Thoughts Created,  
And Planet like, as well as light, shot heat.  
It made his Ecstasy of pain the more,  
And now, his Veins in boiling 〈◊〉 over.  
In other things, whatever Stars may do,  
The Stars of Love, 'tis sure, vast Power can show.  
However, concerned, the roaring Waves he hears,  
The winds raise them, and with them, rise his fears,  
And each sunk Sea, like a deep grave appears.  
Between two ills did the fond Lover move,  
The Ocean's storms, and the worse storms of Love.  
Which shall he chose, of these two sad extremes,  
To die by Waters, or to die by Flames?  
Flames, which the fury of the Floods survive,  
The Floods but served to keep the Flames alive.  
He calls on Venus, and repeats her Name,  
Venus, he knew, from the rough Ocean came;  
Venus, the Goddess who had heard his Vow,  
To her he prays, and begs her succour now.  
Than, bravely Naked, he the Waves divides,  
With Manly force, stems the opposing tides,  
And in proud State, like a Sea-God he rides.  
His Arms his Oars, he Ploughed the swelling Flood,  
While his dear Hero on the Turret stood.  
Tossed with her doubts, and trembling with her fears,  
His mighty toil but small to here's appears.  
She watched the Wind, and its inconstant blasts,  
And her rich Robe round the bright Torch she casts.  
Her Robe, which like some Beauteous Streamer flew,  
And Born out from her, with cach Wind that blew,  
Fluttered, and seemed, as it was trembling too.  
Now the glad Youth had reached the Sestian Coast,  
While the fond Virgin in her Thoughts was lost.  
But soon she fees him on the nearer shore,  
She hasts, and meets, and bids him welcome o'er,  
And round him casts the Mantle which she wore.  
Now, now she clasps him, and with kind Embrace,  
She spreads warm Kisses o'er his watery Face,  
And brings new Vigour, and new heat apace.  
While the cold Youth stood wet, and shivering there,  
The trickling drops fell from his flowing Hair.  
Strait, was he thence to her own Chamber brought,  
Furnished with Works, which her fair hands had wrought.  
She there provides sweet Essences, and Oils,  
Fit to refresh him, after all his Toils.  
Scarce yet recovered, on the Bed he's laid,  
And his strong Limbs surprised the ravished Maid,  
Which she with silent, eager Joy surveyed.  
Than, all desire, into his Arms she flew,  
And did ten Thousand Marks of kindness show,  
In such fond ways as made him wish anew.  
With taking Air she did beside him lie,  
While Words, like these, from her dear Lips did fly;  
Life's Death without thee, with thee, Life to die.  
For me, my Love, what wonders have you done!  
Into what Deaths, what Dangers have you run!  
Had you been lost, I too had been undone.  
To such vast heights no Flames, but yours, e'er flew,  
None, none alive so nobly dared as you,  
A Love, as boundless as the Seas, you show.  
Repose, dear Youth, your wearied Spirits here,  
Upon these Breasts, if any Charms they bear.  
These Breasts,— which soon as she had sweetly said,  
With a close Kiss her further speech he stayed.  
Thus flows the dearest, softest Night away,  
In close enjoyments, and in wanton play,  
While she says fond he shall ever stay.  
Sporting they lie, and look, and sigh a while,  
Than snatch a kiss, and at each other smile.  
Not dull, untimely Mirth, or solemn State,  
Or dance, or Music, on their Nuptials wait.  
Not Barbarous Fool tells here his loathsome Jests,  
Such as are usual at the Marriage Feasts.  
Nor, while the Bride by her dear Lover sighs,  
Impertinently vex her, where she lies.  
Not glaring Torches here destroy the Night,  
But a still Lamp affords a glimmering light.  
These stealths were seen but by the Stars alone,  
The hasty Sun still found Leander gone.  
He, with regret does from his Hero go,  
How dreadful than do all the Surges show!  
When her dear Arms must now not longer please,  
Still with his own he seems to climb the Seas.  
By day, she always led a Virgin's Life,  
And was, by Night, more blest than any Wife.  
So often Leander did the Ocean Blow,  
That he was known to every Dolphin now.  
Thus they a while with secret Joys were Crowned,  
With all the Joys successful Love e'er found.  
The changing Moon a waning visage wore,  
Yet found them constant, and their Flames still more.  
The flowing tides, which swelled the rising Main,  
Embraced those Strands, which they forsook again.  
But still no Ebb was in their Passion known,  
The Sea of Love was still the greater grown.  
But Oh! How faithless Fortune's gifts appear!  
He's rashly fond, who values blessings here.  
Now Winter hasts, and dreadful Tempests brings,  
And raging Storms on its fierce, Windy Wings,  
Impetuous blasts o'er all the Surges Reign,  
And wondrous outrages infested the Main;  
(The Lovers wish for Halcyon Days in vain.)  
On the cold shores the Seamen trembling stand,  
And scarce believe they are secure, at land.  
But Oh! no danger does Leander Mind,  
Love on this score may well be counted blind.  
Not Jarring Seas or Winds his Soul can move,  
Their discord seems but Harmony for Love.  
His fierce desire does on his Mind impose,  
And nearer much the fatal Turret shows.  
He sees the Torch, and he must hast away,  
Thou the loud blasts seemed to Commands his stay.  
In spite of Storms, in spite of Winds, and Rain,  
He forces Waves, which dash him back again.  
Often, tho' repulsed, with all his utmost Powers,  
He cuts this Billow, and o'er that he towers.  
Hero, methinks, should grant some respite now,  
And tedious absence for a while allow.  
The tempting Torch should have more cautious been,  
When not one Star dare in the heavens be seen.  
It's tender Mistress did no danger know,  
For her hard fate alas! had ordered so.  
The gloomy Night a double darkness spread,  
As if it Mourned the black Decrees were made.  
Yet often the lightnings in swift Flashes flew,  
Which did the horrors of the Night renew.  
While Peals of rolling thunder loudly roar,  
And the big Ocean seemed to thunder more.  
Braving Heaven's threats, the breaking Billows fly,  
Like dashing Clouds, when Bolts have shaken the Sky.  
While the fierce Winds, and the rough Surges Jar,  
threatening destruction with their dreadful War.  
The Poor Leander now, all hopeless, strove,  
To make the Sestian shore, and reach his Love.  
Here, swelling Seas, like mighty Mountains, show,  
There, Valleys Gape, deep, wondrous deep below.  
His frequent Prayers the Youth directs, in vain,  
To all the Powers presiding o'er the Main.  
In vain, to Neptune, whom the Flood obeys,  
In vain, to Venus, often in vain he prays,  
Venus, much deafer than her Mother Seas.  
In such distress what could complaints perform?  
They served alas! But to increase the storm.  
Yet, the rough Boreas he did most assuage,  
Orythia named, he could not longer rage.  
The stubb'orn Wind did mild, and gentle grow,  
And but in Murmurs, and in sighs could blow.  
But now the Youth, while struggling with the tide,  
Fails of his strength, nor can the Waves divide.  
He breaks the Seas not more with Manly toil,  
In Triumph, down they bear their wretched spoil.  
The Tempest still grows louder in the Sky,  
While the tossed Floods with angry Pride run high.  
And now, a blast, an envious blast takes flight,  
Prevailing still on the well guarded Light.  
The storm's loud Malice, with success it Crowns,  
The Torch goes out, and now Leander Drowns.  
Dashed with the Ocean's rude insulting streams,  
Which fill his Throat, as he his Hero Names.  
She, all the While, dreads his unusual stay,  
Restless, and listening, as awake she lay.  
Often, her Wild fears his real Dangers show,  
Than, she hopes fond they are all untrue.  
A fair pretence does often our sense deceive,  
For, what we wish, we can with ease believe.  
She thinks that than he would not venture over,  
For new delights, and Joys unknown before.  
But soon she Starts, while her Thoughts strangely rove,  
And rising cries, than are you come, my Love?  
But disappointed, she more fearful grew,  
And fancied dismal, hideous things anew:  
What cannot fancy, helped by Darkness, do!  
Her Sickly Mind shows her Leander come,  
Shows him all wet, and shivering in the Room.  
Dropping, and Pale, he stands beside her Bed,  
With folded Arms, and with dejected Head;  
To Tempt him still with Thousand Charms she tries;  
The pleasing Image her Embraces flies.  
She, still perplexed such by delusions, lay,  
Till the approach of the sad, conscious Day.  
Mournful she risen, and Clouded as the Skies,  
And views the dreadful Sea, with Cautious Eyes.  
While her fond fancy, to divert her fear,  
Shows him now wandering there, now wandering 〈◊〉  
But ah! no more it can such visions show,  
It brings false things, but never hides the true.  
The bruised, torn Body she beholds at last,  
Which, some kind Wave beneath the Tower had cast.  
The kill object was too quickly known,  
And with a sudden Shriek, she leapt all headlong down.    
The End of the First Book.   

AMASIA, OR, THE Works of the Muses. Containing the FORESTE of LOVE.  
Vol. II. Book II.  
Nos tibi blanda Venus, puerique potentibus armis  
Plaudimus: inceptis annue Diva meis.  

TO THE Right Honourable THE Lady Olympia Roberts.  
MADAM,  
AFter having been a considerable time in Town, deficient all the while in my duty of waiting on your Ladyship; like a true Poet, I flatter myself, that I may make my Book my excuse; not presuming to think it worthy to be called a Present. How this may pass with your Ladyship, I know not, but am apt to fear, it will, at best, be thought but a Poetical excuse for so great an Omission. However, if it may be allowed to be truly Poetical, some hopes of your Ladyship's Pardon must still remain, when I consider you, as you are, a Favourer of Poetry. While the Muse introduces me to your Ladyship, I pass securely, like AEneas conducted by the Sibyl, to Elysium. The Golden Bough, that Hero brandished, entitled him to visit all the shady Groves, but here my Pen must fail, and I shall perhaps, be left without a Guide in Darkness, since I can hardly boast That for a Golden Branch. But to ascend more to the light; part of the Muse's Works, Madam, are laid here at your Ladyship's Feet; and I am sensible, such is your quick, and Judicious Penetration, you need not be at pains to stoop, to take them up; scarce can they be read so fast, as your Ladyship can both found their Beauties, (if they have any) and their faults; but so fustly your Candour Rivals your Judgement, 'twill be hard to determine, whether you will see the former more readily, than you will Wink at the latter. Your Ladyship's Father, the late Earl of Radnor, when Governor of Ireland, was the kind Patron to mine, he raised him to the first steps, by which he afterwards ascended to the Dignities he bore, to those, which rendered his Labours more conspicuous, and set, in a more advantageous light, those living Merits, which now make his Memory beloved. These, and yet greater Temporal Honours, your Family heaped on him, by making, even me, in some sort related, and allied to you, by his Inter-Marriage with your Sister, the Lady Araminta. How imprudent a Vanity is it in me to boasts a Father so Meritorious! How may I be ashamed to prove myself his Son, by Poetry, that only qualification, which he so much excelled in, but yet esteemed no Excellence. I bring but a bad proof of Birth, laying my claim in that only thing he would not own. These are, however, Madam, but the Products of Immaturer Years; and riper Age, may, I hope, bring forth more solid Works. In the mean time, such as they are, they Court your Ladyship's Acceptance.  
I am, Madam, Your Ladyship's most Dutiful, and Most Obedient Humble Servant, Silvius.   

THE FORESTE of LOVE.  
Being some Copies Written to Amasia, on particular Occasions.  
To Amasia, who made me a present of a Studying-Cap, variously Beautified with Trees and Flowers of Needlework.  

HOW great's your skill, that you can here restore  
What your Dear Sex lost all the World before!  
Not readier, Chaos the strange Word Obeyed;  
You wave your Hand, and Paradise is made.  
Your sudden Plants, at first Appearance, bloom,  
And all is Spring, wherever your Fingers come.  
Only that sad Narcissus fades away,  
As if Self-Love made even the Flower decay.  
Your lofty Cedars at full growth appear;  
Not sooner Planted, than they Flourish here.  
You Charm with Beauty, and you Charm with worth,  
Your Needle ne'er Points to a Frozen North.  
Wherever I Walk, through Pleasant Groves I go,  
And I am blest with their dear Shades below.  
Your grateful Bower diverting Thoughts inspires,  
And my strong fancy with New notions Fires.  
As, while the Sibyls on the Tripos stood,  
They grew inspired with their Prophetic God.  
So, while my Head your Sacred present wears,  
I boast a Knowledge, as Divine as theirs.  
In polished Numbers all my Thoughts shall flow,  
And (you my Muse) I shall Immortal grow.  
While all those 〈◊〉, spreeding Trees I see,  
Planted by your fair Fingers, seem to be  
Still-blooming Laurels, in it, Crowning me.    

To Amasia, on her filling a Glass with Water, whereon she had Painted Stags, and Birds, and Trees.  

BY this, you prove your Power is truly great,  
You Kill at Pleasure, and you here Created.  
Some of the Herd, which you so lively drew,  
Neglect all Food, and Joy to gaze at you.  
While others bow to Drink, and bend so near,  
We wonder still to see the Water there.  
Actaeon changed, had not been here pursued,  
He had escaped, secure among the Crowd;  
In a fair Spring, by chance, he once descried  
A Heavenly Beauty, and transformed, he died.  
And in this place, he might with wonder view  
As bright a Goddess, and as fatal too;  
In his own shape, he must have died for you.  
Your stately Stags rear high their lofty Heads,  
Tall as the Trees, in thick, and fruitful Shades,  
And a vast Grove above each Forehead spreads.  
They, and your Forests, with each other vie,  
Nor can I tell which seems more proudly high.  
The Trees, fresh Life, from your late Bounty, drew,  
As from the Fountain, which you poured, they grew,  
Became more Green, and Flourished all anew.  
One Phoenix lives, and that is sprung from Fire,  
But many seem to rise from Water here.  
Whilst all your sporting Birds prepare to fly,  
And cut with gaudy Wings, a strange, unusual Sky.    

To Amasia, invested with a Muslin-Nightraile, variously Beautified with Birds, and Beasts of Needlework.  

THE wondrous Rod set the Read Sea aside,  
And here, your Finger can this white divide.  
What you created, your invention saves,  
You lead your Creatures through the Foaming Waves.  
Thou when you please, you make them Ebb, and Flow,  
And stand on heaps, at the lest touch of you.  
A Head must be, whence all this Ocean risen,  
Sure, from your Breasts this Beauteous deluge Flows.  
Ambitious Waters once o'et-spread the ground,  
Here, in a Sea of Milk the World is drowned.  
The wondering Flocks all Wisely here withdrew;  
What better Ark could they desire, than you?  
In all this Flood, give me the blessed Command,  
To be the Turtle, to found out the land.  
I shall, I know, a happy soil descry,  
A Heaven lies hid, within this Silver Sky.  
None here can err, none here can ever stray,  
He's sure of bliss, that comes this Milky way.    

To Amasia, wearing a Muslin-Apron, wrought with Trees and Beasts of Needlework.  

'TIS said indeed, Achilles' Lance could Wound,  
And what it hurt, again could tender found.  
Your pointed Spear here Acts, with wonder, more,  
And thus Creates— these had no form before.  
Nor, could the Pen so well describe this Field,  
That, and the Sword, must to the Needle yield.  
Your Wolf is here Clothed in a spotless skin,  
'Tis pure without, and 'tis all soft within.  
Your Powerful dart can make all Creatures tame,  
That may, itself, be Shepherd to the Lamb.  
Through all your Woods, the Dogs pursue the Hare,  
Through all those Trees, you made so strangely Fair,  
To bloom, and spread, and so much Winter here!  
I tract their Feet, for sure I think they run,  
And hope to see them seize their Game anon.  
I only fear, whilst through this Field they go,  
The dropping Blood should Paint it's purer Snow.    

To Amasia, on her Beautifying the Lining of her Gown, with Trees, and Groves in Needlework.  

NOT Juno's Bird can brighter glories show,  
That, Nature painted, this is drawn by you.  
Wherever you Walk, the Airy People fly,  
And, for your Groves, forsake the Silver Sky.  
With doubled Force they hasten from above,  
And wonder thus to see your Forests move.  
Aim, to light fast on your deluding Gown,  
And fluttering fall, with strange amazement down.  
So, Xeuxis Birds snatched at false Grapes in vain,  
And, filled with wonder, they returned again.  
Greater than his, your Charming skill we see,  
For, with the Fruit he tempted, you, the Tree.  
Like that of Eden, your Plantation spreads,  
And Groves, Just set, rear high their stately Heads.  
All the fair Draught does such exactness bear,  
So wondrous Curious does the Work appear,  
I dread, methinks, a real Serpent here.  
This is a glorious Paradise in show,  
But the true Paradise is only you.    

To Amasia, sticking Gardens cut in Paper, on a large Glass.  

WE see your Actions here are wondrous all,  
Your fruit Trees spread along this Crystal Wall.  
You make me fancy (they are all so fair)  
A sweet Elysium in this clearer Air.  
Your Sissers, far the Pruninghooks outdo,  
Those lop of Boughs, but these make Branches grow,  
And, if our Eyes deceive not, Blossom too.  
Rooted in Ice, your Beauteous Gardens stand,  
And show the wonders of your Powerful Hand.  
O may no Winter to your Beauties come,  
But may they ever, like your Orchards, Bloom.    

POEMS ON Several Occasions.  
To Three Ladies who presented me their Verses Written in praise of one another, and in return for my Judgement, told my Fortune.  

PARISH his Beauties must, ashamed, give way,  
I Judge three Goddesses, more bright than they.  
My bliss beyond what he could boast, has been,  
He viewed without, but I have seen within.  
Which here excelled, not Phoebus' self could know,  
Each seems a Venus, and Minerva too.  
The first I like, and I admire the rest,  
Still as I read, I think the present, best.  
Not any one can the whole Trophy bear,  
The Apple, sure, must be divided here.  
Let all hereafter on your Beauty's gaze,  
But none demean them, with a future praise.  
Thus, you should all your own perfections tell,  
As there is none so fair, there's none can writ so well.  
The Nine not more shall be adored by me,  
Henceforth, the Muses shall be only three.  
You, our Fair Parcaes, know our Fortunes too,  
For, all Mankind receive their doom from you.  
This Power of yours, by its own greatness stands,  
You read our Hearts, Just as you read our hands.  
A knowledge thence, let none hereafter prize,  
But look their fates in your Illustrious Eyes.    

On a Fly, that flew into a Lady's Eye, and there lay buried in a Tear.  

(1.)  
ABout those Eyes, since I could move,  
I fluttered still, and flew,  
And always to play there did Love,  
Yet more despised than you.  
I die each hour, yet all the ills I bear,  
Ne'er made her shed for me a pitying 〈◊〉.   

(2.)  
Yet 'twas her Pride I do believe,  
Not pity, made thee fall,  
Presumptuous Wretch! you could not live,  
She Loves to ruin all.  
Her Tyrant pleasure does no Laws obey,  
She stoops, Domitian like, to any prey.   

(3.)  
The patiented Taper's sparkling light,  
You might (Poor insect) view,  
But ah! her Eyes shine much too bright  
To be beheld by you.  
The Daring Fool, burnt by the blazing Sun,  
Fell, from a lesle attempt, with ruin, down.   

(4.)  
By this, we see, deluded Fly,  
Your high, Ambitious aim,  
You, like the Phoenix, thought to die,  
And perish in a Flame,  
How different alas! your fate is found!  
Strange! that you should amidst such Fires be drowned!   

(5.)  
Like Icarus, too high you flew,  
And cut your yielding, trackless way,  
Your Wings destroyed by Sunbeams too,  
You fell into a faithless Sea.  
The Sun, I know, did often Flies beget,  
But ne'er, till now, has it destroyed them yet.   

(6.)  
So sweetly here you rest,  
So rich a Tomb you have,  
And like an Epicure so blest,  
All are not Stoics in the Grave.  
Your Death bids Lovers live prepared for theirs,  
When so much Cruelty is found in Tears.    

To a Lady, desiring a Visit.  

I Am unwel, and my Disease you know,  
For who could e'er see you, and not be so?  
Like lightning Flashes your bright glances flew,  
To blast my Sight, when I but looked at you.  
Yet wonder not that I should now desire  
To see again, and so renew the Fire.  
Thus, Men in Fevers, scorched, and raving lie,  
And beg for Drink, tho' if they Drink, they die.  
Thus, the Rash Semele entreated Jove,  
For Flames, much fiercer than the Flames of Love,  
Yet, like Achilles' Lance, your Eyes are found,  
For, they can cure, what they themselves did wound.  
Come than, fair Charmer, like the breaking Day,  
And drive my ills, those Cloudy mists away.  
All pains,— but Love's, will from thy Presence run,  
Like flying shades, from the approaching Sun.    

Seeing a fair Young Lady, just a dying.  

SEE how the Virgin Fades, like sweetest Flowers,  
Plucked in their Bloom from their delightful bowers.  
Behold her Eyes, so Charming, and so Young!  
See how they Dart their glimmering Beams along.  
In Beauteous Blushes now they set to rest,  
Like Suns dismounting in the Golden West.  
Their sparkling Lights Death's gloomy darkness Shrouds.  
Overcast by their bright lids, like Silver Clouds.  
With pointed Lustre on her Cheeks they play,  
Like Evening rays, which shine themselves away.  
Those Lovely Cheeks, whose wont Glory's fled,  
Are now streaked over with a fainting Red.  
The flying shadows hover to, and from,  
Now, fast they Fleet, now quite away they go.  
Who can enough this fatal loss deplore,  
The more I look alas! I feel it more.  
In this alone, I some repose can found,  
This only thought can ease my troubled Mind;  
She will be Happy wheresoever she treads,  
In all Death's Mansions, where her fancy leads,  
In Fragrant Grots, and pleasant, flowery Meads.  
Some Royal shade the chief of all below,  
In those blessed Lands, where she made haste to go.  
The noblest far, in the Elyzian Groves,  
The greatest Hero, famed for greatest Loves.  
Who at their Crystal, wide, expecting Gates,  
With folded Arms, and longing wishes waits;  
Impatient still for her arrival there,  
To see this wondrous Celebrated fair;  
Now, in his Breast, feels rising Joys begin,  
And now, all transport, when she first is seen,  
With airy Bows, receives, and leads her in.  
Whilst all the Joyful happy dwellers smile,  
And gaze, all ravished, on her, all the while.  
They Paint her way, with strewing Fragrant Flowers,  
And glide admiring through their silent Bowers.  
To those bright, grateful Groves, where she must devil,  
And that she's come—  
In pleasing Whispers, to each other tell.    

A Dialogue between a living Nymph, and a Youth who was drowned. Written thus at the Request of a Lady.  Nymph. 

(1.)  
TELL me, Dear Youth, why hence you (fled?  
Why shunned you mine for Thetis Bed?   Youth. 

For me she spreads her Liquid Charms,  
I wanton in her Crystal Arms,  
And she, the watery Nymph, burns for me dead.   Nymph. 

(2.)  
Ah! why would you not stay with me?  
Am I not yielding soft as she?  
My Love, as flowing too appears,  
As in its highest tides is here's;  
Nor shall it ever know an Ebb for thee.   

(3.)  
Thou now she seems so melting kind,  
You will her Ice, and coldness found.  
She to the Sun, at Night, will flow,  
Thou not so vigorous, as you,  
Ah! not so glorious, as when here you shined.   

(4.)  
To him too she will Faithless prove,  
For the Moon's changes change her Love.  
She Loves you not so well as I,  
Who to no Arms, but yours, will fly,  
For as both lived in Eires, in Waters both should Die.   

(5.)  
Not all the Coral she can show,  
Or Jewels aught to Altar you,   Youth. 

Not all her Treasures, and her Gold,  
In mighty sums, which can't be told;  
Nay, should she give the Sun, which makes them too.    

To Amasia, who Commanded me to avoid her presence, whenever she appeared.  

A strange Command I Have received of you,  
You bid me sly, and yet you still pursue,  
Wherever I go, or whatsoe'er I do,  
For in my Breast, you, dear prevailing fair,  
Have got possession, since you Conquered there.  
You bid me fly, and yet too well you know,  
That, while I live, I cannot e'er do so;  
Silvius as well may fly himself, as you.  
Since I am vanquished, 'tis alas! too late  
To think of safety by a forced retreat.  
I wish to eat thee, but my Love denies,  
I have a Heart, and you have Charming Eyes,  
Nay, when you kill me, for that soon must be,  
My Ghost shall haunt you, for your wrongs to me.  
How shall I fly, how from thy Presence run?  
I am the Fog, You, my attracting Sun.  
As well the Needle from its North might move,  
For I, my fair, do with like tremble Love.  
Can I avoid thee, I should baseness show,  
A mean, poor fear, and undeserving you.  
So fly the Clouds, when by the lightnings torn,  
And so fly Phantoms from the rising Morn.    

The Description of the Palace of the Sun, and Constagration of the World, partly imitated from Ovid.  

ON lofty Pillars Sols high Palace stands,  
And shows the Power of its Creatour's Hands.  
The two leaved Doors were of bright Silver made,  
Which the Sun's-Beams with equal Beams repaid.  
On them were Carved, the Heavens, the Earth, and Floods,  
Vast Cities, Rivers, Mountains, Plains, and Woods.  
Large, flowery Fields, with straying Flocks appear,  
Here, twining Streams, and Nymphs, and Fawns seen there,  
And the fair Doris drying, on the Rocks, her Hair.  
Triton's, with Shells, here, sounding on the Sea,  
While, the blue Gods o'er all the Billows play.  
Far above these, heavens radiant Image shines,  
Decked on each side, with six refulgent Signs.  
The Ivory roof shone bright with burnished Gold,  
Clearer than Flames, when Circled round with cold  
The Crystal Floor supports a glorious Throne,  
Which is around with hallowed Light o'erflown.  
Sol, Clothed in Purple, here in State appears,  
And a bright Crown of pointed rays he wears.  
His Seats rich Stones a sparkling Lustre raise,  
The Emeralds shine, and to the Eye they Blaze.  
Beneath this Throne, placed most profoundly low,  
That vast, and boundless, Sea, Eternity, does flow.  
On this, the Sun his fiercest Beams displays,  
Ages begetting, with his Vital rays.  
Well may the Poet's Fiction be allowed,  
Here Phoebus sets, in this unfathomed Flood.  
Thus he, at first, did the twin Seasons get,  
Cold was their Mother, and their Father, Heat.  
From Sol's bright rays, the shining Day to come,  
And Night, from deep Eternity's dark, gloomy Womb.  
Hence Time's vast River swiftly glides along,  
Floating to which, the Clustered Ages throng.  
The ripening Years, from the thick Clusters break,  
From them, the Months, and Days, their Motion take.  
Thence, spring the hours, which on time's surface play,  
And in soft incest, wear their Lives away.  
On her lose Bosom, they all sporting lie,  
Begetting Minutes, shorter lived, than they.  
Which soon as winged; with the Sun's Fleeting Light,  
Thence nimbly take their Everlasting flight.  
Till the World Ends, thus shall their Motions show,  
Than shall Time's River Start, and backwards flow,  
And all it's Whirling Years sink in the gulf below.  
Now to his steeds the Glorious Phoebus came,  
Which from their Mouths, and Nostrils vomit Flame.  
Swiftly, by them, his shining Chariot's 〈◊〉  
Whose Harness, Jewels, and rich Gems adorn.  
On Crystal spokes the Silver Fillies rolled,  
And the large Beam was made of massy Gold.  
The fiery Steeds of their rich Burden proud,  
Inflame the AEther, as they Neigh aloud.  
The Obvious Clouds they cut with flying Feet,  
And with their thundering Hoofs the Barriers beaten.  
Now swiftly Traverse all the roaded Sky,  
And Chase the Night, o'er every path they fly.  
Fiercely they now through unknown Regions run,  
And the sad Earth, with tremble, views the Sun.  
Whilst light'ning's hurled from Jove's Imperial throne,  
Who grasps his Flaming Bolts, and Thunders down.  
Now the whole heavens, in Man's destruction join,  
And all the Clouds, like dreadful Comets, shine.  
From their scorched Wombs, they pour out all their Rain,  
Which Showers in Fire, down on despairing Men.  
Trees feed the Flame which to their ruin turns,  
And Corn, by that, which first produced it, burns.  
Loud AEtna roars, with more than usual Fires,  
And high Parnassus bears two Flaming Spires.  
Large Fields of Sand no swelling Seas enfold,  
Yet Tagus now flows with dissolving Gold.  
The Alpss appear not longer Clothed in Snow,  
And Mountains tops in Cinders mourn below.    

To the Lord Sy—ney, Created Lieutenant of Ireland, about the time his Majesty went to Flanders.  

AS when the Sun hastes to renew his Toils,  
And sets in glories, to return in Smiles.  
He lies in Seas, and rises thence more fair,  
As if he got new Fires, new brightness there.  
So, the great Nassaw, when through Waves he goes,  
Renews his Terrors on his trembling Foes.  
With Joy he Fights, of every Laurel sure,  
While, what he Conquers, you alone secure.  
Sacred to him the Gods that Tree shall own,  
It shall dread Nassaw, not Apollo Crown,  
And he shall, e'er his mighty course is run,  
Ride round the Globe,— Triumphant, like the Sun.  
Janus, his Gates, not more shall open stand,  
Their Keys lie safe, in your securer hand.  
Hibernia free from tumults, and from fears;  
No danger there but Luxury appears.  
Soon William's Arms shall round the Earth be hurled,  
And You deputed o'er the Conquered World.  
Whilst all Fame's thousand Trumpets Sound afar.  
You, Prince of Peace, and Nassaw, God of War.    

To a Lady Lamenting her Lover, who was Drowned.  

NOR Pen, nor Pencil, can describe thy Woe,  
Scarce thy Dear Eyes can their own sorrows show.  
Such Floods of Tears from their fair Springs run over,  
In such vast streams you pour your Liquid store,  
As might have drowned the Swain, had he escaped before.  
Those Gales of sighs, which thus your Bosom filled,  
'Cause vaster blasts, than what your Lover killed.  
Yet sure those showers, which o'er your Cheeks we sinned,  
Might be of force to have suppressed the Wind.  
Those Sunny smiles which late adorned your form,  
Are now Eclipsed, and you are all a storm.  
Sad, gloomy Clouds spread o'er your Lovely Eyes,  
So fell the Youth, by Just such angry Skies.  
Thus, while those Tempests in your looks appear,  
A harder fate, than what he felt, we bear,  
And with worse Deaths, you wreck beholders here.  
Since once the Seas o'er all the Lands did flow,  
And the Waves rolled, wherever Winds could blow,  
Blaming Jove's Promise, your complains are found,  
For, in his loss, you think the World is drowned.  
This may consistent with your Notions be,  
For the Loved Youth was all the World to thee.  
But while your Eyes spread all your Face with rain,  
Not Earth, but Heaven endures the Deluge than.  
For you, the Youth bore such a generous Fire,  
As naught but Oceans could have made expire.  
His height of Passion, like Leander's, flew,  
And he would cross a Hellespont for you.  
Instead of Lamps to guide him in the Night,  
With your fair Eyes you should have shown him light,  
So had he safely through the Billows road,  
To his Dear Hero's more secure abode.  
As in the Floods he drew his Liquid Death,  
Thy name he uttered with his latest Breath.  
Love's Mother first is said from Seas to rise,  
And now the Son of Love in the rough Ocean's lies.  
How, ah! how wretched did the Lover prove,  
Thou he was blest with kind returns of Love!  
Since he is drowned, you scorn our fond desires,  
His Waters so have quenched all other's Fires.  
Hibernia's Seas may now insult their Coast,  
Their swelling. Billows may their Trophies boast,  
By them, was your 〈◊〉 〈◊〉—  
By them, to me, was my Amasia lost.  
Thus, only thus, Loved Youth, thy fall could come, thy Doom.  
Naught but rude Winds would have Proclaimed rear!  
Alas! what pity can rough Oceans bear,  
Which dash those Creatures which themselves did  
What tender softness can vast rocks receive!  
The Flames of Love will not in Surges live.  
The sweet Endowments of thy generous Mind,  
Boundless, and flowing as the Floods we found,  
Free as the Air thy Wit, and Fleeting as the Wind.  
In all the ills you suffered, all the while,  
Your Soul was Calm, and you appeared to smile.  
No Tempest shook your Courage, pleased within,  
Your Conscience raised no rolling Waves of Sin,  
Your Death was gentle, as your Life had been.  
In that loud storm to have so hushed a Mind,  
Showed Power almost as great—  
As it has been, to have appeased the Wind.  
Thy Virtues mounted to so vast a score,  
As all the Waves could hardly number over.  
For thy vast loss the Seas outrageous grow,  
They chafe with Foam, while the blasts fiercly blow,  
And swelled with griefs, in wondrous weeping flow.  
Even in the Calmest Seasons of the Year,  
The Billows heave their Breasts, and panting they appear.  
But you, fair Nymph, Lament in such a strain,  
As might have Power to make him live again.  
You, Orpheus like, for, sure you Charm as well,  
Might raise the Youth, from his low, watery Hell.  
So much you Mourn him, he is envied more,  
Now in his Death, than in his Life before.  
Your Passion for him, our despair did move,  
But ah! your Sorrow melts us into Love.  
Who would not hast to visit shades below,  
Can he but hope you would Lament him so?  
Those Tears you shed, you think are all his due,  
To him you gave the Eyes, which shed them too.  
All my desires but from your Sorrows came,  
Strange! that those Waters should produce a Flame!  
Thus prove those Floods, which issue at your Eyes,  
That Love at first did from the Surges rise.    

On a Bee enclosed in Amber.  

SEE this strange Wretch, struck, by this Amber, Dead,  
He seems as if in his own Honey laid.  
As o'er the Banks of Erydane he flew,  
And with its Mourning Poplars sorrowed too.  
A fatal drop, loaded with Death, they sent;  
So fell the Youth, for whom those Trees Lament.  
Thus, since his fall, his Sister's Act it over,  
With fiercer Light'ning than he felt before.  
But he, alone, was beaten by Thunder down,  
This seems at once the Chariot, and the Sun.  
Lost by Feigned grief the wondrous Bee appears,  
Such weight, such hardness is not found in Tears.  
Soon shall this Bead (a grateful gift) be hung,  
On some fair Neck, which once its Venom stung.    

On a China Cup filled with Water, round the sides of which were painted Trees, and at the bottom, a Naked Woman Weeping.  

HOw fair does sorrow in her Courts appear!  
What tempting Charms does sad Affliction wear!  
See, her weak hands support her fainting Head,  
See her fair Eyes, what Silver streams they shed!  
She Baths in Oceans which her Tears have made.  
And in this comely Posture seems to be  
A Venus rising from a Crystal Sea.  
See, how, in vain the Beauteous Image strives,  
Like Naked Eve, to hid herself with Leaves.  
Feign would she move, to what, in show she sees.  
But these alas! are all forbidden Trees.  
The Artist's self could not this Picture view,  
Unmoved with a worse Passion, than he drew.  
Unhappy he, a New Narcissus proves,  
And the fair shadow, which he made, he Loves.  
Here, that fond Youth indeed might Justly err,  
Nor had his Flames been for himself, but her.  
Whilst in her Nile she would her Slaves surveyed,  
And like the Crocodile, Lament her prey.    

The Description of a Tempest, and a Fight at Sea.  

NOW, deep in Night, the rolling Surges rise,  
And swelling Seas presage Tempestuous Skies.  
With angry Foam the raving Billows roar,  
And, white with Chase, make their fury more.  
Through the thick air each Wave his Waters hurls,  
And in thick Clouds Wrap their fierce, foaming curls.  
The tossing Seas now proudly mount on high,  
And Tower still up, as if to scale the Sky.  
Whilst the rough Winds increase the boisterous War,  
And drive on Troops of Billows from afar.  
Now raging lesle, two Rival Vessels meet,  
And each, behind them, left a shattered Fleet.  
From Mount'nous heights they were with horror thrown,  
Into a Hell of Waters tumbled down.  
Now both at once, in all their danger struck,  
And each believed that he had forced a Rock.  
Tossed by the storm, they both are Mounted up,  
And view each other from the Billows top.  
Enraged, they now are for the War prepared,  
Their Foe both scorn, nor is the Tempest feared.  
Bold Sons of Mortals, who no Laws obey!  
Their rage grows fiercer than the Winds, or Sea.  
Now both the Fleets are met, and louder roar  
Than the mad Floods, and all the storm before.  
The Voice of War through all the Ships had made,  
A mighty Tempest, tho' the Winds were laid.  
From their rude sides so fierce a Flame was thrown,  
None dreaded now, or could expect to drown.  
Each is desirous here his Life to loose,  
And Deaths, far worse, than what they shunned they choose.  
A desperate Courage from their danger grows,  
They fall content among their slaughtered Foes.  
Just so, one Wave does o'er the former Tower,  
And on its Head with all his Forces pour.  
Each spends itself to dash the other down,  
And with his ruins, he involves his own.  
Now, in vast sheets the curling lightning flies,  
As if the Guns had set on Fire the Skies.  
Dread Jove storms high, and thunders loudly down,  
He fears the Victors should invade his throne.  
The Sons of Earth dared once attempt his Sky,  
And these Sea-Gyants sure, are vast as they.  
With all their spreading Wings they fly afar,  
And every Word they utter, threatens War.  
Thick Clouds of smoke from their loud Guns arise,  
And in large, gloomy rolls, mount, and obscure the Skies.  
So roar the Cannons on the Noisy Main,  
The Thunder does but Echo them again.  
Here, the proud Seas so vastly large appear,  
A Squadron Fires, and dreads a Navy there.  
〈◊〉 by Waves, each fears his party gone,  
And thinks he Fights with the whole Fleet alone.  
Now, in Confusion they would leave the fray,  
Through watery Walls, they fly, and Blow the Sea,  
For he's the conqueror, who can hast away.    

To a Lady, who presented me an Orange.  

HOW does the Gift with the fair giver suit!  
The fairest hand presents the fairest Fruit;  
Had this been thrown, when Atalanta turned,  
The rolling Gold had by the Maid been spurned.  
In vain, Acontius his device had tried,  
Had this fair Fruit rolled by Cydippe's side;  
By any Youth this Charming Bribe displayed,  
Without her Vow, he might have claimed the Maid.  
With yours, no tempting, Rival Charm be named;  
Mankind was never by an Apple Damned.  
Whilst you, our fairest Tree of Knowledge, stand,  
I taste the Fruit of your inviting hand;  
And while your Branching Fingers stretched I see,  
I long to Circle round the Charming Tree.  
Deluding Maid! tho' at so near a view,  
Like Eden's Plant, thou art forbidden too.  
The ravished Youth, whom thou shalt Love, may boast  
As true a Paradise, as once was lost.    

To a Lady, presenting her a Box of Patches.  

GO, envied present, and those Charms improve,  
Those kill Charms, which I am doomed to Love.  
Ill thus I lavish Sacred Beauty's store,  
To Arm the foe, that vanquished me before;  
Why should I wing those Shafts, by which I bleed?  
And paint the Poison, when 'tis Death to feed?  
Thou thy least patch shall brighter glories hid,  
Than shine in any other Face descried;  
Such are thy wondrous Charms, Victorious Maid!  
The more I hid them, they are more displayed.  
So, the Sun's rays, shine, when allayed with Clouds;  
That shows them fairer, which their glory shrowds.  
Thus, dying Stars Deck gay the Spangled Morn,  
And with mild Light, the infant dawn adorn.  
To Diamonds, thus, their foil does Lustre give,  
And thus, the shade makes the fair Picture live.  
While thy dear Face these Clustered Patches wears,  
Thy Charming Face Loves Galaxy appears.  
Soft does that Skin, without those Patches, show,  
Soft, as the softest Silk, which makes them so.  
Thus decked, tho' Charms, almost Divine, you boast,  
Yet wert thou naked, thou wouldst ravish most.  
Art thus, with Nature is conspiring found;  
You wear the Patch, but 'tis I feel the Wound.    

To the same Lady, having found a Silver 〈◊〉, the first thing she touched, among the Patches, I presented her.  

'TIS Silver; hold, fair, Charming 〈◊〉, hold,  
If you, like Midas, touch again, 'tis Gold.  
Your hand's, strange Power to your bright Eyes impart,  
Let, through my Breast, your shooting glances dart,  
When 'tis made Gold, you will accept my Heart.    

To Amasia, offering me a branch of Gilded Laurel.  

SEE there the Lovely, Loved Amasia stand,  
The Charming branch held in the Charming hand.  
My Temples must not be with Laurels Crowned,  
Throw down the bough, and let thy Arms surround.    

To a very Charming Lady, with an unpleasing Name.  

SUre, you have more than Female force to Charm,  
Who, at first sight, can prejudice disarm.  
By different Passions swayed, my senses move,  
My Ears detest you, but my Eyes must Love.  
Deaf be those Ears, which dare such Rebels grow,  
Deaf, to the Sounds of Love, and Music too.  
How can thy name raise an ungrateful Sound!  
Can melting Harmony, like discord, Wound!  
Thy Name is tuneful, as thyself is fair;  
My Sense is faulty, yes, the Crime lies there.  
Unseen, thy Name displeased, but now, 'tis feared,  
'twas not unseen alone, but 'twas unheard.  
While from your Charming Lips the Accents break,  
The Name delights, 'tis Music, when you speak.  
While you repeat the Lovely Letters over,  
I Swear I never heard the Name before.  
Each melting Breath runs Thrilling through my Heart,  
You make each pointed Syllable a Dart.  
With Charms profuse, how are your Beauties Crowned!  
When, by your Power, deformity can Wound!  
Forgive me, fair, I have Love's Rebel been,  
But now 〈◊〉 yield; you vanquish all, when seen.  
I own, I own since I beheld thy Frame,  
At most, Deformity is but a Name.    

To a Lady, whose Maid, having given her a Manuscript, I sent her, and being asked from whom, she received it, replied— from the Conjurer himself, she thought.  

WHilst your Sage Maid does on my Papers look,  
And sees Chains, Flames and Altars in my Book,  
lightning and Thunder scattered up and down,  
And Heaven and Hell, drawn in each smile and frown,  
No wonder, every hint she should improve;  
There is a certain Magic dwells in Love.  
But while my Thoughts flow from a wounded Heart,  
Mine's Magic Nature, 'tis not Magic Art.  
All that my skill, my little skill can boast,  
Is, not to sinned my Heart, but know it lost.  
Like weak Magicians, who their spirits can raise,  
But have not Power their fury to appease,  
I, with unwarranted presumption play,  
And raise fierce Love, which I can never lay.  
But if thou tak'st me to thy Circling Arms,  
I'll brave the Fiend, and fear no Counter Charms.    

To a Lady, saying she knew I Loved her.  

IT may be so! I fear, it must be so;  
You, who receive the Heart, must surely know.  
We think not, often, when some toy we drop,  
But they must needs perceive, who take it up.  
Mine does so like a very trifle show,  
It is not worth your pains, to stoop so low.  
But if to lift the worthless toy you Deign,  
O never hurl it from your Arms again.    

To a Lady, who, (while endeavouring to tie up some Linen, with a Ribbond, a little of the shortest.) being asked how she would manage, if she Loved a Gentleman without a Fortune, replied, I'll show you— (and so, drawing harder, made the ends meet.)  

'TIS done; and you with just Applause are Crowned;  
For how can Lovers be too closely bound!  
Blessed be the Hand, which the firm Knot has tied;  
O thou, who art the Priestess, grow the Bride.  
Let Hymen empty from our Nuptials fly,  
Our Circling Arms shall make the Marriage tie.  
Why shouldst thou Wed? Thy Charms can never cloy.  
Thou wilt for ever be a Bride in Joy.    

To a Lady, Singing frequently these Words,— Youth and Beauty.  

FRom your Sweet Tongue, in vain those Accents Spring,  
For, all your Features Youth and Beauty Sing.  
Your Eyes, your Smiles, and your expressive Mien,  
All Sing those Words, and you are Music, seen.  
Enough you charmed us, through our Eyes before,  
You need not pierce our Ears, to Wound us more.  
Struck through one Sense, more fast your Lovers fall,  
Than others Captives, when Attacked through all.  
'Tis not enough you can soft Passion move;  
We must grow ravished, and in transport Love.  
Were Passion free, thou wouldst fix every choice,  
At once Seraphic, in thy Face and Voice.  
Hold, Tyr'nous Charmer! tho' no Beam declines,  
Yet, the Sun need not burn, to prove it shines,  
Hark my Heart beats, and Dances to thy Airs,  
Thy Breath is tuneful, as the tuneful Spheres.  
Sing than, the Charms of Beauty and of Youth,  
But add these three, Love, Constancy, and Truth.    

To a Lady, who, with a Charming Air of Negligence, frequently, when spoken to replied— Yes, Sir,  

COnsent, Love's darling blessing, dwells in this,  
In this one soft, transporting Accent, Yes.  
Still that dear Sound, from those dear Lips should flow,  
O may they never, never Answer, Not,  
If of your late, kind Accents you repent,  
When Love's the Theme, be silent; that's Consent.    

To Amasia, having dreamt of me.  

THE God of Sleep, who flies the Lover's Breast,  
Yet Acts the Friend, and gives Amasia rest.  
Your Guardian Angel slumb'rous dreams inspires,  
And Whispers soft rewards, for soft desires.  
Whilst in a dream your Bosom I possess,  
You but the Image of a Lover bless;  
How can Love live upon a Painted Feast?  
Love, which is blind, can have no Eyes to taste.  
O feed my Senses with thy real Face,  
Let my Eyes gaze, and let my Arms Embrace;  
Thus let your Swain, your ravished Silvius, feed,  
Not other Nourishment pure Flames can need.  
With their fair Beams let thy bright Glances move,  
Amasia, Waken from this dream of Love.  
To truer Joys your ravished Lover take,  
Waken Amasia, or let Silvius wake.  
If only sleep my fancied bliss can frame,  
Pleasure is all but an imperfect dream.  
By Day, let Loved Amasia yield delight,  
Or let Night last, may it be ever Night.  
Love seeks the Shades, but seeks them often by Day,  
Stay, my Amasia, let the Shadow stay;  
It flies, alas! as the Sun shines, away.  
You thus, unknown the fleeting bliss destroy,  
Nor grant me, even the Shadow of a Joy.  
This is the Pleasure that the damned may boast,  
To hear of Blessings, but to know them lost,  
Love is itself a Shadow, which will flee  
From every Lover, but unhappy me;  
What than are dreams?—  
They must but Shadows of a Shadow be.  
In vain, in vain, for ever I pursue,  
You fly me fleeting, as yours dreams do you.    

To Amasia, on the Accidental falling of her lose Garments, which discovered to my view her Breasts.  

'TIS hard indeed, (so many Charms you boast,)  
Justly to tell, which takes your Silvius most;  
This does alone within my Judgement fall,  
All, who have Eyes to see, admire them all.  
Piercing, yet soft, your kill looks appear,  
And all, bright dazzling rays of Lustre bear;  
Your Heavenly Voice has Charming Powers to move,  
And your Airs Fan, and spreads the Fires of Love.  
But when your Breasts the falling Garments 〈◊〉,  
How blest a Scene of Beauties did I view!  
AEtna, I thought till now, had raged alone,  
I knew no Rivals to that burning Throne;  
Your Breasts, as well may Admiration claim,  
For they are Snowy Mounts ejecting Flame.  
What falls from Heaven that Fiery Hill secures,  
Nor is its Frost near so Divine as yours.  
Columbus ne'er did such fair Worlds descry,  
His Travels could not make him blest as I,  
Your Garments showed me Heaven, they were the Cloudy Sky.  
On your soft Globes Young smiling Cupid's play,  
And tender Loves your Beauteous Islands sway.  
Venus in State does on these Thrones appear,  
She keeps her Paphos, and Cythera here.  
Your Golden Locks, spread all around, would show  
A pleasing soil, where Milk, and Honey flow.  
Whose tides of Joys, reserved for Babes must be,  
It will ne'er prove a promised Land to me.  
This shows that Infants are more blest than Men;  
I for those Breasts would be a Child again.    

To the Admired Mrs. Cr— fts.  

LET other Poets other Subjects choose,  
And Sing some Name proportioned to their Muse.  
But be you mine, be you my Charming Theme,  
Proclaiming yours, I gain myself a Fame.  
Beauty, and Wit are by each other fired,  
Each raising that, which makes itself admired,  
Thus shall you spread through me, me, whom your Charms inspired.  
To such vast heights your Towering Fame has flown,  
It can't grow more, than 'tis already grown.  
Such are your Merits, they transcend our Praise,  
But that's a Fog still drawn by Beauty's rays.  
Not shining Offering, worthy you, can rise,  
For Mortals incense but obscures the Skies.  
Wherever you pass, while Youths around you Crowd,  
Your Eyes Flash lightnings through the yielding Cloud.  
The Swains, enamoured with your Glances, press,  
And, urging theirs, deny the rest access,  
Your Charms might more be known, if noted lesle.  
We, when grown fond to view your Beauties, run,  
But sinned the nearer Clouds hid from our sight the Sun.  
Thus, since your Eyes first blessed Hibernia's shore,  
Your Triumphs hinder you to Conquer more.  
So, while the vanquished scorn a mean retreat,  
You might be greater, were you not so great.  
To you, fair Goddess, Victims daily fall,  
All would adore you, were you known to all.  
The Beauteous Warren, long unrivalled, Charmed,  
No Mortal Breast against her Darts was Armed.  
She still Triumphant, through her Conquests, road,  
For she has Charms which might overcome a God.  
But you, to share her Empire, hither came,  
To share an Empire settled long by Fame.  
To you this right, as you deserve it, fallen,  
So much her equal, you almost excel.  
Such are your outward Beauties, all must own,  
All those to whom your Wit, and humour's known,  
That Face was made but for that Soul alone.  
Of what can Paphos, or Cythera boast,  
Alas! the fame of those Loved Isles is lost,  
Venus is now adored on 〈◊〉 Hibernia's Coast.  
Hear than, thou Beauteous, Celebrated fair,  
Exert your Pity, and receive this Prayer,  
Whatever Youths shall be subdued by thee,  
(And all must be so, who have Eyes to see)  
Command them live at lest, and mildly prove,  
(Thou in your Empire uncontrolled you move,)  
The Queen of Mercy, as the Queen of Love.    

To a Lady having lost three Kisses on a Wager with me, and refusing to pay them.  

WHY, Charming Maid, should you delude me so?  
Can those dear Lips deny the Debt they own?  
Those happy Lips, dissolved in Balmy bliss,  
Envied by me, since they each other Kiss.  
How do I long for the Divine delight,  
When they refuse, what they at once invite!  
He who with you will such a Wager lay,  
Must hold the stakes, or you will never pay.  
A Kiss would me to hopes of Blessings move,  
For 'tis the Prologue to the Play of Love.  
Tell me, my fair, what are 〈◊〉 Joys I want?  
What is that bliss, which you refuse to grant?  
A Kiss you say— and prithee what is this?  
Why, all you Answer, is, that 'tis a Kiss.  
A pretty saying, by thy Lips it is.  
Well, it's Existence Just in nothing lies,  
It lives unborn, for when 'tis got, it dies;  
The sickly Offspring of a fond desire,  
And what begets it, makes it straight expire;  
While 'tis enjoyed with a more warm embrace,  
Your ruddy Lips dissolve its sweets apace,  
While Thousands more spread o'er your Beauteous Face.  
So Snow on AEtna still is melting found,  
Yet still it lies upon the wondrous ground.  
O let me Kiss, and rifle all thy store,  
O let me Sow, and reap ten thousand more,  
I'll Kiss thee through, I'll Kiss thy Soul all over.    

Reflections on the Picture of Cupid, Imitated from Propertius.  

Whoever he was, he does my fancy move,  
Who painted first the little God of Love.  
Plainly he saw the senseless Lover's snare,  
What solid good they loose, for empty care;  
Thence did he Justly windy Wings impart,  
And made the God fly with a human Heart.  
By Fortune's waves he knew us wildly tossed,  
While, by each dash, we may be wrecked, and lost.  
Justly he knew what the old Poets sung,  
That from the Seas Love's Beauteous Mother sprung.  
E'er since which time, unhappy Lovers see,  
Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free.  
It Ebbs and Flows, unfixt, not long the same,  
A rolling Ocean of tumultuous Flame.  
He feigned him blind, with true design, to show  
That every Lover, while he Loves, is so.  
Justly indeed his Darts were bearded found,  
For, what they hurt, can never be made sound;  
And ' ere we see him, he is sure to wound.  
My Breast his Arrows, and his Image boast,  
But sure his Wings, with which he flies, are lost.  
My Heart's his Throne, yet Rebel Passions Jar,  
Which Fire my Veins, and through my Blood make War.  
Why Cruel Love, should you the Tyrant Play?  
By what pretence can you demand your sway?  
But you have Power, and I must still obey.  
When I am gone, who shall your praises sing?  
And my Light Muse can weighty glories bring.    

To Amasia.  

(1.)  
BY their own light my Fires have long been seen,  
And even my silence told what my fond pains  
By Birth, and Beauty placed so high above, (have been.  
All Mankind pays you Universal Love.   

(2.)  
Your Beams, like Phoebus, o'er the World appear,  
Nor need you wonder I perceive them here.  
Soon may I prove a Conquest from your Eyes,  
It is the Sun gives life to infects, and to flies,   

(3.)  
High as you are, I may at lest admire,  
Mine, like all Flames, by Nature will aspire.  
Thou you are great, I am not basely low,  
He can have no mean Soul, that is in Love with you.   

(4.)  
As the rash Youth who dared attempt the Sun,  
Was soon destroyed, and hurled by Thunder down.  
By Fires as wild so did I madly burn,  
As fiercely struck with my Amasia's scorn.   

(5.)  
This Beauteous Danae's Fortress could not hold,  
Can I but melt into a shower of Gold.  
Here, to have gained at all, were greater far,  
Than a full Conquest, in a meaner War.   

(6.)  
You, like a God, can Act however you please,  
And may even me, to be your equal, raise.  
You vastly so, would prove your Power the more,  
In Crowning him, who was your Slave before.   

(7.)  
To you Just Heaven large Fortunes did bestow,  
Love is the only blessing wanting now.  
If than my Passion must be ne'er approved,  
O may you never know what 'tis to be beloved!   

(8.)  
The whole Ambition that my Thoughts have known,  
Is to be yours, Amasia, yours alone;  
Blest with your Love, I should slight Empires more  
Than by your scorn I was despised before.   

(9)  
But you, with Roman Pride, your Captives use,  
When we have yielded, you a Peace refufe.  
You drag me chained, and all my Love Proclaim,  
Thus you, Amasia, give me Smoke for Flame.   

(10.)  
But now, my fair, Eternally adieu,  
Farewell, farewel to all my Love, and you.  
Tired with the race, not more I fiercely Burn,  
My dear young Daphne now shall to a Laurel turn.   

(11.)  
In vain alas! like Children, I pursued,  
And chased, from Hill to Hill, a guilded Cloud.  
Whilst Ixion like, fond I, supposed it fair,  
And thought indeed to found a Goddess there.   

(12.)  
When through all dangers I had wildly gone,  
Led by Love's wandering blazes madly on.  
O had I grasped it in my eager Arms,  
It would have burst in Showers, in Thunder, and in Storms.    
The End of the Second Book.   

AMASIA, OR, THE Works of the Muses. Containing LETTERS of LOVE.  
Vol. II. Book III.  
Et mea, Nescio quid, Carmina dulce sonant.  

TO THE Right Honourable EVELYN EARL of Kingston, THESE POEMS Are Humbly Dedicated By his Lordship's Most obedient and most Humble Servant.  
J. Hopkins.   

LETTERS of LOVE.  
Written to Amasia.  

AS Men untried stand shivering on the shore,  
And wish, impatient, the first plunge were over;  
Till at the last—  
Buoy up with fancied hopes they shall not sink,  
Headlong they leap, and leaping Spurn the brink.  
So, doubting long, the ruin'd Silvius stood,  
So plunged—  
But voided of hope, down Love's impetuous Flood,  
Others by Waters may, unskilled, expire;  
Moore fierce my wreck; I'm lost in Seas of Fire.  
With me, as with some wretch pursued, it fares,  
Oceans before, behind him Swords and Spears.  
Bold does he plunge, or tamely yielding dies;  
Easy his fate, or if he stands or flies,  
But o! what Sword—  
What Spear can pierce like bright Amasia's Eyes?  
You know my fate, you know, and make it too,  
All I can be, depends alone on you,  
You know I Love you, too, too well I do.  
Love with the humblest Passion, yet so high,  
That but your scorn can with that Passion vie;  
Unhappy Passion! thrice unhappy I!  
Ill has the Partial hand of chance assigned  
Fortunes too slender, but too large a Mind.  
By this the greatness of my Soul I prove,  
I Love with more than with a Mortal Love.  
Yet you, the fair, imperious Charmer, you,  
Will not believe those Vows I offer true.  
Too mean the Captive, and Obscure the Prize;  
Under unhappy Stars that Lover lies,  
Where Beauty Conquers, and where Pride denies.  
In vain the proof of my pretence you eat;  
You needs must see what your own Eyes have done.  
But to convince you of the pangs I bear,  
O do not see alone, but see, and hear.  
Hear, tho' you never make the lest return,  
Hear me declare how I shall ever burn.    

To Amasia.  

IN vain in slighted Numbers I complain,  
In vain I writ, when I have spoke in vain.  
Nor Tongue, nor Pen can you, Obdurate, move,  
At once disdaining either Wit or Love.  
In what a maze of griefs am I perplexed!  
Love, the first Crime, and writing was the next.  
Both Crimes, yet both yield Anguish and Delight,  
For while I live—  
I'm doomed to Love, and while I Love, to Writ.  
Thou sense like yours permits no soft return,  
Be mild at lest, ah! do not, do not scorn.  
Believe I Love you, be assured I do,  
Assured— I Love, and could adore you too;  
Why should I urge what seems a Crime to you?  
Yet I'll confess, tho' so confessing die,  
'Tis I who Love you most, 'tis only I  
Of this, my Crime, as of desert I boast,  
Yes, I am Ravished here—  
To think, to know, and vow I Love you most.  
Love is reported blind, tho' blind he be,  
I see I Love—  
And thou the object, all must own I see,  
Spite of your haughty scorn, you see it too,  
Thou you disdain to look at me, you do.  
At once your Pride and Reason you display;  
Why should you cast the smallest Glance away?  
Others with darts from shooting Eyes are struck,  
Me you confounded, and Kill without a look.  
Would I could Learn, O teach this Charming Skill,  
Teach me to save myself, tho' not to kill.  
It cannot be, here the Obstruction lies,  
Unhappy, Eyes I have—  
And I must look, as long as I have Eyes.  
'Twas they first drew the fatal Poison in,  
Would they— or I myself had never been,  
But fate is past, I am, and they have seen.  
Seen?— Were that all, your Slave had still been free.  
But still the Soul Admires, whenever they see.  
O my Amasia! no, o! no, ye Powers!  
She is not mine—  
Nor wilt thou be, tho' I am ever yours.  
Would I were yours, but that, ye Powers Divine!  
That cannot be, for thou wouldst than be mine,  
Can it not be?— what can't the Powers above!  
To them my slighted, humble suit I'll move.  
Rather, to thee— thou art the Power of Love.    

To Amasia.  

AS Men on Racks feel Tortures, and complain;  
Severer far than theirs, my Mortal pain:  
So, do I feel, sigh so, like them in vain.  
Like them confessing dying Truths at last,  
And blest that Power which Tortures me so fast.  
Compared with mine—  
Small is the greatest Malefactor's smart;  
Wheels break their Limbs, Love gnaws, and Tears my Heart.  
Stay, let me tell my numerous sufferings over,  
And think— O not;— not let me think not more.  
Ambition vast my Airy Thoughts pursue,  
Confused, of all things, and yet all of you.  
You all my Notions, all my Sense Enthral,  
Confined— confined to you? yet you are all.  
Now, to Amasia's Charms alone I bow,  
Than she disdains—  
My own desire must be my Mistress now.  
Where can my Anxious Soul at last have rest?  
There is no Calm, but in Amasia's Breast.  
Whenever I see 〈◊〉, 〈◊〉, step, or move,  
My Soul's on Fire, and I am all o'er 〈◊〉  
Through every Vein the subtle Poison flies,  
And dancing, leaps at my enlightened Eyes.  
Thick on my Heart dashes my boiling Blood,  
Washed like some Rock by the insulting Flood.  
Yet not unmoved; it trembles at each touch;  
Mine's sure no Rock, your Heart is only such.  
Believe, Amasia, could you know my Love,  
Rock as it is, such Passion needs must move.  
Can you but know to what excess I burn,  
Soon would you pity him, whom now you scorn.  
Whate'er the Female, rigid Pride foretells,  
There must be softness, where such Beauty dwells.  
O think again, think on the ills I bear,  
And do not, do not drive me to despair;  
Must all— must all be cruel, who are fair?  
Beauty, like lightning thus it's Power maintains,  
And lesle in Charming than in Terror Reigns.  
O that true Love should with disdain be paid!  
O that my Passion should your sport be made!  
Late, at your Father's Gates I saw you stand,  
And Knock for Entrance with a gentle hand.  
The conscious Gates (kind to my Prayers) were barred,  
I saw—  
And tho' at distance, fancied that I heard.  
Long time you stood, tho' than I thought not so,  
You entered— where I wretched, must not go.  
Blessings so great your harsh decree denies,  
Yet thou wert followed by thy Lover's Eyes.  
Not they, even they, could full Admittance gain,  
The shutting Gates dashed back my sight—  
My Eyes attempted, like myself, in vain.  
Dull, senseless Eyes, which could that object loose!  
O Servant, harder than the Doors you close.  
Secure, like Danae in your brazen hold,  
Not Jove himself can enter, but in Gold.    

To Amasia.  

AS Men in deserts lost, with wanderings rove,  
Through every trackless thicket, every Grove,  
So am I lost—  
And so bewildered in the maze of Love.  
To Men, and Gods, and Heaven, distressed they cry,  
Nor Men, nor Gods, but Echoing Woods reply,  
And threatening Thunder bursting from the Sky.  
In vain the Hills their sad complaints restore,  
Or worse than vain—  
Redoubling back their Woes, they make them more.  
In vain, forlorn, they strive themselves to eat,  
Their griefs pursue them, wheresoever they run,  
Like me despairing, and like me undone.  
Offering their latest Prayers, to Heaven they sue,  
Kneel to unpitying Powers, as I to you.  
Unknowing where for kind relief to fly,  
Accursed like me, like me resolve to die.  
Cruel Amasia!— not, I wrong thee there,  
For thou art good as Guardian Angels are.  
Gentle in Nature, Affable, and Mild,  
Courteously soft—  
And Sweetly smiling, as a dreaming Child.  
What is my fate? What Crimes must I atone?  
What?— Tell me Heaven! and Earth what have I done?  
What have I done?— ne'er may the guilt remove;  
I own, and boast my Crime, my Crime is Love.  
Young tho' I am, I have a Manly Soul,  
And fullgrown Passions in my Bosom roll.  
Young tho' I am, if you continued cold,  
Believe, Amasia, I shall soon grow old.  
Already have I felt unsettled Fires,  
Already passed all Youthful, vain desires.  
Whether by chance, or by misfortunes hurled,  
Too well I know, and now despise the World.  
From all its lose, Fantastic Charms I flee,  
Contemning all its Beauties— all, but thee.  
Like some Skilled Traveller, overcast with Night,  
Gay, shooting Meteors, and false Stars I slight,  
But rise, and bow to the Sun's awful light.  
Each Meaner Planet might Attract the Eye;  
But Sol in view, all Constellations fly;  
What Beauty's seen, and bright Amasia by?  
You with peculiar force your Glances Arm,  
Nor do they shine alone, but shine and warm:  
Lovely in every thing! in all you Charm.  
Why should I bring your Image to my view?  
O would your Image could be very you.  
But I unblessed, am by all Bars denied,  
Your Guardian Father, and your Guardian Pride.  
Thou Death itself from your disdain I meet,  
I ask but this—  
Let me receive it at Amasia's Feet.    

To Amasia.  

WHat can I think; can nothing, nothing move?  
Is there no way, no 〈◊〉 to gain your Love?  
As Men in Vessels beaten by a Storm,  
By Winds and Waves, and all that fear can form,  
Look often back for the forsaken shore,  
But that long lost, tho' loud the Billows roar,  
Blow up amain the Seas, for passage over.  
So wish I often I had not told my pain,  
Wish what I told could be untold again,  
All I declared, since it was all in vain.  
Than struggling Passions in my Mind revolve,  
Resolved to move thee, but in vain resolve.  
In spite of Winds, in spite of Waves I'll on,  
I can at worst, be, as I am, undone.  
Roar on ye Bolts of Thunder from the Sky,  
And at my Head broad Sheets of lightning fly.  
Burst, ye charged Clouds, hurl fast your Burdens down,  
I rage with scorching Fires ye cannot drown,  
Fall thick, and save me from Amasia's frown.  
Your scorn alone my Breast with trembling moves,  
He cannot, not, he cannot fear, who Loves.  
Once with your presence blest— but once— kind Heaven!  
Thanks for that once, my humblest Thanks are given.  
With beating Heart, and melting Eyes I came,  
Catched, at each step, and every Glance, new Flame,  
Saw all the Charms that fancy racked can frame.  
Slowly with mingled Love and awe approached,  
Stood, and gazed on, but never, never touched.  
Tortured at once with Pleasure, and with pain,  
Smothering my Sighs, for I had sighed in vain.  
Fast to my Face flushed up my Mantling Blood,  
I stood— O would I had for ever stood.  
Changed, as Romantic Lovers were of old,  
I seemed enchanted in some Charming hold,  
The place showed Paradise—  
And you looked formed of an Angelic mould.  
As Men in Pangs and Agonies of Death,  
With Tremulous LipsCatch thick at parting breath;  
So, but with greater pangs your Silvius strove,  
And scarce, ah! scarce could speak those Words— I Love.  
Seated, at distance far, far of, with shame,  
And downcast looks I told you why I came.  
My business known, you put resentment on,  
And seemed to bid me, with your looks, be gone.  
I 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 go, or I had than obeyed,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉, often murmured that I stayed.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 go without one smile away?  
Why did I move at all?—  
Fool that I was, I did not ever stay!  
O that those Minutes were so quickly passed!  
O that those Minutes could not Ages last!  
Our pains remain—  
But ah! our fleeting Pleasures fly too fast.    

To Amasia.  

THink, think, Amasia, on the Wounds you gave,  
Think how your Eyes have made my Soul your Slave.  
O let your Pride before your Beauty fly,  
What will you gain, to see your Silvius die;  
Why am I slighted thus, Amasia, why?  
For Adoration are our Temples made;  
While there are Altars, vows will there be paid.  
At Shrines the suppliant does with Offerings move,  
Heaven claims our Duty, as you claim our Love.  
Not wonder than my Breast so soon was fired,  
For you were only 〈◊〉 to be admired.  
The gazing World shall you the Charmer see,  
Adored by all, but most beloved by me.  
Where, where deserved can you confer your Charms?  
Into what happy Youth's successful Arms?  
Lovely in all, with form, and Face divine,  
With Form and Face Serenely Sweet as thine?  
It cannot be— here all desert is Barred,  
Heaven cant be prized—  
'Tis always given, and given as a reward.  
Impious the Wretch who thinks thy Charms to buy,  
If Mortal Man can purchase thee, 'tis I.  
Nor Transient Gold, nor Titles aught to move,  
Love only Merits you, immortal Love.  
Free from all Servile interest do I sue,  
I should have all the World, in having you.  
Thou my small Fortunes wrecked, and lost I own,  
I Court yourself, but for yourself alone.  
What more can in Ambition's Circle fall?  
Herself? Ye Powers! Thy Charming self is all.  
Let others Blow the sierce, Tempestuous main.  
And visit Lands, far distant hence, for gain.  
Let suppliant Souls for gilded honour bow;  
Thou art my Treasure, all I wish for, thou.  
Thou now at partial Fortune I repined,  
I should indeed be rich, if thou wert Mine.  
O never mine— a thousand Bars deny;  
Your Father— think, O think—  
Your Father Loves you not so well as I.  
When you, by him consenting, shall be led  
To the false Joys of a gay Nuptial Bed,  
May you abhor the Man, but for damned interest Wed.  
Rather, kind Heaven! (if such a thing can be)  
May he be cold, indifferent, dull— yet doted on by thee.  
Than may you say, when this cursed State you prove,  
Thou Silvius wanted Fortunes, he had Love.    

To Amasia.  

WHY did the Day its hateful dawn disclose?  
Why waked your Slave so soon, so soon arose?  
Why did I wake to be your Slave again,  
When in my sleep I did a Conqueror Reign?  
Vain Shadow of a Conquest! all is vain!  
To thy dear Arms, methought, I ravished flew,  
And humbly yielding there, Triumphant grew;  
Delusion all, all false— but very you.  
With soft, submissive force I gained the Field,  
And found the greatest Triumph there to yield.  
To your Command my prostrate Soul I gave,  
And was, when most your Conqueror, most your Slave.  
O that each Thought could the like Vision Frame!  
Sure I waked than, and now, 'tis now I Dream.  
Methought, Amasia made a kind return,  
Methought, soft smiles did all her Face adorn,  
And she seemed Lovely as the blushing Morn.  
Young Love, Methought, dawn'd round your gentler Eyes,  
You all o'er fondness, I all over surprise.  
O let me dare my Blessings to relate,  
O let me tell thee my transported State,  
Extatick Joys beyond the Power of fate.  
Not to the happiest Man unknowing Heaven,  
Can such unbounded Floods of flowing Sweets be given.  
Free from all lose desires did Silvius move,  
Which real Passion, from itself can prove,  
They only feel, who have not Souls to Love.  
Low at your Feet, long did I humbly Kneel,  
And in soft Sighs breathed all the Pangs I feel.  
Why should my Pains, my racking Tortures stay?  
And why my Joys fleet with the Night away!  
To smiling looks, me thought, you changed your frown,  
And from your Eyes cast soft Compassion down.  
Than, happy than! (but Dreams have fancied Charms  
You kindly raised me up—  
Raised me, all bliss to your endearing Arms.  
Forgive, Amasia, what I here declare,  
For Men may Dream of Heaven—  
Even in the deepest Anguish of despair.  
chaste are my Thoughts, chaste is my Sacred Flame,  
Even in deluding sleep, unknowing shame,  
For who can Sin, that does of Angel's dream?  
Close to your Breast the trembling Lover flew,  
Which, when awake, no Mortal dares to do.  
Than,— ye Propitious Powers! ye Thrones Divine!  
Receive, you Cried—  
Receive me, Silvius, I am ever thine.  
Who could, (and Live) those Heavenly Accents hear?  
O 'twas too much, too much for Man to bear.  
Like the famed Roman in his Triumphs pressed,  
I fell—  
And falling sunk into Eternal rest.  
O would it were Eternal— would not more  
I had awaked, to feel my sufferings over,  
Sufferings, from Pleasure's past, far greater than before.  
Seldom, ah! seldom do I found repose,  
Yet when I do, even thence my Anguish grows;  
Yet gentle Slumbers of kind Death—  
With your all binding Seals my Eyes for ever close.    

To Amasia.  

ENough— 'tis done, the fatal Work is done,  
Now, Cruel fair! you may disdain me on.  
Not further ills has he to fear, who feels  
Moore Mortal Pains—  
Than Wretches dashed on Rocks, or broke on Wheels.  
The flourishing Oak shakes, when the tempest blows;  
The naked Tree does its bore Trunk expose,  
Nor bows, nor shakes, tho' the Wind's fury grows.  
Frown, gloomy Heaven! pour fast your Thunders down,  
All that I can, I have already known;  
Frown gloomy Heaven, and fair Amasia, frown.  
Let me the worst extremes of Rigour try,  
Heap on me all at once, I can but die.  
Who, who's that Wretch who can your Vengeance flee?  
Or where's the Man who dares not die for thee?  
Scorning, I laugh at those who boast their fall,  
Slighting all Deaths, and yet afraid of all.  
Why should I Perish; Not, Amasia, not,  
So tho' I fell, I could not gain you so;  
Love is Romantic in the Shades below.  
Death is a Thought should never soothe Despair,  
For I can meet no kind Amasia there;  
Where shall I found thee than, O tell me, where?  
Through Seas, through Fires, o'er Mountains would I go,  
O'er Mountains covered with Eternal Snow:  
Through Savage Wilds, through Dens and Forests rove,  
Through the whole Universe, to gain thy Love.  
Thou I disdain with flattering Vows to Whine,  
Hear me, yond starry roof, hear me, ye Powers Divine!  
There are no dangers under Heaven—  
I would not brave, to have Amasia mine.    

To Amasia.  

WHence, whence your Charms; whence your engaging Powers?  
Why do I wish to be for ever yours?  
Something peculiar in your form is seen,  
And something strangely taking in your Mien.  
Something there is, unknown, allures my Soul,  
Does all my Thoughts, and all my sense control,  
Divine in every part, Angelic in the whole.  
Now, your Seraphic shape I wondering, Praise,  
Than, at each motion, every Gesture gaze,  
But when your Face I view—  
My sense lies Buried in a Thoughtless maze.  
Others, to move, may their whole Beauty's Arm,  
But you with every smallest part can Charm,  
Continued cold yourself, yet all beholders warm.  
Yet this alone ne'er could such Passion move,  
This could not make me, even to madness, Love.  
Cursed be the hour, when I beheld you first,  
Cursed be the Day, through long, long Ages Cursed,  
Cursed be the time, when I presumed to sue,  
And Court, with humblest Love, the proud, imperious you.  
Than, than it was your Sense engaged me more,  
Than all that Beauty had displayed before.  
Strange! that indulgent Heaven all Charms should give;  
Strange! that Minerva should in Venus live!  
But, stranger yet! you Hate, for Love, return;  
'Tis hard to know—  
Whether your sense be greater or your scorn.    

To Amasia.  

AT last believe— as thou art fair, be good,  
Believe I Love; you promised me you would.  
How can I proofs of my Affection show?  
O had I Crowns—  
Empires and Worlds, far let those trifles go,  
All would I slight, all I can think, for you.  
Beyond thy Charms what can Ambition see;  
Thou art an Empire, and a World to me.  
While Eyes can look, and while thy Beauty blooms,  
(And that will be, ' till the Pale Tyrant comes.)  
While I have sense to speak, to live, and move,  
While I despair, (which must be) while I Love.  
While Seas shall roar, while Night and day shall last,  
Till the great doom of all Mankind be past,  
Still shall my Soul to dear Amasia bow;  
And yet she fancies that I Love not now.  
O Charming Maid! believe, at last believe,  
'Tis all your Silvius asks you now to give,  
Believe that I shall Love you, while I live.  
Sure, even from Death my Passion must be free,  
Sure, when my Body dies—  
Yet the surviving part will think on thee.  
What than must come, none, while alive, can prove,  
But here, none truly live, who do not truly Love.  
O you must needs be full convinced I do,  
I have no interest in the World, but you.  
Yourself I Court—  
And for yourself alone, yourself I woo.    

To Amasia.  

COuld you believe my Flame, would that relieve?  
You would but scorn the more, as you the more believe.  
A real Passion but disdain Creates,  
And Pride's a Monster that on Beauty waits.  
Custom has taught all Virgins to be coy,  
And feeds their Vanity, but starves their Joy.  
O'er Sense, o'er Reason, and o'er Love it Rules,  
Custom, the Guardian, and the guide of Fools.  
Custom, which leads us out, and brings us in;  
And yet, 'tis Custom chief makes Men Sin.  
When we do ill, the weak pretence we show,  
The Poor excuse, is, Custom taught us so,  
And all the World must with the Fashion go.  
If than, that Phantom must all Acts approve,  
Know, that 'tis Customary too to Love.  
Common to all as Death;— the Rural Swain  
Sighs for the Nymph that Charmed him on the plain  
And sits, and Sings like me, like me, in vain.  
Forsakes his Flocks, and seeks some cool Retreat,  
Shunning the Sun's, and Love's more scorching heat,  
Supine he lies—  
Gazing on others Herds, and as he Sighs, they bleat.  
The Soldier too, proud in his own Commands,  
Receives the Signal from his Mistress Hands,  
O'er him Triumphant still, wherever she goes,  
At every Glance Alarmed—  
More than with Drums, and Trumpets from his foes.  
From Noisy Nonsense Calm, entranced he lies,  
And Swears not now,— but by his Charmer's Eyes.  
The pleading Lawyers from the Bar remove,  
And slight all suits, but the soft suit of Love.  
An other's case, Loquacious, they make known,  
Impertinently loud;—  
But as their Clients, silent, in their own.  
Love, by strange Power, maintains his Conquering Sway,  
And we must, in our own despite, obey,  
Speaking the lest, who have the most to say.  
Amasia, thus I prove my claim to you,  
All Mankind Love—  
But none of all, as I, unhappy, do.  
There I transcend the Custom, bold, extravagantly new.  
In other things—  
Let all your Sex to their old Law refer,  
Amasia is beloved, Love should be Law to her.  
Let others boast their Titles, or their Arts,  
But only Hearts should have a right to Hearts.  
And yet, I own you are not blindly led,  
For Reason bids you eat the humble Bed;  
Reason?— who ever Loved, that did with Reason Wed!    

To Amasia.  

THO' Sense prevailing Checks a kind return,  
Thou Sense, cold sense, permits you not to burn,  
Yet Sense can never bid Amasia scorn.  
By Fate's decree, Love rages in the Blood;  
A Passion cannot be by force withstood,  
For I would hate Amasia, if I could.  
Can I at once mention thy Name, and hate?  
Love Chokes that Word, for Love to me is fate.  
Resentment now does with soft Fondness Jar,  
Reason and Love wage an Eternal War,  
Love Fights— Love Conquers still—  
And my own Heart is his Triumphant Car.  
In vain I call my Senses to my aid,  
In vain Rebel, he will be still obeyed,  
For I am soon by every Sense betrayed.  
Now, I resolve thy Beauties to despise,  
And look— but look alas! with longing Eyes.  
Each pointed Glance, with haughty Courage Armed,  
Loses its Edge, and at thy sight grows Charmed.  
In all I yield, and straight, ye Powers Divine!  
My Heart, and Soul, as well as Eyes, are thine.  
Whenever I touch thee, I transported grow,  
whenever I touch, which but in Thought I do,  
Moore soft thou seem'st—  
Than downy Swans, or than the Fleecy Snow.  
Thy Fragrant Breath—  
Moore smelling Sweet than richest Perfumes blows,  
Than Scents of Violets, or the blooming Rose.  
To catch new Sweets, often flying Zephirs stay,  
Around thy Lips, and with thy Tresses play,  
Than pleased, with Whistlings fly—  
And on their Wings bear the dear spoils away.  
In thee all Odours keep their Loved abode,  
One sigh of yours would Charm, or make, a God.  
From place to place, tasteless of Food, I rove,  
Loathing all else— my only food is Love.  
Music, be dumb— what Music can I hear?  
Amasia's Voice can only Charm my Ear,  
All's discord else— there's only Music there.  
Thy Airs, at once, Fannio, while they raise the Fire,  
Thy Words beyond all others Songs inspire,  
Charming the Poet more than his Apollo's lyre.  
Seraphic strains from every Accent spring,  
Sing not Amasia— not—  
For I should grow Immortal, should you sing.  
Whenever you speak, fond of the Charming sound,  
With the Loved Voice the Hills, and Vales rebound,  
Scarce, scarce at last by repetition drowned.  
O had the Vocal Nymph such strains restored,  
Had Echoes Voice been such, Narcissus had adored.  
Ravished like me, he had Condemned his choice,  
And had not Burned—  
For the Reflection of a Face, but Voice.    

To Amasia.  

WHY am I charged to lay aside my claim?  
Why am I charged to stifle sacred Flame?  
Let the dull Hind Blow up the Patiented soil,  
And duller Warriors in their Trenches toil.  
To gainful Trades their Sons let Fathers bind,  
And let the Sailor, go, pursue the Wind!  
In their own Spheres let every Mortal move,  
And let, (Amasia) let your Silvius Love.  
Bid the bright Sun be now not longer bright,  
Bid the succeeding Stars withdraw their light.  
O would thou couldst, than might my sufferings end,  
There's not one Star in Heaven that shines my Friend.  
Bid rolling Billows, cease to lash the shore,  
Bid the insulting Tempest cease to roar,  
Than bid me cease to Love, and to adore.  
O Charming Maid! Bid thy own Beauties fade,  
Till than, Mankind must Love thee, Charming Maid!  
Why wert thou formed of that Celestial Mould?  
Gold's base to thee— O be not bought with Gold;  
Beauty should only be for Passion sold.  
Freely on me confer the Heavenly store,  
Freely— as Nature gave it thee before,  
And Heaven, by which 'twas formed—  
Will, pleased, (if possible) yet make it more.  
Where should the Lovely fair her Charms confer?  
Where? but to that fond Youth—  
Who Burns, and Bleeds, and Sighs, and Dies for her?  
Receive me, O receive me to thy Arms,  
Or if thou still wilt scorn, withdraw thy Charms.  
Let me some ease from Mortal sufferings found,  
O be not too, too Lovely, yet unkind;  
But thou art Deaf to Prayers—  
As raging Seas, or as the Storming Wind.  
Often, when alone, you Dance before my view,  
And every thing I think of, turns to you.  
Flee, Phantom Love,— or where shall Silvius flee?  
Why should I think— she never thinks of me,  
The Cruel, Haughty, Proud, Imperious she.  
O say, Amasia, whom all Charms adorn,  
Canst thou feel no Remorse, and wilt 〈◊〉 ever scorn!  
Gods! 'tis too much to bear— it can't be born.  
It must, alas!— how idly did I rave?  
What Charm can secure me, what Power can save?  
Now I resolve by force thy House to Storm,  
Again I rave—  
But what, ye Gods! can't Men in Love perform?  
Sometimes, on wiles I think, because I know  
Acontius gained his fair Cydippe so;  
Again resolve near your abode to stay;  
And snatch, and carry thee by force away,  
Snatch, like the Bird of Jove, the Lovely prey.  
The thunderer's Ensigns on his Wings he rears,  
Love's light'ning's fiercer than the Flames he bears.  
This ' midst a Thousand other Thoughts, comes on,  
Orythia so was by Young Boreas won.  
Than, as you pass along the Crowded Street,  
I think— your Silvius thinks, his fair to meet,  
And fall a Victim, prostrate at her Feet.  
Soon will a passage to my Heart be found,  
The Sword but ent'ring where Love made the Wound.    

To Amasia.  

O Cruel fair! at length, receive my Prayer,  
At length, return my Passion, Cruel fair!  
Think what it is to Love, and to Despair.  
Whenever I meet Acquaintance in the Town,  
Thoughtful I pass, & look dejected down,  
Scarce knowing Friends, and even to Friends scarce known.  
Straight, with concern they ask me what I Ail,  
And Cry, why Pale, my Silvius, why so Pale?  
Silent I sighing stand, nor speak, nor move,  
Soon, ah! too soon, from thence my griefs they prove,  
And tell me laughing— Youth, Poor Youth! you Love.  
Thinking on thee, Amasia, all the while,  
Fond their ill-natured Pity to beguile,  
Even in Despair I force a racking smile.  
With scornful Jests my Friends their Pity show;  
Yes, proud Amasia too can pity so.  
Almost in Tears, yet forced to smile again,  
My Pain concealing, I increase my Pain.  
Love, Tyrant Love urges those sad Extremes,  
Like Winter Suns, I smile with Watery Beams.  
Vain are my weak Devices, and deceit,  
They talk of business— and I name you straight.  
Why Blush you now; why Pale again; they Cry;  
Why?— you should Answer them, Amasia, why.  
A Thoughtless Ignorance on Love attends,  
Tell me the cause, that I may tell my Friends.  
If this, fair Charmer! you refuse to do,  
I'll lay it all, charge all my change on you.  
Take than the Reason, Friends, Companions, take—  
You see me Pale; 'tis for Amasia's sake.  
To you (once Dear) and to the World I own,  
I Love— I Love Amasia, her alone.    

To Amasia.  

COuld the true Lover all his ills declare,  
Make known his tedious sufferings to his fair,  
Sure, she would kindly listen to his Prayer,  
Sure, all his Woes would some Compassion move,  
Sure, she would Pity, tho' she could not Love.  
Hear, hear, Amasia, what I feel for you,  
For by yourself, by your Dear self, 'tis true,  
I Love almost to madness— Gods! I do.  
My Eyes no rest, my Soul no quiet knows,  
Silvius is tortured, wheresoever he goes,  
No peaceful slumbers Crown me with repose.  
All Day I rave of thee, and all the Night,  
Even in the gloom, I have thee in my sight,  
Nor am I Cheered by the all-Cheering light.  
Wing'd with my sighs, the Minutes slowly fly,  
When every Mortal Creature sleeps— but I.  
Why do you rack me thus, Dear Charmer! why?  
Now wild Chimaeras in my fancy grow,  
Now, now I think I see thy Beauties glow,  
And straight my gushing Tears in Torrents flow.  
Flow on, ye Streams, Flow, ye Tumultuous Streams,  
Not all your deluges can quench my Flames.  
Excuse each Blot, which to your view appears,  
I slain the Paper lesle with Ink than Tears.  
Strange force of Love, which can such wonders do!  
Raising our Souls to make them lower bow.  
Thus, while it Works me to the last excess,  
Making me more than Man, it makes me lesle.  
Each tedious moment of the Night I sigh,  
As on my Bed, lodged like Despair, I lie,  
No Creature there, no living Creature Nigh.  
Placed near my Feet, a silent Taper stands,  
But not like Hymen's, when he Joyns kind hands.  
Like Death's Pale Torch, a glimmering light it yields,  
Or like the Glow-worm Fires in Winter Fields.  
Sometimes my fancy shows me Pale and dead,  
And direful Furies yelling round my Head.  
Again— (what even would be in Death denied)  
I see Amasia Mourning by my side,  
And hear her sighing Cry,— I come, thy Bride.  
Convinced at last, her Charms my Soul could 〈◊〉  
Convinced at last, that I did truly Love.  
Silvius, with thee, down to the Shades below,  
With her own Silvius shall Amasia go.  
There, thy firm Love, thy Constancy, to Crown,  
Thy Loved Amasia shall be thine alone.  
Raised by this Thought, I strive to seize my fair,  
But Oh! I found no dear Amasia there.  
Your very Image 〈◊〉—  
And naught is left me real,— but Despair.  
From side to side, guiltless of sleep I turn,  
And now I Frieze, now, as in Fevers, burn.  
Often on thy Name, and often on Heaven I call,  
And Kneel to every Power, and Pray to all.  
Than, hushed by Weeping, as the Wind by Showers,  
I speak in softest Murmurs only yours.  
Amasia— Dear Amasia— than I sigh,  
Amasia sleeps— and all things sleep— but I;  
The Virgin sleeps, and will not hear my Cry.  
O may the softest, Golden slumbers Crown,  
Her Charming Eyes, and every trouble drown,  
Since I am Cursed, may I be so alone.  
On me the worst, the heaviest Sorrows fall,  
All may she scape, save her, kind Heaven from all.    

To Amasia.  

WHilst some vainFops repulsed, and often denied,  
Turn Love to hatred, and soft Prayers to Pride;  
I, when the most by your disdain despised,  
Confess thy Charms are still Divinely prized.  
He, whose Address the worst success can move,  
That Wretch, that False, Mean Wretch could never Love.  
Lovers like Beggars should kind Prayers bestow,  
Whether their cravings are relieved or no.  
But you, too harsh, will no Petitions meet,  
And tho' you want relieve—  
Deny to let me Perish at your Feet.  
O tho' you ne'er support me in my want,  
Yet hear at lest, that is not much to grant.  
O 'tis too much— accursed by fate's decree,  
The smallest favour is to great for me.  
The ragged Wretch, diseased, who at your Door  
Falls down, and Begs, Decrepit, Friendless, Poor,  
At lest you Pity, if you give not more.  
This, every Day, almost each hour I view;  
Who would not beg, so to be pitied too?  
But more for any Slave, than for your own, you do.  
Europa thus on the Sydonian shore  
Viewing a Bull, with Pleasure heard him roar,  
Fed him with flowers, than, mounting on him, road,  
Till the transported Bull became a God.  
More to relieve him so, the Virgin strove,  
Than she had done, if she had known him Jove.  
O to what form can I this being change,  
Into what parts, and whither shall I range?  
Strange Love! Strange Wish! Fantastic Notions Strange!  
Vain my desires, all fond endeavours vain!  
Altered from what I was—  
I am your Slave, and must your Slave remain.  
The humblest, real Love no change endures,  
While I have any being, I am Yours.    

To Amasia.  

HArk— how I sigh, mark the last dying Groan,  
Feel how my Heart beats thick— observe my Moan,  
My Breath comes short, and now—  
Now in that other sigh my Soul is gone.  
Now, do I faint, yet often, too often revive;  
(Happy the dead; none can be blest alive.  
From Tortures freed, but to be kept in pain,  
I am, like Sentenced Wretches, racked again.  
See, how my changing Colour comes and goes,  
See, how Amasia smiles, yet all my sufferings knows  
See, how my Tears my Sickly visage drown,  
See, how they fall—  
And drop by drop trace one another down.  
Stream on, for there the Lovely Charmer stands,  
Stream, till she dries you with her tender Hands.  
False Tears! yet Kind, tho' False; O kind surprise!  
My Tears afford me what my Sight denies;  
My Tears present her Image to my Eyes.  
To the true view Amasia ne'er appears,  
And yet she kindly Dances in my Tears.  
Kindly?— ah! no; such Mirth yields no relief,  
She, Dancing, Triumphs in her Lover's grief.  
Blindness by Weeping, I to sight prefer,  
If only Weeping can present me her.  
Since, but by loss of sight, her form I found,  
To Weep, is seeing; all sight else is Blind.  
Thus, the effect of grief, the grief destroys,  
And thus my very sorrows yield me Joys.  
In every drop Amasia I espy,  
Amasia, always in my Tears, but never in my Eye.  
Strange! that your Soul not the lest softness bears!  
Strange! that thou knowst not pity, yet art lodged in Tears!  
Still as they flow, they bring thy Image on,  
Thy Image is in every Torrent gone;  
I think—  
I see a thousand Charmers; seeing none.  
By some Learned Sage I must instructed be,  
If 〈◊〉 the fancy, or the Eyes that see.  
Let me not boast often so your form I view,  
My Sorrows multiply, as fast as you.  
Above all Gems, I prise each flowing Tear,  
There 'tis you shine, that's bright Amasia's Sphere,  
Thou, the fair Orb art ever rolling there.  
Through Waters thus enlightened fancy Spies,  
What the clear Air to eager sight denies;  
Thus the Sun's seen in Streams, tho' Clouded in the Skies.  
Thus did the Flood to fond Narcissus show  
What no search else through the whole World could do.  
When with each falling drop Amasia goes,  
The next succeeding drop a new Amasia shows.  
False Omen that!— I see all's Shadow now;  
For thou thyself art fled—  
How wilt thou come again? instruct me, how?  
For thy true loss—  
Think, Charmer, think how Pompous is my woe,  
When thus I Weep to see thy Shadow go?  
Like Radiant Sol, from the Tumultuous Main,  
From Tears you rise, and set in Tears again.  
While thus thy form appears in watery Eyes,  
From Floods I see a Second Venus rise.    

To Amasia.  

SEE, how in Sorrows Drowned I trembling stand,  
See, how my Pen falls from my Feeble Hand.  
Why, let it fall— I'll now embrace my Chain,  
Not more in Words, not more in Sighs complain,  
And never, never writ, despised, again.  
To end my Woes, and Life, at once, I'll try,  
Burst, burst my Heart— lost Wretch! run mad and die.  
Tear first thy Eyes, there let thy rage begin,  
Thy Eyes first drew the fatal mischief in,  
For thou hadst never Loved, if thou hadst never seen.  
Hurl, hurl the Bleeding Balls, and let them meet  
Their abject Doom, spurned by Amasia's Feet.  
What have they done? how does their Crime appear;  
What could they do, but look, when she was near?  
With sight Sealed up, Men sleep, tho' Stars shine Bright,  
But the Sun risen—  
All Eyes are Open to receive the light.  
O let me grow distracted with my Moan,  
And roving in some desert land, unknown,  
Loose my loathed Life, and Senseless, stiffen into Stone.  
Even than the Marks of deepest Woes I'll bear,  
And stand the very Statue of Despair;  
A frightful Wildness in my look, and Terror in my Air.  
Strange! I should wish this desperate State to prove,  
Strange! that no Charm your rigid Breast can move.  
Strange! you despise—  
The softest, dearest, and the tenderest Love!  
No Charm but Gold?— Oh! wilt thou than be sold?  
Wilt thou Debase thyself to Servile Gold?  
His Golden wish, when Midas came to die,  
He Cursed— and wished him Poor, yes, Poor as I    

To Amasia.  

TOO much, too much you Tyrannize, proud Maid!  
Moore than you aught, you do my sense invade, yours Obeyed.  
Whilst the Commands of Heaven are lesle than  
Even when I go to offer up my Prayers,  
And beg the Gods to ease my Mortal cares,  
My Heart is thine, my Words are only theirs.  
Where am I safe from this thy Charming Skill,  
Thy Eyes, thy Conquering Eyes can at the Altar Kill  
In vain to Shrines for refuge I repair,  
For I can found no kind Assylum there.  
Where shall I fly to eat thee, tell me, where?  
Like mine, Leander's Amorous Passion came,  
He saw— admired the Maid—  
And as she Offered incense, Catched the Flame.  
Like him, to Venus' Fairest Maid, I sue,  
And as you Pray to Heaven, I Pray to you.  
Your Fan, Love's ensign, painted Flowers displays;  
Behind that Shrine the Loved Amasia Prays.  
Hid not thy Face, no paint can be so Fair,  
There Roses bloom, and every Sweet dwells there.  
O I Conjure thee, by the Powers above,  
By those you Pray to, by the Power of Love,  
By all that's Dear and Sacred, by thy Charms,  
Receive thy ravished Silvius to thy Arms.  
So, may thy Beauties have Eternal springs,  
Love hovering o'er thee with Extatick Wings.  
So shall thy Husband still thy Lover be,  
And none shall ever Love and Live as we.  
But if thy Pride bids thee low Fortunes eat,  
May you at last to loathed Embraces run,  
And dully Mary with Consent—  
Some Country Booby's awkward, senseless Son.    

To Amasia.  

HOW far will Love his Conquering Wings extend!  
O must my Mortal sufferings never end?  
They cannot, not; each sigh Love's flight sustains,  
O'er my own Heart in my own Breast he Reigns,  
And holds too strong, my struggling Soul in Chains.  
Thy growing Beauties yield him fresh supplies,  
His Darts are pointed by Amasia's Eyes.  
Thy soft Commands are by this Chief obeyed,  
'Tis you, who teach Love warfare, Charming Maid!  
And on his Standards is thy form displayed.  
I yield, I yield, thus Prostrate low, I fall,  
Love's Goddess thou! thou Conqueror of my all!  
You all my Thoughts, you all my Speech employ,  
Thou giv'st me pain, and thou canst give me Joy.  
Whate'er you please to do, I pleased, approve,  
Hate, where you hate, and where you fancy, Love.  
Sun of my Days! and Phantom of my Nights!  
Source of my Woes! and Spring of my Delights!  
Fond of my Life, should you make kind returns,  
Yet now I slight it, since Amasia scorns.  
Just as you make me, either Cursed or blest,  
Formed to your will, my Soul is raised, or pressed,  
And swells and falls, like thy own Charming Breast.  
Ill with thy Breast do I my Soul compare,  
Thy Breast— the Seat of all that's Sweet and fair,  
Thy Breast— O Scene of Pleasures! ever blooming there.  
Whilst in my Soul Despair her Court maintains,  
And with deep Pomp in solid Darkness Reigns.  
Thy Breast!— O never let me loose the Theme,  
There, as entranced, let my lulled fancy Dream.  
O could I gently melt the Lovely Snow,  
Thence, thence the Poet's Helicon would flow,  
And I should need no other Muse than you.  
If now with Frozen coldness you inspire,  
O could you burn, how fierce would mount the Fire,  
Flaming with Joy, and sparkling with desire.  
To heights sublime would soaring fancy drive,  
Amasia's Name should at the Stars arrive,  
Amasia long, long Ages should herself survive.  
Not sad decay should to thy Beauties come,  
As in thy Face, when mouldering in the Tomb,  
They should for ever in my Numbers bloom.  
Moore lasting far than polished Marble made,  
While Men could read, thy glories should not fade.  
Thy Lovely Image through the World should go,  
The World should thee its greatest Charmer know,  
Thy Charms, which seem Immortal, should be so.  
Round through the Universe thy Fame should flee,  
My Verse adored should live, by giving Life to thee.  
Sound, Fame, thy Trumpet, to the Skies Proclaim,  
Amasia lives, for ever lives in Fame.  
Sound too her Silvius lives; Love Life insures,  
Known, while the Sun, the God of Verse endures,  
Known for my Constant Love, Amasia, ever Yours.    
FINIS.   

AMASIA, OR, THE Works of the Muses.  
A Collection OF POEMS.  
In Three Volumes.  
By Mr John Hopkins.  
VOL. III.  
I, fuge; sed poteras tutior esse domi.  
LONDON, Printed by Tho. Warren for Bennet Banbury, at the Blue-Anchor in the Lower-Walk of the New-Exchange, 1700.   

TO THE Honourable M rs COOK OF NORFOLK.  
MADAM,  
I Have heard, and may therefore say, I know your Character, for I have still been told the same by every Body, You are above being Titularly Noble; your Virtue is the true Nobility. 'Tis not for me to attempt your Encomiums; for all the Actions of your Life have given you, and shall give you praise. The easy greatness of your Temper, your courteous Affability, your Generosity, your Charity, your Goodness, and your Piety, have Universally spoke your Character. Your Virtues are your Historians and your Poets; and 'tis through them the Memory of your Name shall live, through them, 〈◊〉 well as through your Children, who by their Happy Education shall stand the admirable Copies of their bright Original.  
On you, Madam, I have fixed, as the Patroness of these Poems, you who are all Virtue, and all Goodness, can best defend them from the Censures of detracting Tongues; your Name prefixed to them, must in itself protect them; for none will imagine I should presume to Play the Libertine, when I approach the Temple of Diana. The following Stories are out of Ovid's Book, Entitled Metamorphosis, the best, as well as the Chastest Poem he has writ; and how far soever I have failed in transfusing his Poetry into the English Language, I dare be positive he has lost nothing of his modesty by my Translation; for I consider that whatever offering is laid Chastely at your Feet, you will not Spurn: This, Madam, Courts Modestly your Acceptance, without the lest Impurity, without Flattery; so much I truly Honour and Esteem you for your Illustrious Character, that I have even Dedicated to you, without a Compliment, for I am sincerely, with all due deference and respect, your virtue's Just Admirer, and,  
Madam, Your most Obedient Most Humble Servant. J. Hopkins.   

THE PREFACE.  
A Preface is the trading Stock the Author gives his Book, as Parents do to their Younger Children, as soon as they think them of Years Mature enough to launch into the World. As for my Embryo, I honestly 〈◊〉 all fondness to it; and only writ now to satisfy the Lady Urania, that I have to the last Volume forborn to mention her Name in hopes to have made some discovery of her, in order to return her the thanks she deserves, with all the praise she has given me; all her own. I received it, not because I had, by Merit, any right to keep it, but because, as all praise is here's, she has Power to give it where she pleases. Whoever this Charming Urania is, I must confess she's altogether unknown to me, and when I read the Panigyrick she has been pleased to sand me, I have reason to fear I am as much unknown to her. Thou the Compliment she has made me in her Verses be a very great one, she may yet confer one much greater on me in permitting me 〈◊〉 read her Face.   

THE CONTENTS.  

Vol. III. Book I  THE Metamorphosis of Love. Containing several Love Stories imitated from Ovid. 
 Vertumnus and Pomona 
Page 1  Venus and Adonis 
5  Perseus and Andromeda 
8  Picus and Canens 
12  Jupiter and Europa 
16  Boreas and Orythia 
18  Iphis and janthe 
20  Tereus and Philomela 
25  Pluto and Proserpina 
31  Alphaeus and Arethusa 
32  Jupiter and Calisto 
35  Pygmalion and his Ivory Statue 
37  Salmacis and Hermaphroditus 
41  Shafalus and Procris 
47  Phoebus and Leucothoe 
52  Hippomenes and Atalanta 
55  Echo 
60  Narcissus 
63  Pan and Syrinx 
68  Jupiter and Semele 
71  Glaucus and Scylla 
75  Diana and Actaeon 
77  Coronis and Neptune 
79  Orpheus and Eurydice 
81   

Book II.  THE Miscellany of Love. Containing several Occasional Copies. 
 On Flowers in Amasia's Bosom; in imitation of Anacreon 
91  To a Lady ask me a thousand impertinent Questions, which she would have Answered 
93  To the Lady abovementioned, saying, I gave her a very senseless, impudent Answer 
ibid.  To the same Lady saying she would give me a Kiss, If I would tell her what she asked me 
99  To the Lady aforesaid, striking me on the Face with her Fan, for my former Answers 
ibid.  To a Lady, who asked me why I writ on such trifling Occasions 
95  To a Lady, saying, I aught to Mary her because she Loved me, 
ibid.  To the same Loving Lady, telling me, abuse was an ill requital for sost Passion, but she thanked her Stars, she was but in Jest 
ibid.  To a Lady, ask my Opinion concerning the writings of the Ancients and Moderns. 
96  To a Lady, making her a present of Straw-Work 
ibid.  To the Bookseller desiring my Sculpture before my Book 
97  To a certain Gentleman, you must know, very Censorious on me 〈◊〉 assenting to my Bookseller's desire 
98  To a Lady, telling me I should Court applause if I expected to gain it. 
ibid.  To a Lady saying, with a smile, she 〈◊〉 I would not perform my promise 
99  To a Lady telling me I writ too fast. 
100  To the same Lady, saying— Sure I never thought, and commanding me to writ on a Feather 
p. 101  To a Lady saying she imagined Poets were all on Fire, when they wrote. 
ibid.  To Amasia, putting a Paper of my Verses in her Bosom 
102  To a Lady with a very Charming Dimple in her Chin, occasioned by a Scar, which, she said an unaccountable Distemper had left there 
ibid.  To a Lady Dancing at a Ball 
103  To a Lady, saying she would hate me, if I should writ satire 
104  To a Gentleman, whose Life was endangered by his endeavouring to address a Lady in a Sphere above him 
105  New-Year's-Day, 1699. 
ibid.  Seeing a Lady at a Play, called, A Trip to the Jubilee 
107  To a Lady under the Name of Philomela 
ibid.  Love in Idea. Written to a Friend, who said his Mistress was above Gold, and desired my advice in his suit 
108  To a Lady, who seeing me in a Languishing Sickness, called me— Poor shadow of Love 
111  To a Lady making me a second present of a Lock of her Hair, after I had in an humour returned the first 
112  To a Lady Singing 
114  The Health. After absence— to a Friend 
ibid.  To a Lady, holding her Picture in my Hand, and looking on her Face 
115  The Arms. 〈◊〉 aut vi 
116  Poems on several Occasions. 
 The Complaint 
119  To Mr— Written before the representation of his first Comedy 
122  To Mr— 〈◊〉 is second Comedy 
124  The Petition 
p. 126  To a Lady, my Friend's ingrateful Mistress 
128  To Dr. Gibbons 
131  To a Lady ask me why I did not apply to Dr. Gibbons to be cured of my Love too 
133  The Charmer 
134  The Vision of the Muse. 
136   

Book III.  THE Friendship of Love. 
 To Mr— 
147  To Mr— 
149  To Mr— 
152  To Mr— 
154  To Mr— 
157  To Mr— 
161  To Mr— 
164  To Mr— 
167  To Mr— 
169  Martin, the Friend. 
173    


THE Metamorphosis of Love.  
Vertumnus and Pomona.  

Whilst Peace o'er Latium spreads its gentle Wings,  
And each pleased Swain amidst his labours Sings,  
In her own Orchards, undisturbed with care,  
Pomona flourished, and was counted fair;  
Her blooming Beauty still the same appears,  
Not Blossomed only in the Spring, like theirs.  
She Loves no hunting, she admires no Game,  
Covets no Groves, nor any Silver Stream;  
Her happy Pleasures with her Fortune's suit,  
She prunes her Trees, and she preserves her fruit,  
Knows naught of Love, but what Tradition told,  
And fears such Rapes as she had heard of old.  
Therefore her Orchards with a Wall defends,  
And lets in none but those she thinks her Friends.  
Often did the Satyrs, often in vain, essay,  
To make the Virgin to their lust a prey,  
And force her thence, to be enjoyed, away.  
Often too did Pan attempt the Charming Maid,  
And often Silenus made the Nymph afraid.  
Priapus too, who others Fruits secures,  
Longs most, Pomona, but to rifle yours.  
Yet more than all the sweet Vertumnus blooms,  
Dressed in his Charms, wherever the Virgin comes.  
He could all shapes, whate'er he fancied wear,  
Would now a Soldier with his Arms appear,  
An Angler next, and like a Reaper soon,  
Changed as he pleased, and made all forms his own.  
Hopeless to gain, now each disguise he fears,  
And seems a Matron in declining Years.  
To his own Godhead he the Maid prefers,  
And quits his Beauties, but to gaze on here's.  
Born on a staff, with creeping Feet he moves  
To the fair object he so fiercely Loves.  
Salutes her first, than eagerly he pressed,  
And clasped her closely to his Throbbing Breast.  
Fond tho' he was, tho' his desires were strong,  
He Loved too well, the Charming fair to wrong,  
Thou all-o'er Innocence, all soft, and Young.  
The Virtuous Maid receives her Lover's Kiss,  
And thought old Woman's were the same as his,  
Kindly she Thanks him for his Courteous care,  
Welcomes his visit, bids him welcome there.  
Prays him sit down on the next Bank, and view  
Her ripening Fruits, where all the choicest grew.  
Around he looks, around the Pregnant Trees,  
And praises lavishly each plant he sees.  
Observes a Vine, how with the Elm it spread,  
Commends both that, and the industrious Maid,  
Who gave its Clusters so secure a shade.  
Than tells her, she should by such sights be led,  
To Love the Pleasures of the Nuptial Bed.  
How many Swains for her a Flame had born!  
How had she racked them with continued scorn!  
Gods in the Skies, and Demigods below,  
Have quit their Heaven, and all the Joys they know,  
To look, and gaze (my Beauteous Maid!) on you.  
But, trust me, child, my kind advice receive,  
And what I tell you for a truth believe;  
The fair Vertumnus all your Charms approves,  
And out of force he must confess he Loves.  
He, only he, shall be my choice for you,  
And you yourself, I hope, will choose him too.  
None knows him more than I, the Youth still blooms,  
Sweet is his own, yet he all shapes assumes.  
Wish what you will, he puts on every form,  
And each he Wears, has some peculiar Charm.  
He dwells in Gardens, and has charge of bowers,  
His whole delight the very same with yours.  
None is more Beauteous, none than he more strong,  
The smiling God is through all Ages young.  
To him First Fruits of all your Trees are due,  
Which Joyful he receives each Year from you.  
But now not those he will accept, but thee,  
Thou must thyself, the next, blest Offering be.  
Believe this Courtship from himself, suppose  
What I have said the fair Vertumnus knows.  
Show than your Pity, be not more severe,  
The God himself will soon be present here.  
So may your Fruits survive the Winter Frost,  
So may you ever the same Beauty's boast,  
And may nor they, nor aught of yours be lost.  
Thus when he said, himself again he grew,  
And stood all Charms before the Virgin's view.  
Through Clouds of Age he darts his youthful rays,  
And now the Glories of his Face displays.  
All o'er Divine, he stands transported there,  
And gains a Conquest o'er the wondering fair.    

Venus and Adonis.  

THE Queen of 〈◊〉 is by her Son inflamed,  
And hates those places for her presence famed.  
Paphos, Cythera, not, nor Heaven can please,  
Her only Heaven the fair Adonis is.  
To all things else the Goddess him prefers,  
And her whole care is to confirm him here's.  
She fears her Charms boast not the Power to move,  
(Thou Beauty's Goddess) her Adonis Love.  
With all her Arts she decks her sparkling Eyes,  
With all Attractions which make Passions rise.  
Now, like Diana, does her game pursue,  
Nor heeds what ways she passes swiftly through.  
Hurts her soft Limbs on the unfriendly thorn,  
Her tender Limbs, too Beauteous to be torn.  
She hunts the Hare, and the more Stately Deer,  
But fears the Boars, and bids Adonis' fear;  
Would have him bold to follow those that fly,  
But eat pursuers, and be swift as they.  
Those Men are brave, who fight their equal foes,  
You show but rashness, to encounter those.  
I beg you ne'er those Savage Beasts engage,  
By Nature armed, and which by Nature rage;  
Your Youth and Beauties please the Queen of Love,  
But their rough Hearts your Charms can never move.  
Let not your Goddess stand exposed in you,  
For, with Adonis they wound Venus too.  
Come my sweet Boy, my weary toil persuades,  
And yonder Poplar Courts us to its Shades.  
Thence straight the Lovers to their Joys withdrew,  
And blessed Adonis, Charms Immortal knew.  
How did he there of her Dear Flames approve!  
A Heaven of Beauty, and a Heaven of Love!  
Lost in their Pleasures, for a while they lay,  
And those too, soon were lost, as well as they.  
In smiles, and blushes, they at length arise,  
And dart soft looks, one at the other's Eyes.  
She leaves him there, drawn by her Snowy Swans,  
And Waves an Airy Farewell from her hands.  
A Boar appears, soon as the Queen was gone;  
Advice is lost, where Courage urges on.  
The Lovely Boy starts up, nor knows to fear,  
And feels a Passion too to Conquer there.  
With his strong Dart he wounds his flying foe,  
Not Phoebus' certain hands strike with a surer blow.  
The raging Beast the Bearded Javelin drew,  
And with his Open Mouth, upon him flew.  
His monstrous tusks the fair Adonis' wound,  
And leave him bleeding on the reeking ground.  
His dying Groans the wretched Goddess hears,  
But her own Shrieks more loudly pierce her Ears.  
She drives her Chariot to the dismal sound,  
And in his Pangs her Dear Adonis found.  
Ah! who can tell the griefs which Venus move!  
Now Queen of sorrow, not the Queen of Love.  
She calls aloud, ah! my Adonis' stay,  
Thus, is it thus, you my Commands obey?  
Ah! cruel Boy! you have my Peace betrayed,  
If you had Loved me, you had sure obeyed.  
Than her rich Garments, with her Hair, she tore,  
And Wiped his flowing Wound with Robes she wore.  
Beating her Breast, and Bathing it in Tears,  
Fast with his Flood she sadly mingles here's.  
To breathe new Life, surpassed her Female Power,  
She changed his Blood into a Fragrant Flower.    

Perseus and Andromeda.  

THE Conquering Perseus now his Wings had tied,  
To his swift Feet, his Falchion to his side;  
When, through the Air the dauntless Hero flies,  
Free as the Birds, who cut the liquid Skies.  
Now 〈◊〉 beneath him he perceives a Maid,  
On the hard shore, in Iron Fetters laid.  
A monster's prey was the fair Virgin brought,  
The fairest piece, that ever Nature wrought.  
Chained to a Rock, she waited there her Doom,  
Naked, and Whiter than the Snowy foam.  
The flying Hero now descends from high,  
Where he had coursed along the Airy Sky.  
With a sixth look he views the Virgin there,  
Amazed, and wondering he admires the fair,  
Till he forgot to fly, forgot he was in Air.  
Had he not viewed her Hair, which flowed behind,  
Held loosely waving by the gentle Wind,  
Had she not wept, and he her sorrows seen,  
He would have thought she had some Statue been.  
Straight he descends from where he lately flew,  
Impatient now to get a 〈◊〉 view;  
Closer, and closer to the Maid he came,  
And all at once he feels a raging Flame.  
With Love, and fear, with wonder, and with awe,  
By slow degrees he does towards her draw.  
With his Eyes sixth, all motionless he stands,  
Than, why she wore those Fetters he demands;  
He thought her worthy most of Marriage bands.  
Declare, he cries, thou matchless, Charming fair;  
Why thus in Chains? What are thy Crimes? declare.  
Who used thee thus, and tell me Justly why?  
How can such Beauty be condemned to die!  
Thou shalt by me, thy Champion, be restored,  
For thee the thunderer's Offspring draws his Sword.  
Say, if delivered by the Son of Jove,  
Shall your Life purchase, in return, your Love?  
Say, Charmer, speak; me through a brazen hold,  
He got, descending in a shower of Gold.  
The bashful Virgin still persists to mourn,  
And for his Words, she does her sighs return.  
Her growing shame still more her sorrow moves,  
She weeps, and blushes, while with Joy he Loves.  
In Chains extended at their length, she lies,  
While he, in transport, feeds his longing Eyes,  
Feign would she hid her blushes from his view,  
But that her Fetters hindered her to do.  
With deep regret her shame the Virgin bears,  
And 〈◊〉 her Eyes with constant Floods of Tears.  
Often tho' he urged her, she kept silent long,  
But thus, at last, unlocked her trembling Tongue.  
My conscious Mother, fatal too, as fair,  
Her's with proud Juno's Beauties would compare.  
Who, in her Vengeance, most unjust, decreed,  
That I unboasting, for her Crime should bleed.  
A dreadful monster from the Seas will rise,  
And I, 'tis I, must be that monster's prize.  
With his broad Breast he will the Surges Blow,  
O there, there, there, I see him issuing now.  
Save me, ah! save me, hast with all your Powers,  
And, generous Youth, I will be ever yours.  
Thus spoke the fearful, Lovely, Charming Maid,  
Who sighed, and wept, for she was still afraid.  
And now the Seas began aloud to roar,  
With the apparent Monster hastening to the shore.  
When the bold Hero o'er the Billows flies,  
And towers above him, up, towards Silver Skies.  
The furious Beast his gliding shadow views,  
Which, chasing eager, he o'er Waves pursues.  
As Jove's strong Bird, who has a Dragon seen.  
Siezes, his neck, and strikes his Talons in;  
So, the descending Perseus Sheathed his Sword  
In the vast Beast, who like the Oceans roared.  
The wounded Monster o'er the Billows bounds,  
And turns fierce on him, to give larger wounds.  
Now far beneath the Waves he dives, and now,  
Rises again, and does the Surges Blow;  
Vast as some Island, does he wildly Play,  
And from his Mouth pours out a bloody Sea.  
His dreadful Jaws the flying Hero shuns,  
And his bright Sword, through his thick Neck he runs.  
Loudly he roars, the Maid the Echo heard,  
And some new Monster on the shore she feared.  
Mad with the anguish of the wound, he raves,  
And lashes with his tail the suffering Waves.  
High in the Air he spouts such Wat'ry Clouds,  
The Hero thought he was beneath the Floods.  
His wings now wet, and flagging, down he falls,  
And is received upon the Monster's scales.  
Now with his Falchion does he bruise his sides,  
And, as in Triumph, on his foe he rides,  
Who Mad, and Rabid, turns his angry head,  
On towards the Hero with wide Jaws he fled,  
Caught in his Throat his Sword, and with the wound lay dead.  
Straight from the Beast Victorious Perseus flies,  
In haste, unloosed, and so received his prize.    

Picus and Canens.  

SAturnian Picus in Ausonia Reigned,  
Who generous Horses for the Battle trained.  
The Prince was born, and bred in Latian plains,  
The Joy of all the Nymphs, and Envy of the 〈◊〉  
He slights their Wishes, but for Canens burned;  
Canens he loved and she his Flames returned.  
This Beauteous Maid alone can claim his Loves,  
In Woods, and Rocks, her Voice compassion moves.  
Swift Rivers stop their course, whenever she sings,  
And Birds neglect the labours of their Wings.  
While her sweet tunes Celestial Music yields,  
Young Picus hunts in the Laurentian Fields:  
Followed by Courtiers, he pursues with speed,  
Armed with two darts, upon a fiery Steed.  
O'er Hills, and Vales, he courses swiftly bold,  
In Tyrian clad, and buckled close with Gold.  
When now, famed Circe wandering on those Hills,  
Her sacred lap, with Magic simples fills.  
Picus she sees, and with the sight amazed,  
The gathered Herbs fell from her, as she gazed.  
Swiftly he passed, yet that she Loves she finds,  
Resolved to meet him, were he winged with Winds.  
An Airy Boar she forms, which takes its course,  
Far of to thickets, which no Steed could force;  
Which Picus sees, and quits his foaming Horse.  
On Foot he follows the deceitful shade,  
When straight the Day is darkened by the Maid.  
Such Charms she uses as might force the Moon,  
Or Cloud her Father's Splendour, even at Noon.  
Now, Picus far from all his Guards removed,  
The Charming Maid thus tells him how she Loved.  
By those fair Eyes, which have such Power on mine,  
And by that dear, alluring Face of thine.  
Hear, when a Goddess sues, nor rigid prove,  
〈◊〉 his Offspring offers thee her Love.  
My Parent Sun I darken in the Skies,  
Yet have no Charm to shield me from your Eyes.  
They, brighter far, shoot out more shining Flames  
His Radiant Chariot bears lesle burning Beams.  
Pity that Nymph who is your suppliant grown,  
And to those Fires you kindled, add your own.  
Thus woos the Maid— but he replied, in vain,  
With Amorous Words, you tell your Amorous pain,  
Me Canens Loves, Canens beloved again.  
Scorned, and repulsed, thus threats she loud— 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
What Woman's hatred dares, when wronged in 〈◊〉  
Thrice to the East, thrice to the West she 〈◊〉  
Thrice touched him with her Wand, and thrice 〈◊〉 Earth she 〈◊〉  
Strait, with unwonted speed, he swiftly flies,  
Changed to a Bird, and cuts the liquid Skies.  
His wings the Purple of his Cloak assume,  
The Gold, which clasped his Garments, turns to 〈◊〉  
The day grows clear, and hunting all abroad,  
The Guards, and Courtiers call aloud their Lord.  
Circe they found, and while they threatening stand,  
Them too she changes, with her Powerful Wand.  
In dreadful sounds, she all her Charms repeats,  
And raises Woods, and Forests from their Seats.  
Their leaves look pale, Herbs blush with drops of gore,  
Earth Groans, Dogs howl, Echo repeats it over,  
And hollow Rocks in murmurs hoarsly roar.  
Through all the Air unbodied Spirits glide,  
And on the tainted ground black, slimy Serpents slide,  
Now Night comes on, and gloomy fears it brings,  
To Canens mind, upon its Cloudy Wings.  
Confused, through Woods, with lights her Servants fled,  
In quest of Picus, whom she fancies dead.  
They not returning, from the Court she strays,  
And, as chance led her, followed wandering ways.  
On Tyber's Banks she sits, in sad Despair,  
Spent with a tedious search, and Melancholy care.  
There pining, still she weeps, and weeping Sings,  
With sweetest Voice, the softest, mournful things.  
So, to Maeander's Streams Swans slowly fly,  
Sing their own Breath away, and Charming die.  
Not long she lived, yet ever lives in Fame,  
And still the place she mourned in, bears her name.    

Jupiter and Europa.  

HUmble and soft must the Swain's Passion prove,  
Greatness can never well agreed with Love.  
Changed to a Bull on the Sydonian shore,  
The thunderer now does in new Thunder roar.  
The flesh in swelling rolls his Neck adorns,  
All Snowy White, he stood with peaceful Horns.  
Made smooth as Gems, though small, they glittered bright,  
He seemed for Beauty formed, and not for fight.  
His Eyes no Wrath, his Brows no Terror wear,  
His milder Aspect does no threatenings bear;  
Europa views him straight, nor knows to fear.  
With inward Joy, he sees the Royal Maid,  
By whom, he soon with choicest flowers is fed.  
In her fair Hands the grateful Food she bore,  
Which often he kissed— ah! scarce deferring more.  
And now he rowls along the Golden Sands,  
The Virgin sees him, and delighted stands.  
On towards him near, and nearer still she drew,  
And now he sport's, and wantoness in her view.  
Extremely pleased, she strokes his proffered Breast,  
And his rich Horns with Flowery Garlands Dressed;  
The Maid's behaviour did more Courteous prove,  
Than it had been, if she had known him Jove.  
Half kneeling now, the Amorous Bull bends down.  
And the Maid mounts his Back, ah, too too venturous grown.  
Straight, by degrees, on towards the Seas he flies, (prize.  
Than, rushing through the Floods, bears fast his Royal  
Shrieking she turns, to view her Native shores,  
Whilst the Triumphant Bull, loud as the Ocean's roars.  
The frighted Maid, held, with one hand, his horn,  
While her lose Robes were in the other born.  
With constant Eyes, she viewed the shore behind,  
Her lighter Garments flying with the Wind;  
Trembling herself, and as they slutt'ring flew,  
The very Garments seemed to tremble too.    

Boreas and Orythia.  

THE fair Orythia still remained unmoved,  
Thou she by Boreas had been long beloved.  
Not kindled Flame he in the Maid could sinned,  
Nor raise one spark with all his force of Wind.  
His colder blasts all Amorous heat suppressed,  
And chilled the warmth of the Young Virgin's 〈◊〉  
So much he Loved, he but in sighs could blow,  
Which spread his Fires and made them siercer glow,  
Till at the last, when he all means had tried,  
Had often asked, and been as often denied.  
Vexed, and enraged at her unkind 〈◊〉,  
And racked to found that he had burned in vain.  
Storming aloud, all Furious does he move,  
Incensed, with Anger much, but more with Love,  
In showers of Tears, he sheds his wat'ry store,  
Yet all can't lay the Tempests raised before.  
In Blustering sounds he does aloud Proclaim,  
With all his Breath, his Loved Orythia's Name,  
Wildly, from place to place in hast he roves,  
Tells all the Valleys his rejected Loves,  
Than Whispers soft Orythia to the bending Groves  
As through the Forests in Despair he flies,  
Each Tree that he Salutes, for his scorned Passion sighs,  
Ah! Charming Maid, he cries, too late I found,  
That you are deafer than my Northern Wind;  
Will nothing move you, nothing make you kind?  
Where can your Favours be by you bestowed,  
When you refuse them proudly to a God?  
Alas! you know not, beauteous, scornful fair,  
How I make War in our wide Field, the Air.  
There I my Breth'rens in a storm assail,  
And Fight with Oaks, and beaten the Earth with Hail.  
I meet all Winds with such impetuous shock,  
That Thundering Skies with our encounters rock.  
I toss the Billows, and I 〈◊〉 the Floods,  
And force out Light'ning from the bursting Clouds.  
towers I throw down, and fly through hollow Caves,  
Driving pale Ghosts, all trembling, to their Graves.  
Whenever I shake my horrid Wings around,  
Their Airy motion strikes with Blasts, the ground.  
I trail my dusky Mantle on the shore,  
And, when I please, I make the Ocean roar.  
Fierce as I am, where ever else I flee,  
Yet, soft as Zephyrs, do I play with thee.  
This said— he straight the Lovely Maid beheld,  
And he resolves she shall be now compelled.  
In Clouds of dust, which he had raised, he hide,  
And there observed whate'er Orythia did.  
Soon she perceives him, and not yet grown kind,  
Out-fled the God, tho' the swift God of Wind.  
His speedy flight his fiercer Fires had spread,  
Fleet, as Love's shafts which wounded him, he fled,  
And, now he overtakes, now ravishes the Maid.  
Vain might his Wings, with all their Fleetness prove,  
Unless assisted by the Wings of Love.    

Iphis and Janthe.  

LYgdus and Telethusa, free from care,  
Had long together lived a happy pair.  
Blessed with such stock, as might themselves maintain,  
And bring content, while childless they remain.  
But now, her time of Labour drawing nigh,  
The Child, if Female, Lygdus dooms to die.  
A Girl, he says, too great a charge would prove,  
For, 'tis the Portion gains the Suitor's Love.  
Sad Telethusa, grieved at what he said,  
And greatly feared the Child would prove a Maid.  
She from the curse feign would her offspring free,  
But his Commands had passed his firm decree.  
And now the helpful Goddess, Isis, came,  
To comfort Telethusa in a dream.  
To her, a sacred Promise there she made,  
Bids her rely on her alone for aid,  
And Nurse the doubtful Offspring of her Bed.  
Now from the Room the pitying Goddess flew,  
When, stretched, towards Heaven, her Hands the Woman threw,  
And strives, awake, to think her Vision true.  
Increasing throes at length a Girl disclosed,  
But, by the Father, still a Boy supposed.  
So close the cheat was hid, that it was known  
But to the Mother, and the Nurse alone.  
The happy Lygdus feels an inward Joy,  
And gives the Name of Iphis to his fancied Boy,  
Now thrice five fleeting, happy Years were fled,  
And his Young heir must fair Janthe wed.  
Together still at their own sports they played,  
And Iphis Loved her, tho' herself a Maid.  
Like Darts, at once, their simple Bosoms strike,  
In all alas! but in their hopes, alike.  
The Nuptial day, appointed, now draws nigh;  
Janthe thinks the hours too slowly fly.  
Her Charming Lover she believes a Boy,  
And hopes in her to found unpractised Joy.  
But wretched Iphis, tho' beloved, Despairs,  
And utters thus, in sad complaints, her cares.  
No Maid, like me, did e'er so ruin'd prove,  
For I am lost in strange, prodigious Love.  
The Gods, in pity, should this form destroy,  
Iphis can ne'er be changed into a Boy,  
Nor can Janthe give a Virgin Joy.  
Compose thy Mind, kerb in thy wild desires,  
Think of thy Sex, and quench thy Foolish Fires.  
Some other object for thy Passion choose,  
Reform thy will, and Love as Females use,  
Alas! I can't,— For than, I should Janthe loose.  
There lies my woe, that causes all my care,  
And what should bless me, drives me to Despair.  
Of all the Creatures placed beneath the Sky,  
The beasts that tread the Earth, the Birds that fly,  
None ever yet was greatly 〈◊〉, as 〈◊〉  
Of all Created things that live, and move,  
No Female suffers for a Female Love.  
What comfort now to wretched me remains?  
'Tis only hope which Cupid's flight sustains.  
Lovely I seem, and Charming to my fair,  
Each for the other does a passion bear,  
Even in our Sex alike— ah! would we differed there.  
Than with our wishes all would soon comply,  
Nor do our Parents, nor our Friends deny,  
The longing Virgin too, fond to be blest as I  
But now alas! thou canst not happy be,  
Nor she enjoyed, tho' Men and Gods agreed,  
Alas! she may, she will— by others— not by me.  
All, but the greatest bliss, from Heaven I prove,  
Far as they could, the Gods have crowned my Love,  
And now the wished for day will quickly shine,  
When dear Janthe will be ever mine.  
Alas! I rave, and shall distracted grow,  
In spite of Heaven, she cannot c'er be so.  
With this dire curse, my fatal Nuptial hastes,  
To thirst in Rivers, and to starve at Feasts.  
Let no glad Hymen at these Rites appear,  
We both are Brides, there is no Bridegroom here.  
This, and much more the Mournful Virgin said;  
But different griefs perplexed the other Maid,  
Who for her long-delayed embraces prayed.  
Still Telethusa new excuses Frames,  
Fancies, and Notions, Auguries, and dreams.  
But now not longer are the Rites delayed,  
And the next Night, Maid must be Joined with Maid.  
The Mother now lost in her Just Despair,  
Unbinds her own, and her sad Daughter's Hair,  
And to Propitious Isis offers up her Prayer.  
Bowing, towards the Altar, first she came,  
Than, 〈◊〉, does the sacred promise claim;  
The Altar shook, and flashed out awful Flame.  
Loud Timbrels rung, the great successful sign,  
And Telethusa bows, and leaves the Shrine.  
Whom Iphis follows with a larger pace,  
Short, curling locks, and a more Manly Face.  
For their changed Child his Parents Praises sing,  
And sacred gifts to Isis' Temple bring.  
This Verse, writ o'er the Altar, was displayed;  
What Iphis Vowed, a Girl, a Boy, he paid.  
Next Morn, they both to their wished Nuptials move,  
At Night, his Sex the vigorous Boy does prove,  
And both are happy in their Mutual Love    

Tereus and Philomela.  

FIve Winters now, Winged with their Storms, were fled,  
Since Progne first did Royal Tereus wed.  
When thus the Artful fair her suit did move,  
Urged, as a proof of his continued Love.  
If yet, my dearest consort is not cloyed,  
Nor slights those sweets he has so often enjoyed.  
If, but the lest soft Passion yet remains,  
If yet, free Love springs from your Nuptial Chains,  
If, any Fires, yet kept alive you bear,  
Or value these Embraces, grant my Prayer;  
Grant, on some Terms, I may my Sister see,  
Sand me to her, or else bring her to me.  
Promise' my Father she shall soon return,  
He shall not long his Philomela Mourn.  
All Bars, which hinder his assent, confounded,  
And than my wishes, and my Joys are Crowned.  
Tereus, well pleased, without the lest Dispute,  
Commends her Fondness, and approves her suit.  
The Seas now past, and all the danger over,  
He lands, successful, on the wished for shore.  
And now, Pandion Welcomes there his Son,  
Who tells him why he through such hazards run,  
And straight, his Progne's urgent suit begun.  
At first, small warmth his kind entreaties show,  
But Philomela seen, more fierce they grow.  
Richly Attired, the Charming Virgin came,  
And from her Eyes, each glance is Flashed, like Flame,  
The Youthful King straight burns with fond desire,  
Like Sun-dryed Reeds, which, at each spark, take Fire,  
The Lustful Passion can't be long withstood,  
For now it Rages in his boiling Blood,  
And, like some Rapid Torrent, swells the Flood.  
His rising sighs, like Boisterous Tempests blow,  
And Passion's Seas all Reason's bounds overflow.  
Some Thoughts, like Waves pressed by the tides, are gone,  
But still, full, Foaming, new desires come rolling on.  
Sometimes, he thinks, to make her Maids his Friends,  
And with large gifts to Bribe them to his ends,  
Again, resolves to use unlawful force,  
As if the safest, and the surest course.  
Vows, he will soon remove each Anxious Bar;  
If not by Love; possess, by bolder War,  
And now, perplexed with long delays, he sues,  
And, much more urgent, his Request renews,  
Still, on his Wife's behalf he seemed to press,  
While his fond Words flew to a vast excess.  
Whenever his speech did into transports break,  
He said, she weeping, charged me thus to speak.  
So, with close Arts successfully he pleads,  
And the Maid follows, as the Lover leads.  
Fond of her Sister, she too wished to go,  
Kisses her Father, and entreats him so.  
While Tereus Thus perceives the Virgin sue,  
Pleased, and overjoyed, he does his speech renew,  
Still more, and more inflamed, at every view.  
Her soft Embraces set his Soul on Fire,  
He does each Action, and each word admire,  
All spreads his Loves, and raises new desire,  
Not longer now the good, old King denies,  
But gives consent at last, with weeping Eyes.  
The Night comes on, and with it, Peaceful rest,  
To all alas! But to the Lover's Breast.  
In Amorous Murmurs Tereus does complain,  
Bright Philomela caused his Anxious pain.  
Sleep shuns his Soul, and it's kind ease denies;  
Like a coy Maid, when courted most, it flies.  
The Charming fair does all his Thoughts possess,  
Great was his Love, which yet he wished not lesle.  
His fancy brings her still before his view,  
His very fancy does his Flames renew,  
And as he thinks he sees her, he gins to sue.  
Than, as from Dreams, waked from those Thoughts, he 〈◊〉  
Reflects on real Charms, and fiercer burns.  
Those he has seen, his whole Idea fill,  
But ah! he thinks— he knows, there must be 〈◊〉 still  
Thus does he pass the tedious Hours of Night,  
With Amorous, painful Thoughts, which yield a Nice Delight.  
Often does he wish for the approach of Day,  
That he may hast, with his Loved prize, away.  
And now, at last, the wished-for Morn appears,  
When old Pandion, thus with streaming Tears,  
Parts with the last dear hope of his declining Years.  
My Son, since Piety this due requires,  
I yield to yours, and Progne's fond desires.  
But o! I charge you by the Gods above,  
Guard, and defend her, with a Father's Love.  
You, Daughter, leave me not too long alone,  
How shall I live, when my last comfort's gone!  
You know I Love you, tenderly I do,  
My Heart, my Life, my very Soul's in you,  
I cannot speak for Tears,— soon, soon return— adieu.  
Thus the good King does his Just sorrows tell;  
He might alas! have bid a long farewell.  
For now, the flying Ship had left the shore,  
And he must never see his Daughter more.  
Tereus, exulting Cries, she's now my own,  
And I shall soon my earnest wishes Crown.  
With constant Eyes the Charming Maid he views,  
With lose behaviour, and lewd carriage woos,  
And his designs, even there, far as he could, pursues.  
But now, at length, on his own Lands he Treads,  
And, to a close recess; fair Philomela leads.  
Trembling she stood, lost in distracting 〈◊〉,  
And for her Sister now inquires with Tears.  
He, in full rage of Lust, delays not long,  
But, with fierce Kisses, stays her Charming Tongue.  
Tells his designs, and her consent requires;  
Refused, more high he Foams, with wild desires,  
And ravishes the Maid, and quenches so, his Fires.  
In vain, alas! she Shrieked in her distress,  
Sister, nor Father, could her wrongs redress,  
On them, and Gods she cries, but all without success.  
And now deflow'red, from his loathed Arms she breaks,  
And thus upbraids him, while enraged she speaks.  
How shall I term thee, since thy Lust began!  
Vile, Treacherous Tyrant! Barbarous Monster! 〈◊〉  
Thee, nor my Father's Tears, nor Progne's Love,  
Nor my chaste, Virgin Innocence could move.  
Gods! What a wild confusion hast thou bred!  
I an Adultress to my Sister's Bed!  
Would I had died, e'er I my honour lost,  
I had departed with a spotless Ghost.  
Yet, if the Gods my wrongs, and suffering see,  
(Sure they will Punish too, if Gods they be.  
Thus having said, in hast she strove to run,  
And thought, by flight, the Tyrant's rage to eat.  
But he, provoked by her revealed Despair,  
Quickly surprised, and seized the injured fair;  
And threw her on the ground, and dragged her by the Hair.  
Strongly he binds her tender, helpless Arms,  
Resolved once more to rifle all her Charms.  
Loudly she Shrieks, and so Proclaims her wrong,  
Disarmed of all Resistance— but her Tongue.  
And that, his Sword cuts from the panting Root,  
Which trembling falls, and murmurs at his Foot.  
And like a Serpent's Tail dissevered, leaps,  
And for a while, pursues the Tyrant's steps.  
Yet, after this, he often, and often enjoyed,  
Nor was his horrid Lust with the Fruition cloyed.    

Pluto and Proserpina.  

A Lake there is which Stately Woods surround,  
Where constant Flocks of Silver Swans abound.  
A blooming Spring upon the Banks appears,  
And the Fair Trees created refreshing Airs.  
〈◊〉 strays Proserpina through Fragrant Groves,  
And gathers Flowers her Nicer fancy Loves.  
With pretty Pains a Childish care she shows,  
And picks, and chooses, all the way she goes.  
Behind her Young Companions now she stayed,  
Too long, her pleasing Pastime Charmed the Maid.  
Urged by a fond desire to gather on,  
That by her pains the rest might be outdone.  
〈◊〉 Pluto 〈◊〉 her, and admires her form,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Gesture showed the God some Charm.  
Fierce to enjoy, his Love Brooks no delay,  
He boldly carries her by force away.  
Not Words he uses to the tremblimg Maid,  
Who calls her Dear Companions to her aid.  
Now born by strength, with Shrieks, and Weeping Eyes  
She thinks he means to make her Flowers his prize.  
Those, while she struggles through excess of fear,  
Fall to the ground, for which she Tears her Hair,  
And simply Cries to see them scattered there.    

Alphaeus and Arethusa.  

OF Arethusa's change I Mourning Sing,  
And how the Nymph became a sacred Spring.  
To Hunt, and Toil, her dear Diversions were,  
And yet she Justly was reputed fair.  
The Virgin grieved her Beauties did excel,  
And thought it infamy to please too well.  
As from the Woods, tired with the chase she came,  
She found a silent, and a Silver stream.  
Securely close, and so exceeding clear,  
That every smallest Pibble would appear.  
Pleased with the coolness of the Place she Wades,  
And makes the Waters brighter where she treads.  
Than, leaves her Robes upon a Sallow's Top,  
And swims, and plunges still, to bear her up.  
Now, to the further side she gently rows,  
And plays, and sports, and wantoness as she goes;  
When, all amazed, she heard a stranger's Tongue,  
And, in Confusion, to the Bank she Sprung.  
Wither so fast? Alphaeus loudly Cries;  
She makes no Answer, but all trembling flies.  
He fleetly hasts to Seize his Beauteous prey,  
Who seemed, when leaping from the Streams away,  
A Venus rising from a Silver Sea.  
Wing'd with her fear, fair Arethusd flew,  
While fierce Alphaeus did as fast pursue.  
The more he hasts, the more he sees her fly,  
And still he catches, when he thinks her nigh.  
Nearer, much nearer he desires to see,  
And grieves to found he is not swift as she,  
As Doves do Hawks, she shuns him, all amazed,  
And almost thinks she is already seized.  
The Lover still his hot pursuit maintains  
Through Craggy Mountains, over Hills, and Plains.  
Follows all eager, nor would e'er for bear,  
And almost now over takes the flying fair.  
She sees his shadow, and his steps she hears,  
Feels his warm Breath, and now, and now she fears,  
Quite spent, she Cries, your aid Diana sand,  
Hast, Chastest Goddess, and a Nymph befriend.  
When a thick Mist the helpless Virgin shrouds,  
And the sad Maid is veiled with pitchy Clouds.  
The wondering Lover searches all around,  
But she must never, never more be found.  
That Sun of Beauty by the Fogs overcast,  
Must shine not more, but set in Floods at last.  
He ranges on, and every means he tries,  
Than, Lovely Arethusa, loudly Cries.  
As a poor Lamb grows stupid with her fears,  
When howling Wolves about the fold she hears.  
So, all amazed, the Maid stands trembling there,  
And Begs protection from the Gods by Prayer.  
She sighs, and weeps, cold sweats come o'er her Face,  
And trickling drops run down her Limbs apace.  
Her Beauteous Hair dissolves to Fragrant dew,  
And all consumed, a Silver stream she grew.    

Jupiter and Calisto.  

WHen now the thunderer walked the Heavenly round,  
And all there safe from the late burn found.  
The Fields, the Groves, and Streams he next surveyed,  
Where passing to and from he sees a Lovely Maid.  
Thou there no ruins in her way were strowed,  
The Nymph, the Charming Nymph, inflamed the God.  
Warmed by her looks, and brighter Glances, more  
Than when the Sun fir'd all his Skies before.  
She with a Zone her loser Garments tied,  
Her painted Quiver hanging by her side.  
Her flowing Tresses o'er her Shoulders spread,  
And her warm Face glowed with unusual Red.  
Thus tired with hunting, she to shades retires,  
To cool her own, but raise the thunderer's 〈◊〉  
On flowery Banks her Beauteous Limbs she lays,  
And to the God a tempting Heaven displays.  
Thus loosely stretched upon the Fragrant Bed,  
Her Arms thrown wide, her Quiver bears her Head,  
While Jove beheld, admired, and Loved the Maid.  
Diana like, straight from his Heaven he flies  
For her cool Shades, he quits his shining Skies,  
And stands before the Virgin, as she lies.  
My huntress, says he, while he fond viewed,  
What Game hast thou, this Lovely morn, 〈◊〉  
Strait did the rising Virgin towards him move,  
And thus replied; hail, Power more great than 〈◊〉  
This the fond God, with smiles, delighted heard,  
Pleased that himself was to himself preferred.  
She straight about to Answer more, in haste,  
The pressing Lover clasps about her waist,  
And Kissed her fiercely, and embraced her fast.  
Just as the Thunder, from his own abode,  
With inward struggle flies, so flew the God.  
Soon more inflamed, his Kisses eager grow;  
Not such as Maids on their own Sex bestow;  
He now would further sweets, and greater transports know.  
Impatient grown, he forces her to yield,  
And gains by strength, the long disputed Field.  
In vain, exerting all her Powers, she strove,  
Alas! What Woman can contend with Jove!  
Enjoyed, he leaves the Nymph, who well might know,  
The Chastest Goddess could not use her so.  
Rising in haste, straight from the Woods she sprung,  
And left her Bow, her useless Bow, unstrung.  
She sees Diana, but she dreads the shape,  
And Blushing flies her fast, and fears a second Rape.    

Pygmalion and his Ivory Statue.  

IN a lewd Age Pygmalion spent his times,  
Women debauched themselves with Monstrous Crimes.  
Not virtuous Virgin in his Days was known,  
All the chaste, Female Modesty was gone,  
Therefore a long, long time he lived alone.  
An Ivory Statue now at last he Frames,  
And from the Maid he formed, he gathers Flames.  
In every part, the Virgin did excel,  
Which Limb was best, the Artist could not tell,  
It was all Lovely, and he Loved it well.  
Curious her shape, so sparkling were her Eyes,  
Such quick, such glancing brightness in them lies,  
They would have rolled, but that her shame denies.  
Such lively strokes he to the Maid did give,  
That, tho' a Statue, she appeared to live.  
The Artist's self that she had Life believed,  
And fond was by his own Art deceived.  
He felt her flesh, for he supposed it such,  
And feared to hurt her, with too rude a touch.  
Often he Kissed her, while he madly burned,  
And fancied now, how she the like returned.  
He Woos her, Sighs, and her fair Hands does 〈◊〉  
And tells his Passion in a Dear Address.  
Till at the last, his Notions grew so vain,  
That he believed she sighed, and pressed again.  
He sends her presents, Gums, and precious Stones,  
The choicest Bracelets, and bright, glittering 〈◊〉  
Soft singing Birds, which fluttering all around,  
With pretty Notes, raised a delightful sound.  
Rich Pendants, Rings, and Gums he sends the Maid,  
With Wreaths of flowers adorns her Lovely Head,  
And lays her now, soft on a Downy Bed.  
In Pompous Robes he does his Idol Dress;  
Much so she Charms, but not, when naked, lesle.  
Now was the time, when 〈◊〉 kept her Feast,  
And Lovesick Youths to her famed Temple pressed.  
There to be offered, Snowy Heifers come,  
And the rich Altar smokes with precious Gum.  
Among the Crowd the hopeless Lover goes,  
Thou no Just reason, or pretence he knows.  
Before the Altar, now he weeping stands,  
And Bows, with Offerings in his careful hands.  
Fiercer, and Fiercer his desires grow there,  
And rise more furious, from his wild Despair.  
A long, long time does he forbear to pray,  
For still his doubts denied his Speech the way,  
Yet wished (altho' he knew not why) to stay.  
At last, his fearsul silence now he Breaks,  
And thus, but still in mighty fear, he speaks.  
If you, Love's Beauteous, Charming Goddess, have,  
And can bestow what Mortal suppliants Crave.  
Show now your Power, on me your Blessings shed,  
Grant me the Wife I wish, one like, he said,  
But durst not say, grant me my Ivory Maid.  
This done, he thrice percieves the flashing Fires,  
The happy Omen blest his fond desires,  
And to the Maid he now with doubtful Joy retires.  
With wondrous long he in haste returns,  
And now, more fiercely than before, he burns,  
Closely he clasped her to his panting Breast,  
And felt her softer still, the more he pressed.  
Now, all at once, with a surprise of bliss,  
He finds her Lips grow warmer with his Kiss,  
He finds them Moist, and Soft, and Read as his.  
Her throbbing Breasts heaved now, and gently swelled,  
While he with wonder the Loved sight beheld,  
The Maid, now Fairer, in his Arms he bore,  
Thou framed of Ivory, polished fine before.  
Let none henceforth of wished success Despair,  
When Statues softened by our Passions are.  
The happy Artist, now perceives his Wife  
With beating Pulses, and with perfect Life.  
And, for a while, as Motionless he stood,  
As she had done, e'er she grew Flesh and Blood.  
Her Lover first she with the light descries,  
For which she Checks, and turns her bashful Eyes,  
While in her blooming Face her Beauteous Blushes rise.    

Salmacis and Hermaphroditus.  

THE Beauteous Salmacis, who Loved her ease,  
By her own Fountain Passes happy Days.  
There she delights, there do her wishes please.  
This Nymph was still unpractised in the chase,  
She ne'er contended in a painful race.  
Loved not to mingle with Diana's Train,  
Nor draw the Bow, nor Hunt upon the Plain.  
Often her laborious Sisters bid her rise,  
To Join with them, and get some stately Prize.  
They urged her often with Words repeated over,  
To follows Staggs, or to pursue the Boar.  
All would not do, she would no Quiver seize,  
Nor for their toil forgo her pleasant ease.  
But in her Fountain she delights to play,  
By Night rests there, and there she Baths by Day.  
Still in that liquid Glass she dressed her Charms,  
And her fair Eyes with Loving glances Arms.  
There still she learned what Gesture best became,  
There practised Charms, such as could raise a Flame.  
Often from one side she to the other Swims,  
Than in fine Lawn arrays her Beauteous Limbs.  
Often, on soft Moss, stretched at their length they lay,  
And through the White, transparent Robes their Lovely shape display.  
To the full view she leaves her Bosom bore,  
Spreads o'er her Shoulders her lose, flowing Hair,  
And shows her Face, her Neck, and Breasts exceeding fair.  
Languishing now, on blooming Banks she lies,  
And plucks such Flowers as please her Curious Eyes.  
When she perciev'd, as she was busied there,  
The Charming Son of Hermes coming near,  
Who, soon as seen, the Virgin's wishes moved,  
For he deserved to be by all belov'd.  
His blooming Beauties she admired much more,  
Than the fair Flowers for which she longed before.  
At the first sight, her wishes filled her Soul,  
While soft Emotions in her Bosom roll.  
Her Fires grew fiercer, as he nearer came,  
And now she fond burns with glowing Flame.  
Much she desired, yet still concealed she lies,  
Till with soft looks she decked her sparkling Eyes.  
Till she appeared with all her utmost Art;  
Till all her Beauties bloomed in every part,  
That she might win the Charmer, and surprise a Heart.  
With all her skill she does each Feature Arm,  
And sets her Dress, who of herself might Charm.  
She now at last in all her Robes applies,  
To the dear Youth in looks, and moving sighs,  
And by her melting Words she shows him how she dies.  
With gaining ways, and soft, bewitching snares,  
Her Passion thus she to the Swain declares.  
Such are your Charms, dear Boy, your Beauties such,  
All Nymphs must Love you, none can Love too much.  
Pleasing your form, sure you are all Divine,  
All Hearts you Conquer, as you Conquer mine.  
Such are the wondrous glories of your Face,  
You were not born sure of a Mortal race.  
Such, such the sparkling brightness of your Eyes,  
Such the strange force which in their glances lies,  
You are some God descended from the Skies.  
Ah! you so much can on a sudden move,  
I know, I know that you were born above,  
You are the Son to the fair Queen of Love.  
If I mistake, if than you are not so,  
But the sweet Offspring of some Prince below.  
Happy, ah! thrice, thrice happy must they be,  
Who are related, and allied to thee.  
Blessed are thy Parents: and that Woman's Breast,  
Which gave thee Food, is infinitely blest,  
But the fair Partn'r of thy Bed much more than all the rest.  
If such there be, ah! do but grant me this,  
Let me Embrace thee, let me fond Kiss,  
And by close stealth deprive her of her Bliss.  
But if you yet from Nuptial vows are free,  
Make me your Joyful Bride, ah! seal them now with 〈◊〉  
The Lovesick Nymph thus far her Passion moved,  
Thus told the Charming Youth how well she 〈◊〉  
When sierce desires her farther Speech debarred,  
And the Youth Blushed for the fond things he 〈◊〉  
Still in his Blushes did he Lovelier seem,  
Still more she wished to be beloved by him.  
So Apples blush upon the Sunny side,  
Or polished Ivory with vermilion died.  
So in Eclipses does the Moon appear,  
When stains of Read her struggling Face does wear.  
Closer she comes, and now in Amorous pain,  
She thinks to seize upon the Lovely Swain.  
With bashful Anger her Embrace he shuns,  
And from the Maid disdaining proudly, runs.  
With nice reserve he flies the tempting snare,  
Forbear, he cries, lose idle Nymph, forbear,  
Or I'll forsake the place, and leave you there.  
She, at this Menace from the Youth, replied.  
'Tis yours, fair Swain, and so she stepped aside.  
Yet in a thicket of close, shrubby Trees,  
She hides secure, and all his Actions sees.  
He now believing there was none to view,  
To the fair Banks of the Nymph's Fountain drew.  
And sporting now, trips nimbly back again,  
With bolder steps o'cr all the Flowery plain.  
Now, growing warm, he crosses o'er the Meads,  
Comes to the Stream, and to the Knees he wades.  
Than, to the Greene's he takes the nearer ways,  
His Silken Garments on the ground he lays.  
And to the longing Maid, all, all the Man displays.  
His Naked Beauties her fond sight amazed,  
Who with impatient, eager wishes gazed.  
Her sparkling Eyes, while she the Youth desires,  
Glow with bright Beams, and shoot out shining Fires.  
Their rays the Sun's on Silver streams surpass,  
Or when reflected by a Crystal Glass.  
Mad to possess, and to enjoy the Swain,  
She almost thinks to tell her Loves again,  
So very much she burns with the transporting pain.  
Now, from the Flowery Bank, to which he came,  
The Lovely Boy leapt down into the Stream.  
Than, with his Snowy Arms he loosely plays,  
And sports, and wantoness thro' his liquid ways.  
Still as he swims, his glittering Limbs appear,  
Through the smooth Streams, so undisturbed, and clear.  
Like Ivory Statues, which the Life surpass,  
Or like a Lily in a Crystal Glass.  
The ravished Virgin Cries, he's now my own,  
And, straight disrobed of all, impatient grown,  
Pursues her eager Joys, and plunges to him down.  
About his Neck, and o'er his struggling Waste,  
Her circling Arms with longing folds she cast.  
On every side she clasps him, as he swims,  
And locks him closely with her twining Limbs.  
So, when an Eagle with a Serpent flies,  
Fast in his Talons, and than Mounts the Skies  
Around his Head, and Feet the Serpent clings,  
And wreaths her tail about his spacious Wings.  
Still, tho' detained, and forced, the struggling Boy  
With all his Powers resists the Virgin's Joy.  
In vain, ingrateful, foolish Youth, she cries,  
In vain, your scornful Pride my coming bliss denies.  
Grant, grant ye Powers! that no unhappy day,  
May snatch this youth from my embrace away.  
Propitious Powers to the Nymph's Prayers incline,  
For straight in one their different Figures twine.  
And as their Souls Joined when their transports flew,  
Their Bodies mingled with each other too.    

Shafalus and Procris.  

TWO fleeting Months blest Shafalus had passed,  
Who now may grieve they did not longer last.  
While he has Procris, swift each Minute flies,  
They Count no time, who cannot Count their Joys.  
Those pleasing hours, winged with their transports, flew,  
When fair Aurora saw, and Loved him too.  
Thou on her Throne she had the Power to sway,  
The dewy confines of the Night, and Day.  
He was her greatest Pride, her only care,  
While deeper Blushes in her Cheeks appear,  
And show her shame, because she thinks him Dear,  
On steep Hymettus she her Flames declared,  
But happy Procris is to her preferred.  
She had his Heart, she had his Soul before,  
He gave her all he could, and wished to give her more,  
This when Aurora knew, enraged she said,  
Keep than your Procris, prise your Nuptial Bed.  
But if I fate, or her proceed know,  
You soon will wish you had not Loved her so.  
He leaves the Goddess, but her Words he bears,  
Which rack his Mind with Thousand Anxious fears.  
Sometimes he thinks she might his honour wrong,  
And than concludes her Virtuous, tho' she's young.  
Yet often he doubts, where the surmise was vain,  
And must himself be Author of his pain.  
Changed by Aurora, a new form he wears,  
And, as a stranger, at his House appears.  
All there was silent, he could sinned no Crime,  
As if with Procris all had mourned for him.  
With all his Arts he does the cheat pursue,  
And seemed to fear that they were all too few.  
At length he sees her, and amazed he stood,  
New Beams of Beauty pierced her sorrow's Cloud.  
Scarce from due Kisses could he there refrain,  
And almost thought to grow himself again.  
For him alone was all fair Procris care,  
Absent to her, altho' she saw him there.  
Often he attempts her Chastity to try,  
He asks her often, who does as often deny.  
She yet does faithful to her Nuptials prove,  
Nor dares even fancy she can wrong her Love.  
Presents he sends, and by the Gods he swears,  
She must be his, for he is only hers.  
Seduced by these, she knows not what to do,  
Nor can she tell would she be chaste, or not,  
Fears she is lost, for Oh! she finds it so.  
Her Eyes with Tears, her Cheeks with Blushes filled,  
She shows, by silence, she at length might yield.  
Than, he enraged in his own form appeared,  
She saw her Lord, and as she saw, she feared.  
He loudly stormed, and like a Tempest flew,  
She pressed with shame; in silence, straight withdrew.  
Ran to the Woods, nor would return again,  
No Beast so Savage, so abhorred, as Men.  
He soon reputes the mischiefs he has done,  
And says himself the fault was all his own.  
Forgives his Procris, who again returned,  
And owns, he, so, had for Aurora burned.  
Their Love more firm, by being broken, grows,  
They both resolve to keep their Nuptial vows,  
He in a Wife was blest, and she a Spouse.  
In their chaste Breasts so Just a Passion moves,  
He prized her Bed above the Queen of Love's,  
Nor would she change her Husband's even for Jove's.  
Now with his Dart he Traces o'er the plain,  
And haunts the Forests, and the Woods again.  
After his toil, he does to Shades repair,  
Where the cool Valleys Breath refreshing air.  
Come, Air, he cried, (as he was used to say)  
O come, and Kiss my glowing heat away.  
Often did he call it with such Words as those,  
And Court it so, while he more fiercely glows.  
Some busy Fool heard all that he had said,  
And told his Procris he had wronged her Bed.  
She, Jealous she, was with the story moved,  
And fears some Dryad, above her beloved.  
Condemns her Lord as most inconstant now,  
She says he is, but yet she knows not how.  
The following Day he does his game pursue,  
And Courts the Air, as he was want to 〈◊〉  
When a loud sigh among the Woods he hears,  
Than straight a rustling, and in hast he stirs.  
Throws his strong Dart at the 〈◊〉 Beast,  
And Wounds his Procris on the tender Breast.  
Aye me! She cried; her Voice too well he knew,  
And in distraction to her aid he flew;  
Found her all Bloody with the wound he made,  
Faint with the blow, and half already dead.  
O live, said he, leave me not guilty here,  
To smart for ever for the Wound you bear,  
The Wound I gave that Breast I Love so Dear.  
Dying, she cried, by all the Gods above,  
By all the Gods that have a sense of Love.  
By all the Powers that have Command below,  
To whose infernal Regions I must go,  
By all the blessed— by Procris, and by you.  
I charge you, ne'er let your desires be moved,  
Nor let lewd Air be after me beloved.  
Just as she died, he did her fate unfold,  
And told it Mourning, since too late he told.    

Phoebus and Leucothoe.  

OF Phoebus Loves, and of their cause I sing,  
Of that Just cause, from which his sorrows spring.  
A like, fierce Flames, and equal Passions move,  
The God of Battles, and the Queen of Love.  
They both alike resolve to quench the Fire,  
And now in secret to their Joys retire;  
This Phoebus sees, as on his Course he goes,  
And to wronged Vulcan does their stealth disclose.  
Fine, Brazen Nets, by his directions made,  
Are gently closed about the injured Bed.  
So 〈◊〉 wrought, they could the Eye deceive,  
Moore curious far than those the Spiders wove.  
Thus strictly bound, they had not Power to move,  
The God of War was than Compelled to Love.  
Now Vulcan tells the sports that he had seen,  
Acquaints the Gods with what had lately been,  
And at his Ivory Doors they all come laughing in.  
Thus Mars Triumphant in his Chariot road,  
〈◊〉 at, yet envied by each wishing God.  
For this, from Venus, Phoebus' Passion came,  
From hence it was he felt his fatal Flame.  
His longing Eyes alone Leucothoe view,  
And give to her what to the World is due.  
He sees alas! yet tho' all Eye he be,  
If he is blest, he must do more than see.  
He rises Early, and desires to stay,  
Beyond the usual Limits of the Day.  
In his sad Face his raging griefs appear,  
Which strike the World with an amazing fear.  
Thus an Eclipse could ne'er his light remove;  
These Paler looks are the effects of Love.  
As when great Fires upon the smaller beat,  
They dim their brightness with a Conquering heat.  
So the Sun's-Beams, when Amorous Flames he bore,  
Lost all that Lustre which they showed before.  
Leucothoe he to all the World prefers,  
And all its Beauties are despised for here's.  
Her Royal Father Persia's Sceptre swayed,  
Yet, not her Birth, but Charms, endeared the Maid.  
He now dismounts his glorious, shining throne,  
And puts her Mother's awful likeness on,  
Whilst by a Lamp the Beauteous Virgin spun.  
He Kissed her first, and scarce could more forbear,  
Than bid the Maids withdraw, & leave them there,  
He had a secret, that they must not hear,  
Now the bold God his brightness reassumes,  
And tells her who he is, and why he comes.  
Thou he sees all, and by him all things see,  
By her Dear self he swears, there's none so bright as she.  
Not his own rays such Radiant Lustre wear,  
As her Loved Eyes in their swift glances bear.  
Amazed she seems, nor has she Power to stir,  
The God as stedsast too admiring her.  
Stupid, and senseless with her fear she stands,  
And drops her distaff from her trembling hands.  
Her Beauteous fright his siercer Passion fed,  
And, now he Conquers, now enjoys the Maid.  
This Clytie knew, nor could she long conceal,  
She was her Rival, and she Joys to tell.  
Her Savage Father hears her fatal Crime,  
And her excuses do but harden him.  
His Beauteous Child he does alive inter,  
And throws a Mountain on the injured fair.  
This Phoebus sees, and would new Life beget,  
While his bright Beams do at the Mountain beaten,  
In vain, alas! she cannot feel their heat.  
How does he grieve at his too feeble Power?  
He ne'er so truly did Lament before.  
Not his lost Son made him so sadly Mourn,  
He scorched the World, but she made 〈◊〉 burn.    

Hippomenes and Atalanta.  

TO Shady Woods fair Atalanta fled,  
Resolved to eat the fatal Marriage Bed.  
Warned by Apollo, she prepares to flee  
From every Suitor not so swift as she.  
Replies to all, she must be first outrun,  
Or else she Lives to be enjoyed by none.  
Declares besides, who through presumption tries  
To Conquer her, if unsuccessful, dies.  
Thus, many swains Love's, and Death's pangs did bear,  
Their hazard noble, as the Maid was fair.  
Whilst others feared to seek the Beauteous prize,  
What her Eyes urged, her fatal tongue denies.  
Now some bold Youth, who long a Flame had born,  
Nor could expect, or hope a kind return,  
Preferred her Conquest far before her scorn.  
And begs a race, nor does he know to fear,  
'Tis lesle, much lesle to die, than languish in 〈◊〉  
Here Young Hippomenes by chance appears,  
And of the Lover, and his Flame, he hears.  
It first his pity, than his Anger moved,  
He cries the Maid is too, too much beloved.  
But in the race, when he her form beheld,  
He was with fonder Admiration filled.  
He gazed with wonder, nor could Justly tell,  
Which did, her Beauty, or her speed, excel.  
Swift as a Scythian shaft the Virgin flew,  
Scarce could her Lover within sight pursue.  
With a Wing'd hast she nimbly seemed to fly,  
Her Feet outran the quick Spectator's Eye.  
Now growing warm he still admires her more,  
Her motion fanned those Fires, which her Eyes caused  
Whilst the fond Winds bear back the purple strings  
Which bind her Legs, and seem like loser wings.  
Tossing her Hair on her fair Shoulders spread,  
And all her snowy skin grows Beauteous Red.  
Carnation Curtains so on Walls displayed,  
Die their pure whiteness with a fainting shade.  
All this he sees, and he admires it all,  
And almost fears that thus himself must fall.  
Praises the Maid, and is Enamoured grown,  
Wishes she now may be o'ercome by none.  
He is resolved his better fates to try,  
And must enjoy her, or he vows to die.  
Thus while he Thought; the fatal race was run,  
And the lost Lover's Life fair Atalanta won.  
The bold Spectator from the Crowd appears,  
And humbly bowing Darts his Eyes at hers.  
His Love he does above his Life esteem,  
And owns the Conquest she has gained of him.  
Tells her she must her Victory pursue,  
And, as with Beauty, kill with swiftness too.  
Demands a race, not fainting, or afraid,  
But slights all dangers for the Beauteous Maid.  
Bids her contend with him, nor seek to raise  
By meaner Conquests, but a meaner praise.  
Sprung from great Neptune, he assures her so,  
She will be Victor in her overthrow.  
The Boy she hears, and does his Beauty's view,  
She would not have him his designs pursue,  
And scarce, ah! scarce she wishes to subdue.  
What God she says would such a Youth destroy,  
Who through these dangers would my Charms enjoy!  
What! what's his Mien! what is he all I see!  
Such sparkling glories so despised for me!  
Must those bright looks, those shining Beauties fall,  
My Merit never could reward them all.  
Ah! Charming Boy! eat my deluding Bed,  
You cannot Conquer; and I must not Wed.  
Your worth you know not, and you dote on mine,  
There is no Virgin who would not be thine.  
In vain, I speak, and I advice in vain,  
In vain alas! you hear of Numbers slain.  
O I could wish you would the danger eat,  
Or, since resolved, would you could faster run.  
Thou, Beauteous Boy! art the dear Youth alone,  
To whom my Charms should be entirely known,  
And should be mine, were I myself my own.  
Would Heaven had Ordered that I ne'er had been,  
Or that you ne'er had Atalanta seen.  
Thus far her new born Passion urged the Maid,  
He hears it all, and as he hears, is glad.  
Perceives her Flames, tho' to herself unknown,  
And hopes e'er long to Crown them with his own.  
The Numerous Crowds do now impatient grow,  
With Murmurs of a race, and swarm to know.  
The eager Boy calls Venus to his Aid,  
That, as he Loves, he may enjoy the Maid.  
From her, three Golden Apples he receives,  
Who tolls the use of the Rich Fruit she gives.  
Now both the Lovers at the Barrier stand,  
And the loud Trumpets Sound on either Hand.  
They start at once, who might be safely born  
O'er Autumn Fields, nor hurt the standing Corn.  
A thousand Cries rise from the Noisy Crowd,  
The Goal is yours, baste, haste, they shout aloud.  
Ill with his Feet the Boy's desires comply,  
He sees the maid, but ah! he sees her fly.  
How did she stay, when she might often o'ergo,  
And look, and grieve, that she outstripped him so?  
Now the tired Youth one of the Apples threw,  
In quest of which the greedy Virgin flew.  
Behind her far the rolling Gold was thrown,  
Which she admires, for which she Deigns to run.  
The glowing Youth now swiftly passes by,  
And the loud Field resounds with shouts of Joy,  
Yet soon again she overtakes the Boy.  
The other two with greater force he throws,  
By which the Virgin does the Conquest loose.  
For each she turns, and lets her Lover run,  
Who now was foremost, when the race was done,  
And Atalanta by the Youth was won.    

Echo.  

THE Vocal Nymph the Young Narcissus views,  
As he his prey into the toils pursues.  
Thou she herself could not her silence break,  
She Answered others, when she heard them speak.  
Revengeful Juno, Jealous of her Jove,  
Might have surprised him often in Lawless Love,  
But still this Nymph with cunning Wiles deferred  
The Goddess' progress, till her talk she heard.  
So that her Rivals by this Crafty slight,  
Escaped her fury in their speedy flight.  
Which when she knew, for such a wrong, she said,  
Thy Tongue small Power shall boast, deluding Maid.  
She threatens high, while she who hears the threats,  
The self same things in the same Words repeats.  
Now the fair Youth she saw, and straight admires,  
She follows silently with fond desires,  
Wherever he goes, and still she gathers Fires.  
Nearer, and nearer in his steps she moves,  
And still pursuing, still the more she Loves.  
Her wishes fired, when closer now she came,  
As Sulphurous Torches catch approaching Flame.  
Often she strove, but strove in vain to tell  
The Charming Youth she Loved him too, too well.  
To her fond mind a Thousands things she brought,  
Moving, and melting was her tender Thought,  
But all concealed; for she could utter naught.  
The Power of speaking was denied the Maid,  
But still, to hear his Speech, she longing stayed,  
That she might Answer to whate'er he said.  
His Young Companions gone, the Boy complains,  
And calls, and calls them in continued strains.  
Where do you fly? Fond Echo hears him cry,  
And straits she Answers him, where do you fly?  
Around he looks, but he can nothing see,  
And much he wonders whence the Voice could be.  
Is any near? He cries, she pleased to hear  
Those Joyful Words, returns, is any near!  
Once more the Huntsman hollows o'er the plain,  
And utters sounds, which she returns again.  
Moore loud he calls, she of the Office proud,  
In hasty Accents, made replies as loud.  
Than let us Join, he said, her Thoughts combine,  
And all consent, she Answers— let us Join.  
Soon as she spoke, straight from the Woods she flew,  
And round his Neck her Arms, transported, threw.  
With close Embraces fond locked him fast,  
Who struggling broke from her weak hold at last.  
And proudly cries, rather I'll cease to be,  
Than you, lose Nymph, shall have your will on me,  
Shall have your will on me? the Nymph returns,  
To the ingrateful Boy for whom so much she burns.  
Meanwhile he flies, disdainful, from her view;  
Now, so repulsed, she will not more pursue.  
With all her speed she runs to gloomy Groves,  
And grieves to think he should despise her Loves.  
Her Flames rejected, she Laments, and Mourns,  
And Weeps, and Blushes, with the shame, by turns.  
Alone she Pines with her excess of Woe,  
But Loves him still, who made her Wretched so.  
Her raging Passion, and her fonder grief,  
Torment her so, she can have no relief.  
Thoughts of her slight the Virgin waking keep,  
Restless, and Languishing, for want of sleep.  
Now she consumes with her continued care,  
And all her Moisture is dissolved to Air.  
Naught of her now remains but empty sound,  
Her Voice still heard in Caves, and Hollow ground.  
Thus her the Cruel, Young Narcissus' Pride,  
Had killed, with many other Nymphs beside.  
Some born in Rivers, and on Mountains some,  
Sure still to ruin, where his Beauties come.  
When one who suffered by his proud disdain,  
Despairing prayed, when she did long complain,  
Thus may he Love himself, and thus in vain.  
Her wish was Just, and met with great regard,  
She fell revenged, for soon Rhamnusia heard.    

Narcissus.  
Beginning with the Description of a Spring.  

IN a deep Vale; lodged among Ancient Trees,  
Which Shade it round, a Silver Fountain lies.  
Gird with long Grass, whose Verdant Beauties show,  
To whose great Bounty they their freshness owe.  
Not angry blasts the Spring's smooth surface moves,  
A peaceful Calm the liquid Crystal Loves,  
No lose, rude leaves its Virgin Water's stain,  
From the lest Mote, and every Blemish clean.  
So clear it shows, the Beauteous Trees appear,  
As if they saw to place their branches there.  
Whose lofty Tops do with such tremble move,  
As if they too were with themselves in Love.   

Here, tired with hunting, fair Narcissus came,  
Nor from such Waters feared a rising Flame.  
Pleased with the Shade, upon his Face he lies,  
Till Captived there by his own Conquering Eyes.  
He sees his Shadow in the liquid Glass,  
But knew not what his Charming Shadow was.  
With constant Eyes the fleeting form he views,  
For fear the darling object he should loose.  
So have I seen a well-Cut Parian Stone,  
Appear to gaze, with admiration, down.  
He Loves himself, what shall the Lover do,  
Both his own Mistress, and his Suitor too?  
Often stooped he down to catch the pleasing Cloud,  
And filled his Arms with the deceitful Flood.  
From the sierce Lover the false image fled,  
Coy, and Disdainful, as a Courted Maid.  
How could he hope, or e'er expect to found  
So cold a Mistress to his wishes kind?  
How could her wat'ry Breast his Flames approve,  
Too I'll alas! to feel the warmth of Love.  
Raising at length, with pain, his drooping Head,  
Thus, with a sigh, and folded Arms, he said.  
Tell me, ye Woods, ye aged Woods declare,  
Have ye yet known a Youth so Wretched here?  
Not Seas, nor Mountains do our Joys remove,  
Naught, but a little Water, parts our Love.  
As often as I to Kiss the Flood design,  
So often his Lips ascend, to Join with mine.  
Ah! Beauteous Boy! Why should you scornful flee?  
I too am Young, I too have Charms, like thee.  
Come forth, whate'er thou art, nor grieve me so,  
Or I will follow you wherever you go.  
You move your Lips, I see your Breath appear,  
But what you utter I must never hear.  
Oh! 'tis my 〈◊〉, alas! I plainly see,  
'Tis my own Shadow that bewitches me.  
In my own Flames I burn; what shall I do?  
Direct me, Heavens! Shall I be wooed, or woo?  
What shall I wish, what shall I further crave,  
Since what I covet I already have?  
Ye bounteous Gods! too much has made me Poor,  
Disjoin me from myself, I ask not more.  
Sure my desire may admiration move,  
I would be dispossesed of all I Love,  
Alas! I faint, I found I cannot live,  
Sure after Death I shall not longer grieve.  
Would her I Love might stay when I am gone,  
Two Wretched Lovers are destroyed in one.  
Than gazed again upon the form he made,  
And viewed with Watery Eyes the false, deluding Shade.  
His dropping Tears raised Circles, as they fell,  
And sunk the Shadow which he Loved so well.  
Weeping, methinks, should ease the pains he bore,  
But even his Tears made him Lament the more.  
Soon as he saw the fleeting Shadow flee,  
Ah! stay he cried, and I will die with thee.  
Let me but see you in the Envious Flood,  
And Feast my Passion on that empty food.  
Ah! too, too Justly I deserve my pain,  
The Nymphs all Loved me, yet they Loved in vain.  
The Beauteous Echo, o! I Mourn for her,  
Ungrateful I, who would not hear her Prayer.  
My harsh disdain did that fair Virgin kill,  
Shame to my Sex! By me, by me she fell.  
Complaining thus, he beats his Naked Breast,  
But feels the Torment where the pain was least.  
His Snowy skin by his rude Blows was made  
Like fairest Apples streaked around with read.  
Which wheu he saw in his fair form appear,  
He could not longer such a sorrow bear,  
Here he received the strokes, but smarted there.  
As virgin Wax dissolves with fervent heat,  
Or Morning Frost, whereon the Sunbeams beaten.  
So thaws Narcissus with his sierce desire,  
And Melts consumed in an unsual Fire.  
From his pale Checks their wont glories fled,  
They Blush not longer with a Beauteous Red.  
None of those Charms, those fatal Charms remain,  
Which Wretched Echo so admired in vain.  
That slighted Nymph deplores his hopeless fate,  
Nor, for his scorn, did she return him hate.  
From her sad Breast all Thoughts of Vengeance fled,  
She living Loved him, and she Mourns him dead.  
He dying cried, farewel, beloved in vain,  
She Sympathising, so complained again.  
The wasted Youth a Yellow Flower became,  
A Beauteous Flower, which still retains the name.  
The Swains bewail him, all throughout the Groves,  
And every Shepherd Moans Narcissus Loves.  
The Mourning Nymphs bedew the ground with Tears,  
That much Loved ground, which fair Narcissus bears.  
Than view with sorrow the deluding well,  
And with their Flowing griefs the Waters swell,  
Those hated Waters where Narcissus fell.  
Not tuneful Bird in all those Woods will sing,  
And pensive Flocks pass bleating by the Spring.  
It's very Waters a repentance show,  
And seem to Weep, as from the well they flow.    

Pan and Syrinx.  

YE haughty Maids, let this example warn,  
And 〈◊〉 you all from your injurious scorn.  
Fair Syrinx lived on sweet Arcadia's plains,  
The Joy, and Torment of the wondering Swains.  
Beloved by all, yet no one's Flames returned,  
For her the Rival Gods, for her the Sylvans burned.  
Nay, the rough Satyrs lay their rudeness by,  
Such was her Form! And gaze when she is nigh.  
For, through the Woods often with her Bow she came,  
And like Diana, chased the flying game.  
At her approach the yielding Branches Bow,  
And hasty twigs bend till she passes through.  
The darkest Groves are on a sudden bright,  
And seem to smile at their new Robe of light.  
The Amorous Trees Bow their Officious heads,  
And strew their willing leaves, wherever fair Syrinx Treads.  
All who behold her, are her Suitors grown,  
But the chaste Nymph resolves to live alone,  
To live a Maid, and therefore pities none.  
Unhappy fair! By her own Charms betrayed,  
Such Beauties sure were for enjoyment made.  
Her eager Lovers now in vain pursue,  
And strive to Ravish, since in vain they woo.  
Untouched, till now, she sported all abroad,  
But now is Courted by the Shepherd's God.  
As, Crowned with Pines, Pan from Lycaeus came,  
He saw the Nymph at her delightful game,  
He saw, he Loved, and must reveal his Flame.  
And with such Words as these, he urged her stay,  
Why from a God do you thus hast away?  
Sweeting, and spent, he follows still the fair,  
Sees the blessed Zephyrs wanton in her Hair,  
And all her flying Garments loosely bear.  
Her growing Beauties now inflame him more,  
And his fresh Crown he from his Temples tore,  
A Crown he always much esteemed before,  
Now, to smooth Ladon's Sandry Banks they flew,  
She shuns him fast, who does more fast pursue,  
In the God's reach the Nymph does now appear,  
The Wings of Love outfly the Wings of fear.  
With longing Arms he strives to seize his prey,  
Which from his cheated Arms escapes as oft away.  
Thus the balked Hound snaps at the Hare in vain,  
Deceived, Posts on, and is deceived again.  
But now the Nymph not more has Power to run,  
Nor knows she how the eager God to eat.  
She straight the watery Deity adores,  
Desires their pity, and their aid implores.  
Her Prayers are heard, and she is caught at last,  
Whom, changed to Reeds, the wondering Pan embraced.  
Amazed, he now for his lost Mistress Mourns,  
And speaks her praises, and his griefs by turns.  
Stirred with his sighs, the Reeds with tremble move,  
And in short Murmurs make complaints of Love.  
Pleased with the Sound, the God, all Ravished, cries,  
Thou thee in Person Rigid fate denies,  
Thy sweet, thy Charming Music never dies.  
Still shall such converse by thy change be found,  
And her own Pipe shall Syrinx praises Sound.    

Jupiter and Semele.  
Beginning with the Description of Fame and her Palace.  

A Place there is in the Capacious Air,  
Where all things done, tho' far remote, appear,  
Fame's lofty Palace, whose tall towers outvie  
The lowly Clouds, and reach the Blewest Sky.  
The Airy Queen in her high Mansions dwells,  
Knows all is said, and more than all she tells.  
Whate'er is done, whate'er is spoke she hears,  
A hundred Ears, a thousand Tongues she bears.  
Wing'd round about, through all her towers she flies,  
Descends to Earth, and Mounts again the Skies.  
Her Royal Arms two different Trumpets hold,  
Brass in the left, and in the right hand, Gold.  
From place to place with flying hast she roams,  
And Sounds them loudly wheresoever she comes.  
Ten thousand ways lead to her Spacious Court,  
Millions of rumours to her Hall resort.  
A while they talk of things they scarcely know,  
wander a while, and than away they go.  
Her Friendly Gates are wide expanded still,  
And with strange News her large Apartments fill.  
All built of Ringing Brass, her House resounds,  
Reports things told, and every Word rebounds.  
Within, no silence, yet the noise not loud,  
But like the Murmuring Voices of a Crowd.  
Such as from far the rolling Billows cause,  
Or as spent thunder with a fainting noise.  
With secret Whispers all the Palace Rings,  
Of unknown Authors, and of doubtful things.  
Here, truths, with lies coufus'dly mixed, are told,  
And the New Words still disser from the old.  
Millions of Tales, yet each, in telling, grows,  
For every Author adds to what he knows.  
So, in a Crowd, the Snow is rolled by all,  
And grows a Mountain which was first a Ball.  
Rash, foolish Error has her lodgings here,  
Vain, short lived Joy, and sad dejected Fear.  
These wait on Fame, from her their being have,  
And, when she pleases, loose the Life she gave.   

From her, wronged Juno knew her Bed defil'd,  
Knew, how lewd Semele was great with Child.  
〈◊〉, she cries, my 〈◊〉 are all in vain,  
〈◊〉 slighted Goddess! Will you still complain?  
Sway we a Sceptre, and is Heaven our seat,  
Or am I more than Titularly great?  
When thus a Mortal bears a Rival's Name,  
And by her Issue would Divulge her shame.  
What she brings forth my thunderer did beget,  
Such as our Love has scarce effected yet.  
But if his Sister, and his Wife I be,  
My Just revenge shall Act what's worthy me.  
Than, leaves her Throne, and in a Coloured Cloud,  
Descended where her Rival's Palace stood.  
Her Skin all wrinkled, and her Hair was grey,  
Who with her creeping Feet, groped out her lingering way.  
Crooked her Limbs, her Voice was Weak, and Hoarse,  
In all respects she seemed her Rival's Nurse.  
Long would she talk, whenever she mentioned Jove,  
And Cry, Pray Heavens none else has wronged your Love.  
Yet, truth, I fear, for Maids have thus been won,  
Deceived by Cheats, and by their Wiles undone.  
If he be Jove, let him some wonder do,  
That may convince you he is truly so.  
In all his glories let him Act his Love,  
Decked with those Ensigns which his Godhead prove.  
Such, and so mighty, as when Juno's Charms  
〈◊〉 him to clasp her in his burning Arms.  
Thus she advised, and set her Thoughts on Fire,  
Who wildly Rages with a sierce desire.  
And begs of Jove a favour, yet unknown,  
He bids her ask, he will refuse her none.  
He swears by Styx, which, through obscure abodes,  
Spreads his dull Streams, revered by all the Gods.  
Pleased with her high, destructive Power to move,  
She must be lost by her Ambitious Love.  
Tells him to here's he shall no Charms prefer,  
But, as he is to Juno, be to her.  
Within her Arms he must his glories show,  
And as he's Heaven's, be Love's great thunderer too.  
In haste, he sought to stop her fatal Tongue,  
For o! On that he knew her ruin hung.  
Too late alas! His vain attempt he made,  
For she had asked, and must be now obeyed.  
The God was grieved he had so rashly sworn,  
He knew his Love, his Semele must burn.  
Wrapped in dark Clouds, he sadly Mounts his Throne,  
And show ' is his sorrows in loud Tempests down.  
Dressed in his thunder, but of mildest Flame,  
To those Apartments, where she lodged, he came.  
Her great success she sadly now bewails,  
For Oh! more Fires than those of Love she Feels.  
Her high presumption, and its fate she Mourns,  
And in those bright embraces, which she urged, she Burns.    

Glaucus and Scylla.  

Repulsed by Scylla, Lovesick Glaucus flies  
To try what Power in Crice's Magic lies.  
And now at length, to Flaming AEtna came,  
AEtna and he Burnt with an equal Flame.  
Thence, soon arrived at the designed abode,  
The 〈◊〉 Enchantress welcomes there the God.  
To whom in moving Words his Flames he proves,  
And sadly thus Reveals his slighted Loves.  
'Twas Scylla's Beauty raised my fond desires,  
And in the Waters kindled raging Fires.  
On a high Rock close to the Seas she stood,  
And cast her Eyes down towards the rising Flood.  
There first I saw her, there I Loved her too,  
Courted, she fled, nor could I fast pursue,  
So, to implore your aid, I came to you.  
This favour, Goddess, you may soon confer,  
Quench not my Fires, but raise the like in her.  
To whom thus Circe speaks with taking Air,  
Be well assured you may enjoy the fair.  
I, sprung from Sol, to your Embraces run,  
With Radiant Charms, bright as my Parent Sun.  
Meet her who seeks thee, her, who flies thee, eat.  
Thus let thy fairer suppliant's Prayers be heard,  
My Love must sure be to her 〈◊〉 preferred.  
Glaucus' replies to her who Courts him so,  
First shady Groves shall on the Billows grow.  
Birds through the Seas, Fish through the plains shall move,  
E'er I, while Scylia lives, estrange my Love.  
Know than, she Cries, I shall not tamely 〈◊〉  
Your proud repulse, nor fall to vain Despair,  
Not, there's a Beauty you to me prefer,  
To ruin thee, 〈◊〉 be revenged on her.  
Thence, uttering Charms, straight to a Sandy Bay,  
In hast she flies; there Beauteous Scylla lay.  
Sad Glaucus too towards the shore returned,  
His Mistress, changed into a Rock, he Mourned,  
Circe refused, and still for Scylla Burned.    

Diana and Actaeon.  
Beginning with the Description of a Cave.  

A Cave there is, deep in declining ground,  
By Stately Pines, and Cypress Shaded round.  
Tall Reeds, and Osiers at the Entrance grew,  
And parted weeds with rivulets running through.  
The rough, Arched Roof all formed of Mossy Stone,  
From which long Tufts of Shaggy Grass hung down.  
Here, Crystal Streams in the smooth Bottom flow,  
And rise in Bubbles from their Springs below.  
From it's Cleft sides in rills the Waters pour,  
And in their constant Course trace one another over.  
Here, with her Nymphs, the chaste Diana came,  
And, all undressed, baths her soft Limbs with them.  
Pleased with the grateful coolness of the Cave,  
Her fatal Bow to her Loved Maid she gave.  
When, led by fate, the tired Actaeon too,  
With wandering steps, to the same Cave withdrew.  
The Nymphs all Shricked to see a Man appear,  
And stood amazed, and senseless with their fear,  
Like Ivory Pales about their Goddess there.  
She saw him too, more Tall than all her Train,  
And wished in hast she had her Bow again.  
As a bright Cloud, by Sunbeams pierced, appears,  
Or a fair Morn, which Virgin Blushes wears,  
So chaste Diana seemed, for such were here's.  
Dashing rude Water in his Face, she said,  
Tell how you saw a Goddess dissarrayed,  
Yes, tell aloud where you have boldly been,  
I give you leave, speak all that you have seen.  
Changed to a Stagg, now winged with fear he flies,  
And is surprised to see his swifter thighs.  
But when his Head the next clear River shows,  
And the proud Arms his Nature there bestows,  
He starts with wonder, and himself he fears,  
Thou not his Form, yet his own Mind he bears,  
And speaks his sorrows in his Groans and Tears.  
What shall he do? Alas! He grieves, in vain,  
Actaeon ne'er must be himself again.  
How shall he rest, how shall his change be born?  
Shall he stay there, or shall he home return?  
Thus while he thinks, his Dogs appear in view,  
And he must run, for his own Hounds pursue.  
O'er Craggy Cliffs, o'er Rocks they force their way,  
And on a swifter 〈◊〉 all chase the Princely prey.  
The lost Actaeon in his Anguish Cries,  
And, where he used to follow, now he flies.  
Feign would he tell them whom they sought to slay,  
But o! He could not speak, nor did he dare to stay.  
They seize him now, and tear the stately foe,  
Who were by him taught to be Cruel so.  
With usual shouts their Dogs the Huntsmen cheer.  
And seek, and call their Lord, already too, too near.  
In looks he Answers, yet is blamed by all,  
Because thought absent at his wondrous fall.    

Coronis and Neptune.  

FRom Royal Blood the fair Coronis came.  
As great by Beauty, as by Birth in fame.  
From both alike she has a Power to move,  
From both alike she draws Spectators Love.  
Her awful Charms make suppliant Princes Kneel,  
And quit their Crowns to show the Pangs they feel.  
Beloved by all, none dare her Laws oppose,  
Sure still to Triumph, and enslave her foes.  
The Neighb'uring Kings, who by their Arms might rise,  
Dread lesle— her Father's Sceptre, than her Conquering Eyes.  
While now the Maid walks on the nearer shore,  
To view the Floods, and hear the Billows roar.  
While now she steps upon the Sandy Bay,  
And seems another Venus of the Sea.  
The Amorous Fish approach the harder strand,  
Most now delighted on the Happy land.  
Not scaly Armour from her Beauties Saves.  
With their short Wings they cut the brighter Waves.  
The Sea Nymphs float upon the swelling Flood,  
Like Fancy seated on a moving Cloud.  
Now Neptune too through Waters feels a Flame.  
And owns Love's Mother from the Ocean came.  
At 〈◊〉 he sees the Maid, Serene, and fair,  
And tells his sufferings with a Lover's care.  
But now more rough with swelling Passions grown,  
When she, his Heaven, poured angry Tempests down.  
Like his own Waves, he does to ruin move,  
And, all enraged, chafes with the storms of Love.  
The frighted Virgin from the Ocean flew,  
And, swift as Winds, he does in haste pursue.  
Tired in the Sands, the God approaching near,  
She Cries for aid, and Begs the heavens to hear.  
As to the Skies her trembling Arms she threw.  
On their 〈◊〉 skin Black Plumes of Feathers grew.  
Turned to a Crow, she cuts the upper Air  
And leaves her Lover, who stands wondering there.    

Orpheus and Eurydice.  

THE Widowed Orpheus for the Bride he lost,  
Undaunted hastens to the Stygian Coast.  
Thinking to Charm with Verse the Powers below  
And hopes his Wife may be recovered so.  
Already now the Courts of Death he passed,  
And moved all Hell with his soft Songs at last.  
The Fiends with silent Admiration heard,  
The Mournful Music of the Artful Bard.  
His Harp and Tongue did Joy to all afford,  
While the Black roofs the wondrous Song restored.  
Not more does Tantalus in vain essay,  
To taste the streams which ran too fast away,  
Now, even the floods their rapid torrents stay.  
The wretch forgets what he desired so long,  
And only thirsts to hear the charming Song.  
The 〈◊〉 Maids not longer fill their Urn,  
Nor the quick loss of their spilt Waters mourn.  
Ixion now does a short respite feel,  
And leans, and listons on his quiet Wheel.  
The 〈◊〉 Vulture now torments no more,  
And Titius Liver is not longer sore.  
The Fiends to torture Wretched Souls forbear,  
And Furies Weep with a relenting care.  
All Hell Harmonious with his Voice appears,  
Of equal sweetness with the moving Spheres.  
Nor was the Music, which he made, in vain,  
All Hell consents to give his Bride again.  
But a short time she with the Youth remained,  
His Passion loses what his Poem gained.  
The Powers below did on these Terms restore  
His Wretched Wife to leave the Stygian shore.  
If, till he quite the Shades of Night had passed,  
And reached the clear AEtherial light at last,  
He turned his Eyes, his longing Eyes, to see  
His doubtful prize, it should for ever flee.  
Long now he wanders, and Extremely burns,  
Long he forbears, but urged at last, he turns.  
And now arrived to a faint, glimmering light,  
Where the Sun's rays pierced through the gloomy Night,  
He casts his eager Eyes, to see the wished-for sight.  
His Wretched Wife can now not longer stay,  
From his last look she fleets in haste away.  
In vain he thought to catch the Shade again,  
She too bend Backward, to be caught, in vain.  
Her double Death could not her anger move,  
He had no fault but his excess of Love.  
Gods! What cursed Thoughts urged his raised Passions on,  
When he perceived she was forever gone!  
Fled from his hold, and must return not more;  
He thinks he's now in Hell, and was in Heaven before.  
What Anxious ills did in his fancy roll,  
And what Tumultuous Pangs perplexed his Soul!  
In vain he wished he might with her return,  
But that denied, he could do naught but Mourn.  
In vain he Sung, his Notes were all in vain,  
No Verse, no Charm could bring her back again.  
Stay, dear Eurydice, Ah! Stay, he Cries,  
How fast the Lovely, fleeting Shadow flies!  
How fast she shuns me, tho' I can't pursue!  
This were not Hell, should it receive me too.  
She's now already on the farther Coast,  
Lost is Eurydice, my Wife is lost.  
No tract of time again can set her free,  
She's gone for ever, ever gone from me.  
Not Charms a second time Hell's Powers can move,  
Oh! They will ne'er release my Wretched Love.  
Not sacred Verse, no sacred Prayers will do,  
Hell has her now, would Hell had Orpbeus too.  
In Titius' Place let me his torments bear,  
Love's a worse Vulture than that gnaws him there.  
It preys, alas! On a much Nicer part,  
That hurts the Liver, but this hurts the Heart.  
Is this your goodness than? ye Hellish Powers!  
Yes, it may easily be known for yours.  
Some spiteful Fiend released her from the shore,  
But with design to make my sufferings more.  
For on such Terms you gave me back my Wife,  
You knew I must loose her, and she her Life.  
Thus is your Nature plainly understood,  
You ne'er intended to be wholly good.  
By some damned Power contrived, I know not how,  
You blessed a short, short while, to curse me now.  
Ah! Yet be kind, and my dear Bride restore,  
Let me enjoy the Blessing, yet, once more.  
Let my fond Eyes once more their Pleasure boast,  
Which but for too much Love had ne'er been lost.  
By that dread sway, that horror which I view,  
By those vast Realms which were allotted you,  
By that unquestioned right you rule them too.  
By these my Prayers, and Tears, which once had Charms,  
Once more restore her to my longing Arms.  
A little while let her on Orpheus' smile,  
And she is yours, within a little while.  
Life is but short, and when you please to call,  
You can have her, you can have me, and all.  
Thus Sung the Youth, but had not Power to move,  
No Charm the second time could gain his Love.  
Racked with Despair, he quits the Stygian Coast,  
Nor could he stay where his dear Wife was lost.  
Back to the light he takes his mournful way,  
But was not Cheered at the approach of Day.  
In sad complaints he does his griefs rehearse,  
And tells his Sorrows in his moving Verse.  
He Sings incessantly in Charming strains,  
And draws Stones to him o'er the flowery plains.  
His Pipe brings Herds, and their pleased Flocks along,  
Which leave their pasture, to admire his Song.  
The Trees Dance round, as if they understood,  
By wondrous Sympathy, the Voice of Wood  
His lays the Nymphs, and Sylvans did rejoice,  
And ravished Maids lay melting at his Voice.  
So could move,  
 
The wishing Virgins all their Powers bestow,  
To Charm the Youth who had o'ercome them so.  
But still Eurydice his Thoughts does fill,  
Her 'tis he Loves, to her he's constant still.  
They, vexed to bear their fond desires in vain,  
Hate where they Loved, and furious o'er the plain,  
Pursue the Youth, who by their Hands is slain.    
The End of the first Book.   

AMASIA, OR, THE Works of the Muses. Containing the MISCELLANY of LOVE.  
Vol. III. Book II.  
Qui non vult fieri desidiosus, amet.  

TO THE Right Honourable THE Countess of Manchester.  
MADAM,  
COuld any interest prevail with me to address a Person undeserving, my task would than be easier much; as the Painter who has a Face before him, indifferent to Paint, knows his chief business is to flatter; he knows he is not to draw a Face, but make one. But, Madam, I have so beautiful a Pattern before me, my Eyes grow dazzled, and my Soul is awed; your Ladyship is indeed an Original, a ravishing Original. I here present you the Miscellany of Love; in my Opinion, a very humble present, yet very suitable; the 〈◊〉 of all that's Good and Lovely, your Ladyship is presented by Nature to the World. So much Beauty, with so much goodness mingled, scarce ever met before; so much, that I hope humbly there's enough of both to smile on, and forgive the weak Endeavours of  
Madam, Your Ladyship's Most Humble and Most Obedient Servant, Silvius.   

THE MISCELLANY of LOVE  
On Flowers in Amasia's Bosom. In Imitation of Anacreon.  

WHAT? tell me, what, should Flowers do there,  
Amasia's sweet, as she is fair.  
In her, all blooming Beauties meet;  
What Flower so fair, as she is sweet?  
Not Flora's self, shall proudly dare  
With my Amasia to compare.  
Flora's Breast, I know it well,  
Does not like her Bosom smell.  
This, Flora too, herself, does know,  
For else, she would not Court her so.  
Not Eastern Spices, Indian Gums,  
Afford us half so rich Perfumes.  
Not the Phoenix boasted Nest  
Can Rival my Amasia's Breast.  
Arabia can't with here's compare,  
For Love's the Phoenix, that dwells there.  
There, tender sighs and wishes move,  
The Rich, the Odorous Breath of Love.  
Why should those Flowers, Amasia, stay?  
Pluck them, throw them far, away.  
Why should they in thy Bosom live?  
They come to Rob thee, not to give.  
They could, when growing in the Field,  
They could— but common Odours yield.  
Throw them, Amasia, throw them by,  
Than Mark, how quickly they shall die.  
You will not thence the Robbers throw;  
Sure they are rooted there, and grow.  
O happy they, in such a Bed!  
Where nothing withers, nor is dead.  
Thou every other Flower you spare,  
Let no Narcissus' Flourish there.  
Whilst thus my Rivals blest I see,  
I found, thy Bosom can be free,  
To any thing, but Love and me.    

To a Lady ask me a Thousand impertinent Questions, which she would have Answered.  

YOur swarm of Queries one Just Answer draws,  
I did this, that, and every thing— because.  
What, want that Answer do? Now, Jove forbidden;  
I did this, that, and all;— because I did.    

To the Lady abovementioned, saying I gave her a very senseless, impudent Answer.  

IN Mazes of impertinence involved,  
You are not yet, nor can be e'er resolved.  
I thought,— Because— had fairly played its part;  
'Tis very hard, you should more Questions start,  
Than your whole Sex can Answer for their Heart.  
All the response they practise, won't suffice;  
Yes, Not;— or shall I Answer you with Why's?  
By you, I hope, I shall not more be tasked,  
Answered, as civilly, as I was asked.  
Now, since I give you my replies so plain,  
Favour me once, and tell me what you 〈◊〉.  
Than, if I yet must Answer you more true,  
Start me a thousand Questions all anew.  
I'll make replies, as fast as they are said,  
Answer me only this—  
What 'tis you think, and what you do a Bed.    

To the same Lady, saying she would give me a Kiss, if I would tell her what she asked me.  

I'll take the Bribe, but not my Answers cell;  
Madam, you know, we must not Kiss, and tell.  
Maids, 〈◊〉 e'er now, (yet often their aim have Mist,)  
Have been impertinent, but to be kissed.    

To the Lady aforesaid, striking me on the Face with her Fan, for my former Answers.  

NOT longer now I must your rage withstand,  
Who brandish thus your Vengeance in your Hand.  
How very stupid must my senses grow!  
Which ne'er conceive, or what you say, or do,  
But this— and this you beaten into me too.  
To make returns for this last Favour shown;  
Now you have Struck my Face, pray, hid your own.    

To a Lady, who asked me why I writ on such trifling Occasions.  

THese are the fittest subjects I can choose,  
For trifling business, Suits a trifling Muse.  
I make my Verse, at lest, my own delight,  
And, Madam, when I trifle, than I writ.    

To a Lady, saying I aught to Mary her, because she Loved me.  

THus must I pay, by smarting, for your Wound;  
If you be Conquered, why should I be bound?  
O never more to such entreaties move,  
You would not have me hate you, if you Love?    

To the same Loving Lady, telling me, abuse was an ill requital for sost Passion, but she thanked her Stars, she was but in Jest.  

SUch Juggling Tricks I cannot understand;  
You hold, unhurt, Coals burning in your Hand.  
Long may you sport in the false Amorous fit;  
Love is a Jest, I ne'er could laugh at yet.  
I'm pleased to found your wrongs already over,  
For, should I Wed, I might abuse you more.    

To a Lady ask my Opinion concerning 〈◊〉 Writings of the Ancients and Moderns.  

THIS only I dare positive avow,  
The Ancients wrote best than, the Moderns now.    

To a Lady, making her a present of Straw-Work.  

LET Straw not more in slighting Terms be named,  
What she accepts, grows worthy to be famed.  
Let labourers beaten the shining sheaf not more,  
'Tis now prized higher than the Corn it bore.  
From your fair hands I may this Knowledge draw;  
Your Eyes attract my Heart, as those the Straw.  
O happy product, which the Field has given!  
From earth it Sprung, but reaches now to Heaven.    

To the Bookseller desiring my Sculpture before my Book.  

TAke it, the Wretched, lifeless Figure take;  
'Tis only given for my Amasia's sake.  
With Charms, too bright to be repelled, you move,  
Yet, not through vanity I yield, but Love.  
Amasia's Name does my Book's Title Crown,  
Amasia's Name, which gives my Book Renown.  
Hence 'tis I grant, with pleasure, your demand;  
Shall I not, Joined with my Amasia, stand?  
Let, with a scoff, the World my form disdain,  
The censuring World, unknowing Lovers pain;  
On this account, I'm proud of being vain.  
Myself I gave to the bright Maid before;  
How in a Picture can I give her more?  
Let the World talk, and rail, and rave aloud;  
I never yet for sordid praise have Bowed;  
I'll call Fools envious, while they call me proud.    

To a certain Gentleman, you must know, very Censorious on me, for assenting to my Bookseller's desire.  

I understand you, Sir, and now I see,  
(Thou now too late, I own;) thou canst not be  
My Picture's Friend, much lesle a Friend to me.    

To a Lady, telling me I should Court applause, if I expected to gain it.  

IF, like a Virgin I should Fame adore,  
The more I Court, she would but fly the more.  
Courtship for praise, would tender me most vain,  
For none e'er Courts, but has some hopes to gain.  
Fame, if she comes, is welcome; but at worst,  
The Poet can't be like the Lover cursed.  
O'er every sense my Loved Amasia Reigned,  
I Courted her, and Courted, she disdained.  
No other Charmer shall my Mistress be;  
For she was Fame, and every thing to me.  
Let flattering Fame yield to the flattering Muse;  
What I ne'er gained, ne'er sought, I cannot loose.  
Yet, praise I boast, while the pretence I quit,  
For 'tis my Fame, that I ne'er sought it yet.  
Let others Court her in a tedious Course,  
I'll not pursue, but if I meet her, force.  
The God of Verse himself, pursuing, failed,  
Had He wooed lesle, he had, perhaps, prevailed.  
My Charming Daphne, my Amasia lost,  
I should not much of bending Laurels boast.  
From the changed Nymph soft sighing Breezes came;  
'Tis Breath, mere Air, that gives the Poet Fame,  
How would my Raptur'd vanity run high,  
Can I, like Phoebus, hear my Charmer sigh!  
But here no pains, no Courtship can succeed;  
Amasia sigh?— that would be Fame indeed.    

To a Lady, saying with a smile, she feared I would not perform my Promise.  

O Doubt it not; or doubt if Truth be true,  
All promise, is performance, made to you.  
He that adores, brings Incense in his Hands;  
Who dares withhold whatever Heaven demands?  
When o'er the Seas Neptune exerts his sway,  
In the struck Rock what rebel Wind shall stay?  
Sharp as his Trident Flies each Glance you Dart,  
But meets no Rock in a soft Lover's Heart.  
When the Soul Acts, what thought shall flag behind,  
The Flames you raise, mount swifter than the Wind.  
But whilst, thus smiling you impose my task,  
Your Eyes give more, than what your Lips can ask.  
And yet, your Conquering killing Pow'r's so great,  
You Force, and Rob me, while you thus entreat.  
All generous grants, from the Heart ravished flow;  
What need you ask, my Heart is yours, you know.  
Whilst to obey those smiles the Lover flies,  
Grant him but this— the promise of those Eyes.    

To a Lady, telling me I writ too fast.  

'twere hard, 'tis true, 'twere very hard indeed,  
If I should writ more fast than you can read.  
My Muse's Works, thus, to your Sums amount,  
Making more Slaves than even the Eyes can Count    

To the same Lady saying— Sure, I never thought, and Commanding me to writ on a Feather.  

NOW I shall think; what Genius can refuse,  
When you thus kindly Wing the flying Muse?  
Not boisterous Winds my Soul's Emotions bear,  
But you know, Madam, Feathers fly with Air.  
I think sometimes, (by my best Thoughts,) 'tis true,  
On my own wit, and on your Beauty too,  
And think them much alike— I think I do.  
Strange is your Female sway o'er thoughtful Men,  
Strange! That your Feather should Command my Pen.  
Roused from a Musing fit, you often Cry,  
You think on nothing; why, Just so do I.  
Only by chance, for once, one thought I'll writ,  
Say, is the Feather, or the Fair more Light?    

To a Lady saying she imagined Poets were all on Fire when they wrote.  

WHen my Amasia Charms my Soul, by turns,  
The Poet rages, and the Lover burns.  
But 〈◊〉 other Theme no warmth insures,  
My Breast is than, almost as cold as yours.    

To Amasia putting a Paper of my Verses in her Bosom.  

WHilst on this Subject you afford, I writ,  
Concealing some, you bring more Works to Light.  
Whilst from your Breast my inspiration flows,  
Your Charming Breast a new Parnassus grows.  
Two Spiring mounts give the famed Hill ronown.  
Two Spiring mounts Amasia's Bosom Crown.  
Take care, soft Charmer, of thy Breast take care,  
For through my Verse, my Soul will enter there.  
Whilst thus my lines are in thy Bosom laid,  
The Poem's happier than the Poet made.    

To a Lady with a very Charming Dimple in her Chin, occasioned by a scar, which, she said, an unaccountable distemper had left there.  

THat Wounds leave scars, is known to all Mankind;  
But none e'er knew that scars left Wounds behind.  
The dire effect, thus, the dire Cause is grown:  
I see your Wounds, and smarting feel my own.  
Thus, Grace's infinite your Features Arm;  
What are your Powers! When even Disease can Charm!  
Shafts at impassive Heaven are shot in vain,  
With Vengeance Winged, they kill, when turned again.  
To Salve my Wounds, grant me one Balmy sigh,  
For 'tis thro' your Disease I pine and die.  
Be kind; and perfectly restore me sound,  
Where Love heals ill, a rancoured Scar is found.    

To a Lady Dancing at a Ball.  

THE Muse appears, all Airy, in my view,  
The Muse appears, and Dances, Bright, like you,  
Like you, she fleets, and in my fancy flies,  
All Winged, and gliding fast through azure Skies.  
Lo! She descends, and hither darts her way,  
Like Sunbeams swiftly bright—  
All Lust'rous clear, and flashing on the Day.  
With moving Air, like thee she passes now,  
Welcome, my Muse— o! Not the Muse— 'tis thou.  
Forgive me, Virgin, I mistook the fair,  
Only thyself could with thyself compare.  
You are my Muse, 'tis you, 'tis you inspire,  
While your each motion Fans the kindling Fire.  
My tuneful Notions rise surprising new,  
At once you Dance, and give the Music too.  
O that my Verse could run on Feet like thine,  
My numbers than, would grow, like thee, Divine.  
So true you move, yet with such swift surprise,  
Thou rising still, none can perceive you rise.  
Stay, British Daphne, 'tis not Sol pursues,  
Winning too fast the race, the prize you loose.  
My 〈◊〉 Thoughts in vain to reach you strive,  
Stay, thou hast won the Laurel, yet alive  
Take the reward, the Poet's Crown's your due,  
Both Crowns and Hearts all must submit to you.  
O if to thee a fate like Daphne's fallen,  
How would the Wreath be prized—  
How would all writ, and how would I excel!    

To a Lady saying she would Hate me, if I should writ satire.  

SInce satire, Madam, his her Birth from spite,  
If you should Hate me, that would make me Writ.  
My Satyr's Teeth, whenever she Bites, draws Blood,  
Not sharp; but very Blunt; and that's as good.  
Provoked, like Jove's, my struggling Thunder's hurled,  
Broad Sheets of rage, like lightnings, are unfurled,  
And I could Flash, and Blast, and Tear the World.  
I boast an equal Privilege with you.  
Sat'ring myself, in every thing I do.    

To a Gentleman, whose Life was endangered by his Endeavouring to aderss a Lady in a Sphere above him.  

GO on, and speak your Passion uncontrolled,  
For, Love and Fortune both befriend the bold.  
Maids are half gained, when, once the Suit's begun,  
And she deserves to be through hazards won.  
Storms past at Sea endear the Anchored ground;  
E'er Drake grew famed, he did the World surround.    

NEW-YEAR's-DAY, 1699.  

AH! Hapless Day! How thy sad gloom appears!  
Rolling o'er me twice Twelve revolving Years.  
Thou gav'st me Life, thus art thou doubly cursed,  
〈◊〉, by thy Light I saw Amasia first.  
Now, since that time, twelve Circling Suns roll on,  
Since that sad time I found Amasia gone.  
Scarce to complete thy Circle wouldst thou stay,  
You bore in haste, so rich a prize away.  
Return, Rapacious, Rival Year! restore  
My fair, my Charmer, Charming as before.  
O woe Eternal! O Eternal pain!  
Nor you, nor she must strike my Eyes again.  
My endless Sorrows round thy Circle move;  
Twelve fatal Years! Half of my Life was Love.  
Love was my Life; and now I plainly see,  
That Time and Death are much the same to me.  
O Grant me, 〈◊〉; this is all my Prayer;  
One smiling Sun, let me behold my fair.  
For that one Day, Serene I'll bear my doom,  
Past Years of Woe, and Ages yet to come.  
If, on that Day, I meet Amasia's scorn,  
If, on that Day, the Charmer shall not burn,  
Never may this, not, never more return.    

Seeing a Lady at a Play called A Trip to the Jubilee.  

THE Scene seems now a Melancholy place,  
Here gaze, my Eyes, here revel, and Embrace,  
And press, and Kiss, at every glance, that Face.  
Let both the Author and his Play seek Rome,  
Beauty, I'm sure, keeps Jubilee at home.    

To a Lady, under the Name of Philomela.  

I'M Charmed, I'm ravished with thy tuneful Song;  
Ne'er may this Philomela loose her Tongue.  
Sweet as the first, Harmoniously you move,  
By Sorrow she was taught, and you by Love.    

LOVE in IDEA.  
Written to a Friend, who said his Mistress was above Gold, and desired my advice in his Suit.  

YES, some there are, sure yet some Nymphs remain,  
Some generous Nymphs, despising sordid gain.  
If such you found, no sufferings are too hard,  
No Pains are great enough for such reward.  
If some such truly noble fair you see,  
You meet that fair yet never met by me.  
My Art were useless than, nor would I teach  
Devices far below her glorious reach.  
Exalted Numbers should her worth Proclaim,  
She should be every Poet's Charming Theme,  
Above the Stars the Muse her name should bear,  
Fix her immortal Crown, for ever sixth it there,  
Such generous Flames would Paradise restore,  
With Flowery Pleasures, as at first it bore.  
Still should thy Passion kindle, as it soared,  
And she, the Charming she, should be adored.  
Still with Obsequious Courtship shouldst thou serve,  
Thou couldst not Love her, as such Charms deserve.  
Let Amorous Silvius to that Charmer flee,  
The Maid like her should be beloved by me:  
Revolving Days and Nights would I admire,  
Gaze on her Eyes, draw thence New Streams of Fire.  
At her dear Feet, all Prostrate, Breath my lays,  
Sing as she smiles, her every motion Praise,  
And look, & look again, revolving nights and days.  
In tuneful Numbers every thought express,  
And make Immortal Love, and feel not lesle.  
New transports still should from New transports Spring,  
Growing myself, all ravished, as a I Sing.  
Angelic Thoughts should my whole Soul employ,  
Immortal Love, and as Immortal Joy.  
With trem'lous, darting glances would I gaze,  
Fixed, like some Statue, in a blessed amaze.  
My fluttering Heart its motions should improve,  
And where for Life but with one struck 'twould move,  
A thousand beaten, with quick alarms, for Love.  
Than, would I run her numerous Beauties over,  
Creative fancy ever Springing more.  
Whilst the Idea feeds on new supplies,  
Whilst through my Soul her Charming Image flies,  
Joy, dancing, smiles in my Extatick Eyes.  
Trembling with eager Love would I approach,  
And as I rise, Bow Humbly, e'er I touch.  
Now like Love's self, with dazzling sight, behold,  
Than, as all Wings, like the Flushed Hero, bold,  
Rush on— and clasp her fast, as Misers clasp their Gold.  
Seraphic Raptures Charm, while I embrace,  
And as more close my Eyes her Features trace,  
Fresh glories dawn in her Aerial Face.  
Ten thousand, thousand rising presses past,  
Still would I press her with such eager haste,  
That every close should seem the last of all the last.  
Each fainting Nerve new vigour should reserve,  
And press, as Jealous of some Rival Nerve.  
As lightnings flash on lightnings to each Pole,  
So should new presses on new presses roll,  
Fly through each part at once, dissolving through the whole.  
Lodged on the Fragrant Bosom of the fair,  
I spread in haste ten thousand Kisses there.  
Charmed with those Sweets, straight to her Lips aspire,  
Breath there my Soul, there revel my desire,  
'Tis too, too much for Man—  
I taste of Heaven, and in a Trance expire.   

From my designs how widely do I rove!  
Why did my Soul this fancied Beauty move?  
I Sing of Art, and yet by Nature Love.  
Hence may the Youth, whom I instruct, believe,  
His Tutor would his utmost pains deceive.  
How can he think I'll make the fair his prey;  
Who in Idea bear the prize away?  
Yet trust me, youth, whilst by Love's Pangs I'm torn,  
By me Maids are but in Idea born.    

To a Lady, who seeing me in a Languishing Sickness, called me— Poor Shadow of Love.  

WOunds got in War to Warriors graceful show,  
Wounds got in Love, are ridiculed by you.  
But Oh! I acted not the warrior's part,  
They loose their Limbs, but I have lost my Heart.  
Like wounded Cowards, I am heartless found,  
And every fair, who sees me, now may Wound.  
Not, Charming Maid! I yield not yet to die,  
The best defence of Cowards, is to fly.  
In vain, in vain your kill Darts pursue,  
I am Love's Shadow, Beauty's substance You.    

To a Lady making me a second present of a Lock of her Hair, after I had in an humour returned the first.  

NUmber thy Hairs, count than my sums of bliss;  
The Golden Fleece was a mean prize to this.  
With Popish Superstition, every day,  
To this Loved gift, as to some Saint, I'll pray.  
Far brighter this, than Ariadne's Hair  
Translated to the Gods, and made a Star.  
That sprung from earth, e'er to the Skies it flew,  
This grew in Paradise, in Heaven it grew.  
Thus, tho' the vanquished outworks I have won,  
Never, Oh! Never must I gain the Town.  
Twice ten Years Siege would here successless prove,  
War ends in Peace, but can Despair gain Love?  
You gave the gift; I did the gift restore,  
Again you gave, now to receive not more.  
My Heart was yours, you did the toy disdain,  
Again 'tis yours, ne'er to return again.  
What shall I give, my gratitude to show?  
O may your Hair, fast as you cut it, grow;  
But Prayers are little, where myself I owe.  
See, how the Lock does my blessed hands Embrace,  
As once it Curled about the Charmer's Face.  
What is my envy to thy present grown!  
How do I envy what is now my own!  
O could some God transform my shape to Hair,  
And wouldst thou me, as once this present, wear,  
How were I blest! I would around thee roll,  
And Curl, and clasp thy Breasts, and twine about thee whole.  
And than, if any Lover should but dare  
To Court, and beg the favour of thy Hair.  
Up would I start, to Vindicate my right,  
And stand an end, with horror, and affright,  
Thy Lovely Hair, where Beauty now is sown,  
Should like Medusa's snaky Locks be shown,  
And turn the bold beholders stistened into Stone.    

To a Lady Singing.  

Music has Charms no Poetry can raise.  
That silence, which your Song Commands, is praise.    

The Health.  
After absence— To a Friend.  

AN absent Friend, long absent from my Arms,  
(Long from my Breast, since I felt Love's alarms.  
Returned— last Night, the Prodigal returned,  
With generous, kind, continued Friendship burned,  
And, in the closest folds, his ruin'd Silvius Mourned.  
Both Mourned, at once in Pleasure and in pain,  
Both Mourned that loss, which both esteemed, as gain.  
Strange force of Friendship! Vain and indiscreet,  
We Mourn our absence most, when now we meet.  
Thus, when the Mariner has reached the shore,  
Thou he deplores not, till the Tempest's over,  
Yet than he feels the late-past Anguish more.  
Than, when safe landed on the welcome Coast,  
Than, he perceives his vanished dangers most.  
Straight, from my Friend a Flood of Questions Springs,  
Halfpenny Answers made, I ask ten thousand things,  
For meeting Friends—  
Grow highly ravished, as Triumphant Kings.  
Our hasty Joys such numerous Queries Start,  
We seemed not meeting than, but than to part.  
We stood, embraced, than walked, and changed the ground,  
We lodged— the Loved Amasia's Health flew round,  
Amasia's Health the Golden Goblets Crowned.    

To a Lady, holding her Picture in my Hand, and looking on her Face.  

THus, Ixion like, I have maintained the chase,  
Pursued the Goddess, and her Cloud embrace.  
O thou, who fliest with my despairing Heart,  
Thou, more a Shadow than thy Picture, art.  
Whilst round this Shade my Circling Arms I cast,  
Thy Face, which shuns me, holds my Soul as fast.  
Here had the fond Narcissus chanced to rove,  
He and his Shadow too had died for Love.  
Let none attempt thy Picture; 'tis in vain;  
Even Nature cannot paint it over again.    

The Arms.  
Suavitate, aut Vi.  
Written at the request of Amasia.  

'TIS she Commands; than, must her Poet Sing  
The first bold Man, from whence his race did Spring.  
First of the line, first noted of the Name,  
Who his by subtle bravery purchased Fame,  
Achieving deeds, whence his long honours came.  
A Castle stood, impregnable of Old,  
Scorning assault, like Danae's Brazen hold;  
By Steel unconquered, and unbribed by Gold.  
Long had the British Force besieged this Tower,  
Long had it Mocked Britain's Enervate Power.  
This subtle Hero, Champion of his race,  
With some few Troops, attempted, gained the Place.  
Naked of Martial Pomp, unarmed in show,  
Decked with Plumed Casks, defenceless all below,  
For sook the Camp, revolting to the Foe.  
As Friends they came, and were, as Friends, let in,  
By which false Friendship they the Outworks win.  
Gallantly Courteous, Fashionably brave,  
Their long Plumed Casks, as in Salute, they wave.  
From which, at once, soon as the Signal's given,  
Small Pistols drawn; their Casks are tossed to Heaven.  
With a loud shout, charging the Guards, they Fire,  
Some Fall, some Fly, and Fight, some Retire.  
At the raised Clamour, the Besiegers haste,  
Rush in, like Floods, the Gates defenceless past,  
And by Joined Forces, Storm the Fort at last.  
Hence are his Honours Blazoned, hence his Arms,  
For his close Valour, and secure Alarms.  
A Castle for his Crest the Helmet bore,  
Three Pistols added in his Field he wore,  
Three Roses only were his Arms before.  
I envy not, bold Ancestor! Thy Fame,  
Amasia mine, I should despise a Name.  
Triumphs o'er Beauty I to Worlds prefer;  
You Vanquish Castles, let me Vanquish her.  
Famed much for cunning, not for Courage lesle,  
Yet she's a Fortress thou couldst ne'er possess.  
Inspire me, Parent Genius! mild appear,  
Useless thy Roses, if they fail me here.  
Blushing they fall, her Cheeks more Sweetly Read,  
Now, Pale like me, their Sickly leaves they shed,  
Behold, they Whither now, and now are Dead.  
Degenerate Youth! Thy Arms, thy Honours lost,  
What Fame has slothful Silvius left to boast?  
New Arms the Patron of his line had won;  
Unworthy thou to be esteemed a Son,  
Losing what long descent had made thy own.  
This points the warrior's, this the Lover's course,  
That sweetness always must be Joined with force.    

POEMS ON Several Occasions.  
The Complaint.  

Tired of the Town, and the Wild tumults there,  
Pensive I Walked, to Breath the Vernal Air.  
Along the Banks of Silver Thames I strayed;  
Alike both wandered, through the grateful Mead.  
Only, more Calm the River glided by,  
Shook by no Storm, it murmured not, as I.  
Beneath a shade, formed of a Shrubby Wood,  
I lay, and looked on the adjacent Flood.  
The Beamy Sky All-lustrous from above,  
With wavering Light seemed on the Streams to move.  
Heaven, there displayed before me, I could boast,  
Yet Plunging in, I had been ever lost.  
Thus to those Wretches whom their Crimes pursue,  
Even Heaven shows false, and Damns them in the view.  
Straight, was the Sun overcast with sullen Clouds,  
And gloomy Mists sat heavy on the Floods.  
The Tempest gathered, and from Pole to Pole,  
The lightnings Flash, and the loud Thunder's roll.  
Whole Heaven was darkened— Calm I lay a while,  
And with a Pleasing sadness, seemed to smile.  
But now, the Sun forced out 〈◊〉 Glorious way,  
Dispelled the gloom, and made the Skies look gay, the Day.  
Clad thick in brightest Beams, and Flashing on  
On Airy Wings, the gloomy Mists were fled,  
And gladsome Sunshine gilded every Shade, laid.  
But that, where Silvius, where the Wretch was  
A thick, dark Fog spread horrid, all around,  
And dulled the Springing Beauties of the ground.  
On both sides, near, I saw delightful Groves,  
And happy Lovers, Whispering tender Loves.  
The Odorous Bowers, their Scenes of bliss, so nigh  
I heard the Swains protest, the Virgin's sigh.  
Damned with my fate, no wishing glance I cast,  
Gay looks of Pleasure die, when Joys are past.  
The Wretch his Courtship needs must purchase hate,  
For Beauty yields, but to the rich, and great.  
I saw— unenvying saw their raised delight,  
Blest both their day, and my own gloomy Night,  
That grateful Fog, which 〈◊〉 me from their sight.  
Hear me, I Cried, ye Heavens! Auspicious hear,  
Kind Echo too, part in my Sorrows bear.  
In that low Vale try there thy utmost Skill;  
Now, if thou canst, redouble all my ill.  
In vain, in vain— alas! What speaks the wrong,  
In vain, in vain thou criest— 'tis all thy Song.  
Be dumb— I'll now a new Narcissus be,  
Fond of my grief, as of his Beauty he.  
Moore blest than him I shall appear in woe;  
In this respect none will my Rival grow.  
In all the Crowd of that imperious Town,  
Found me that generous Soul, found one alone,  
Willing to Join in any other's moan.  
Of all the shining Beauties, where's the Maid,  
That sells her Love, where only Love is paid.    

To Mr—  
Written before the Representation of his First Comedy.  

ENough— I know thy strength, nor need delay,  
The dawning Muse fore-shows the Springing Day,  
Nor will the rise of her own Phoebus stay.  
Let others wait the Glory of the Skies,  
I know, I know, the Sun and you must rise.  
Strong in thy solid Beams, maintain thy Sphere;  
Thy vigorous Fires will Foggy Vapours rear.  
I know thy Orb of Sense to fullness grown,  
And by thy kind Reflection, Judge my own.  
Thence, all my borrowed, fainter glimm'rings shine,  
I can't be wholly dark, while thou art mine.  
In vain, once dampt, to weaker helps I run,  
Yet Vesta's Fire was kindled by the Sun.  
Hard fate of Debt! if I return thee Praise,  
I sand but smoke, for thy enlivening rays.  
Languid my heat, voided of the Flame of Wit.  
Censured for what I have, and have not Writ.  
Against what's mine, let Critics Blunder on,  
They may excuse me, what I have not done.  
Thou to no haughty Genius will I bend,  
My Muse must still her utmost Plumes extend,  
And clap her Wings, and soar, to reach my Friend.  
She, safe like Danae, from mortal Powers,  
Yields but to Jove, in his Celestial showers.  
Thou I, the weak born Castor, must decline,  
In thee, my stronger, Brother-star, I'll shine.  
Go on, Loved Youth! And lofty structures raise,  
Already founded strong, in solid praise.  
Congreve, Vanbrook, and Wicherly must sit,  
The great Triumvirate of Comic Wit.  
Where can I place my Friend; and sense approve?  
Do thou excel thyself, than rise above.  
Ascend not proudly, tho' thou canst not fall,  
Be what thou art, thou art already all.  
Maintain thy own, nor scorn to Conquer slow,  
And Young Octavius shall Augustus grow.  
But Oh! Forgive thy undesigning Friend,  
I cannot all, tho' all be thine, commend,  
For thou, I own, even thou thyself, may'st mend.  
Let naught, offending Chastest ears, be told;  
Make thy Muse modest, she may still be bold.  
Safe shall you rise, from every Censure free,  
And still be Courted, as you pass, by me.  
Eat the Just rage of Collier's sacred Pen,  
The truly great, must be the best of Men.  
From Heaven immediate, Flows such Sense as thine,  
Warm, like the Poet's God, as well as shine.  
Let the strong Muse, Divine in Numbers rise,  
'Tis than, 'tis only than, she strikes the Skies.    

To Mr—  
On his Second Comedy.  

ALL Court the Rising Sun; some, from the morn,  
Conclude what Lustre shall the Day adorn.  
Your earliest dawn, my Friend, was cheerful day,  
You shone out first with a Meridian ray.  
Thou dusky Clouds some Beams did hovering hid,  
The Work was Day, 'twas perfect Day descried.  
This all infer from the succeeding Skies,  
After one Day, another Day must Rise.  
O may thy Phoebus never set in Night,  
For, all the God shines in each Scene you writ.  
Why should my Voice pronounce the labour good?  
'Tis praise enough to say 'tis understood.  
Loud are the Clamours which applauses Fire;  
You force much more, we silently admire;  
When seen, you ravish, but when read, inspire.  
All Judge you hence, in the first piece you writ,  
Lose, but through Fashion, not through want of wit.  
For now, more new, (tho' Genuine Garbs) you choose,  
And deck, with modest Charms, the Comic Muse.  
At once such profit, such delight you raise,  
Collier himself (if Collier can) should praise.  
But hold—  
While here to stay the Reader's Eyes I strive,  
You of your best Applause, by praising, I deprive.    

The Petition. To her Royal, and Illustrious Highness, the Princess.  
Written in the Name of Mr.—, being denied to Tread the Stage.  

WHat Theme so greatly glorious can I choose?  
My Muse Courts you, 'tis not a fawning Muse.  
Thus, may I thank my ills, for this success,  
Made greater still, by what would make me lesle!  
Where can I nobler bend? I stoop not low,  
When, even by falling, I am raised to you,  
Yet, Prostrate lie, beneath your Royal Feet,  
Where so much Power, and so much goodness meet.  
Goodness so Sacred, and a Power so High,  
The one alone can with the other vye.  
Yet the mean suppliant dares implore the grant,  
Mean tho' the suppliant be, yet good the Saint.  
Heroes oppressed, invoke the Power Divine,  
And here, the fancied Hero calls on thine.  
With all Submissive Worship he implores,  
Who serves the Sun, but Bows, and so adores.  
But such my Crime, no offering can Atone,  
Offending all, yet meant offence to none.  
Disrobed of Passions, how would Players show,  
Yet, I offended, that I was not so.  
Hard fate of Mortals, which impending lies,  
Bearing such Tempests, in themselves to rise.  
Tempests, and Oceans threaten from afar,  
But O do thou protect, thou, the Auspicious Star.  
By thee I guide my course, to thee I pray,  
The Guardian Venus of our British Sea.  
One Breath from thee would soften Storms to Gales,  
Calm every Billow, and spread full the Sails.  
So with my Pageant Streamers once again,  
I shall beneath your Sunshine Blow the main.  
But yet, till you, Propitious Princess, smile,  
I Steer, like Vessels, of, which eat the Isle.  
You, who to all the height of Goodness live,  
Instruct your generous Britons to forgive.  
Even Heaven, itself, receives affronts from Men,  
But, they repenting, it grows Calm again.  
So may'st, thou Flourish long, and bless the Age,  
So may thy Virtue's Crown the future Stage.  
So, when great William shall in Heaven be seen,  
May you Reign long, the blessed Britannia's Queen.    

To a Lady, my Friend's ingrateful Mistress.  

SUch are your proud, deluding ways to move,  
I hate you more, than even my Friend can Love.  
A brave revenge inspires my swelling Soul,  
While Thoughts of thee in my raised Bosom roll.  
Be gone, yet Nine, your aid I now refuse,  
For, Indignation shall be here my Muse.  
Immortal hatred urge me on to think,  
And slain thy Name, with everlasting Ink.  
My Juster Pen shall Wound your Honour, more  
Than e'er it raised you, to esteem before.  
Gay you appear, where your false Beauties come,  
But I shall Rob you of your borrowed Plume.  
My Mufe's Wings have soared, and born you high,  
Blown by my Breath, did the vain bubble fly,  
But now I laugh, to see its glories die.  
Towering so lofty, you are giddy grown,  
And, of necessity, must tumble down.  
Such Fogs of praises have you drawn from all,  
In showers of Tears the gathered Mists must fall.  
Now, through those Clouds, my lightning fancy flies,  
To blast thy Pride, which, when 'tis 〈◊〉, dies.  
Along the Airy confines of thy Fame,  
My Verse shall roll, charged with thy Sultry name.  
My Hand, now Armed, a fatal Power does own,  
My Pen's the Thunderbolt to dash thee down.  
My kindling Eyes with Flames so Furious move,  
They can't be fancied to arise from Love.  
My fiercer satire cannot so expire,  
For, Salamander like, 'tis born, and Lives in Fire.  
With waxed Wings to Airy heights you flew,  
Which none durst ever yet attempt, but you.  
As some skilled Fowler, who the Lark descries,  
And from his Glass, darts Sunbeams in his Eyes,  
Beholds the prey, which he saw Towering, laid  
In the low Net, which on the ground he spread;  
So, in thy fall, I'll see thy weakness tried,  
When I glance, on thee, all thy rays of Pride.   

And know, proud she! The Darts your Cupid threw,  
Were beardless toys, which my Friend Sporting drew.  
Yet still their Poison swells his Venomed Mind,  
The Honey Passion left a sting behind.  
Poor suppliant ways you use with sordid Art,  
And Cringe yourself, to undermine a Heart.  
Yet, there are Nymphs, can with their coldness, move,  
Moore warmth, than you with your feigned Fires of Love.  
Your Flag, all White, does innocent appear,  
And the false signs of a surrender bear,  
Peace it displays, and wantoness with the Air.  
But when Besiegers would possess the Town,  
You Fire, like thunder, on the Wretches down.  
Mean, fawning thing! Who to each Fop would Bow,  
And flatter him, that he might flatter you.  
Like Popular Knaves, a suppliant Soul you show,  
Cry up the Crowd, to make them Cry up you.  
Just so, a Pibble struck on stony ground,  
Falls to that place, which makes it higher bound.  
'Tis but for praise, you, flattering thing, have Bowed,  
And you are humble that you may be proud.  
Thus, when the Cannon's Ball the highest flies,  
The Gun bends back, and near the Pavement lies.  
But while your baseness, and your Pride I blame,  
Your Judgement Justly should be raised to Fame.  
You know your want of Powerful Charms to move,  
Your Gold excepted, which Commands our Love.  
From Sulphurous Ours Men still would dig the Oar,  
Thou worse than those, which brought it forth before.    

To Dr Gibbons.  

LET Gibbons Live, long let Great Gibbons Live,  
Possessed of Health, which he so well can give.  
Such strength to sinking Patients you restore,  
Scarce Nature's Hand in bounteous Birth gave more.  
In Sickness plunged, like Divers in the Main,  
We bring up Health, when we appear again;  
Health is the Gemm, which by your Art we found,  
Firm in the Body set, and glittering in the Mind.  
O Gibbons! Whilst thy Name inspires my Muse,  
Thou dost fresh Vigour in her flights infuse.  
With Joy she soars to Sing her Patron's praise,  
And stretch those Wings, which only you could raise.  
Thou gav'st her Life, and whilst she sings thy Name,  
Thou giv'st to her, as she to others, Fame.  
Fame she returns, given by the Justest Law,  
For thou drawest Fame from every Breath I draw.  
What can I give, my gratitude to show?  
My Thanks? my Thanks are Poor, myself I owe.  
Generous like Heaven, our Vital heat you give,  
And in return, wouldst only that we live.  
Such is your care for all your Patients shown,  
As if from others Health you drew your own.  
O would our God, the Radiant Phoebus' shine,  
And bless my skill, as he has Cherished thine.  
Than should thy Art be in my Song Renowned,  
And Verse and Physic should at once be Crowned.  
Than might I Sing the vigour you impart,  
But artless Verse can never reach thy Art.  
From thee the darkest Black distempers run,  
As Shades and Phantoms from the mounting Sun.  
Thy Power whole Legions of Diseases fly,  
You Cure the Sick, and make the Sickness die.  
Nature to thee does all her secrets show,  
And all her secrets are improved by you.  
New Life, new force to Nature you impart,  
And Nature's self we found revived by Art.  
Wisely to you her choicest seeds she gives,  
〈◊〉, who grants all Life, through Gibbons Lives.  
In vain the Poet boasts Immortal Powers,  
〈◊〉 is Heaven's gift, 'tis only Heaven's, and Yours.    

To a Lady, ask me why I did not apply to Dr. Gibbons to be Cured of my Love too.  

Phaebus' himself, who did the pain endure,  
In all his Art of Physic found not Cure.  
All means I tried, all means have Fruitless proved;  
Art only Cures, where Art the Passion moved.  
Love is like Poison; by some secret spell,  
Poison does Poison, Love does Love expel.  
But this, even this, should I attempt, were vain;  
'Tis Poison; nay, 'tis Death, and Damning pain,  
To think she Lives, and I should Love again.  
Love is like Death to me; I will not try,  
For I can Love but once, but once can die.  
Gibbons has Art, Gibbons has Matchless skill,  
Gibbons can save more Lives, than others Kill.  
Love's a Disease free from ill-tempered Air,  
And even Great Gibbons self is Artless there.  
Life he restored, by Neighbouring Death Annoyed.  
But Life is easier raised, than Love Destroyed.  
The cause dies not, till the effect remove,  
We know that Life is but the Act of Love.  
This too we know from all Conclusions tried,  
Love shall leave me, when you abandon Pride.    

The Charmer.  

EAch Lovesick Youth, by partial Passion torn,  
Thinks that faint Star the brightest Fires adorn,  
Beneath whose smiling Reign the Youth was born.  
That Planet Clouded, and deprived of Light,  
He thinks some other, and some other bright.  
Amasia thus, shed pointed glories far,  
In the first dawn, the Poet's Morning Star.  
Yet still new Beams her Charming aspect wears,  
Daily adored twice six long rolling Years.  
First in Hibernia was the Nymph admired,  
There first her Charms the ravished Silvius Fired.  
Blessed Gallia now is with her influence Crowned,  
Not shining still on his sad, Native ground,  
What he thought sixth, a wandering Star is found.  
Thou long removed from my deluded Eyes,  
She seems the brightest Planet of the skies,  
In France she sets, nor must in Britain rise.  
Whilst Loved Amasia's Charms the Poet Sings,  
He speaks, admiring Subsolary things.  
Sol's stronger rise we see Aurora eat;  
Here, none compares, Grafton is Beauty's Sun.  
If to her Face our sickening Eyes we move,  
Blind grows all Admiration, Blind as Love.  
Sight, not Immortal, should not rashly dare  
To tempt that Lustrous view it cannot bear.  
Conscious of Fires, which by Reflection warm,  
I stand at distance, and perceive the Charm.  
View Grafton's Face reflected by her Fame,  
As Men view Phoebus in the Silver Stream.  
This bliss, in pity to our weakness given,  
We view the Sun, but gaze not at the Heaven.  
Next her, immediate, Shall Amasia shine  
In every dazzled sight, as well as mine.  
While Grafton's self, first shall the Throne maintain,  
Let her, the fairest Fair Vicegerent Reign.  
The Poet's Venus, whom his Muse has Sung,  
Not from the Sea, but from a Deluge Sprung.  
Greatly derived, the Beauteous Charmer Flowed  
From a long line of Royal, old Hibernian Blood.  
Her Country deluged in a fatal War,  
Her House's Ark tossed on rude Billows far.  
Succeeding Wars, to me more fatal bred;  
From the cursed Land this fair Astraea fled.  
To her, their Regent Queen, does Gallia Bow,  
The Fruitful Gallia is her Empire now.  
Her Eyes their Souls at once inspire and awe,  
Imperial grown, spite of their Salic Law.  
O'er Spacious France her shining sceptre's hurled,  
She Reigns o'er France and me, but Grafton o'er the World.    

The Vision of the MUSE.  

TELL me, false Muse! What Joys can we propose  
When Wit, and Fortune, are such Mortal Foes?  
All that the most inspired can hope to found,  
Is to Charm Nymphs, to sordid interest Blind.  
Whilst others rise, by every vulgar skill;  
But only Poets, must be Poets still.  
Forgive me, Muse, for I must needs complain;  
Sure there's some Pleasure in indulging Pain.  
〈◊〉 I Where she comes; behold! Unusual bright,  
And Flashes on me, with a Flood of Light.  
From opened Heaven she Posts, and in the sky,  
A Train of glittering Thoughts behind her fly.  
So when a Comet ceases to appear,  
A Thousand little Glories gilled the Air.  
Ah! I repent; my weak resolves are gone,  
The Muse has now put Heavenly Beauties on.  
See, on a Rainbow, seated all Divine,  
The Angel-Muse in Native Lustre shine.  
I can't the Genius of my Soul refuse,  
Welcome, O ever welcome, Heaven-Sprung Muse!  
Hark, I am Charmed, she strikes her lyre, and Sings,  
See how her Fingers beaten the Dancing Strings,  
She Tunes, to mighty Heroes, mighty things.  
But, lo! She calls me— lo! I mount through Air,  
Fly to her stand, and am already there.  
Most gracious Muse—   

— Rise my Repentant Son,  
'Tis done, thy Fate is fixed, 'tis done, 'tis done.  
I Pardon all thy mean distrusts, and fears,  
Forget the past, no room for new appears.  
Thy generous Patron shall at length be free,  
From Pompous business, and provide for thee.  
Thou 'tis the Radiant God's to drive the day,  
He gilds those Clouds, which wait him in the way.  
What can you doubt! He now affords a Theme,  
Should wing each Muse, and fire the Sons of Fame.  
But here to praise, excels the Poet's skill,  
'Tis beyond thought he should grow greater still.  
Not unsuccessful was thy latest flight,  
But now, my Son, soar to a nobler height.  
Sincere, thy grief did his lost Charmer mourn,  
Whose Hearse the Laureate did more rich adorn,  
Whilst all his willing Wreaths to Cypress turn.  
For a lost Wife with Plaints you filled the plain,  
But now the Hero is espoused again.  
He weds Religion with Immortal Joy,  
A Virgin still, still chaste, yet never Coy.  
Ambrosial, Balmy, sweets bedew her Wings,  
And in great Dowry, the whole Heavens she brings.  
Yet, with such Zeal, he makes his Passion known,  
He seems to Court her, for herself alone.  
O what can equal such exalted State!  
So great a Hero!— Yet as good as great!  
Well has his Sword made haughty Armies Bow,  
Well has he Conquered, for he Triumphs now.  
Still next his leading Monarch firm he stood,  
In things not only great, but greatly good.  
Now, with Ambitious Zeal, himself would head,  
And even by Nassau, cannot here be led.  
Heaven still the cause, they fought for, did maintain,  
And William, ever glorious in his Reign,  
With his best chief, espouses' Heaven again.  
Here praise, my Son, for here all praise is due,  
Their glory flies, where never Mortal's flew.  
Extol him far— far, as my Wings can soar,  
Give almost all to him, to Nassau only, more.  
Thus, as thy Fate has fixed, thy Fortune lies,  
Assume thou sacred Fires, but dare, and rise.  
When Heaven and Nassau raises, who can fall!  
And both, with generous Zeal, would Cherish all.  
To Camps, to glorious Camps prepare to flee,  
Fired by thy Patron's Actions may'st thou be,  
And grow—  
As Godlike great, if possible, as he.    
The End of the Second Book.   

AMASIA, OR, THE Works of the Muses. Containing the FRIENDSHIP of LOVE.  
Vol. III. Book III.  
Per Superos juro testes, pompamqque deorum,  
Te Dominam nobis tempus in Omne fore.  

TO THE MEMORY OF AMASIA.  
Infandum, Regina, jubes renovare dolorem.  
AMASIA,  
ONly Amasia; for a Name is all of you that lives; O racking thought! Sufficient to destroy the Power of thinking. But why do I repined? for you were never more to me.  
AMASIA!  
That Name is all; Elysium, Paradise, and almost Heaven, are in the sound. How I have loved you, how I love you still, your Death, (for that involves mine too) will testify; I Pine, I Languish, and shall meet you, e'er 'tis long, somewhere, I know not where, but I am sure that I shall meet you. Your Soul was surely made for mine, for mine was made for yours, and wheresoever they Join, the place must be in earnest, more than a Fictitious Heaven, more than a Poet's fancy can Created; and such, as a Poet and a Lover too must be most ravished in, with Rapture Tightly Charming.  
How, Orpheus, shall I call to Mind thy turn of fate? O Poet happy, and accursed! You knew, when you had lost the last short sight of your Eurydice, you knew, you saw a glimpse of what I suffer. Despair and Hell are different but in Name.  
To thee, Amasia, to thy Memory, which still must Charm me, The Friendship of Love is Dedicated: The perusal of some Letters written to Acquaintance gave me the Occasion of the Title; the word Friendship is wholly Titular, for I had never any Friend but thee; O not, I never had so great an Enemy; the Bane, and the Destroyer of my Hopes and Life! And yet I Love thee; living I Loved thee, and revere thee Dead. O that the Lover might be Happy at the Poet's loss! O that Fame might be a Sacrifice to Love! O that thy very Name and Memory might die! O Lethe! I'll Court the Streams of thy forgetful Fountain, and Celebrated thy dull Oblivion beyond the inspiration of the Muses Helicon. Farewell— my Friend, for I can boast a real Friend, shall now be my Amasia: I hope he want disdain me but for being his, as you have done, when yours. Farewell— give me but leave to assure you, no second Beauty (for all Beauty will to yours be second) shall deface your Image from my Soul. Once more Adieu— and yet, methinks I cannot leave thy Memory, Even Death wants Power to part us. O Lethe! Where are now thy Streams? Thou River, not of the Unhappy, but the blessed. Farewell— yet Men are very loathe to die— Farewell—  
You know, you know How much I am Amasia's. Silvius.   

THE FRIENDSHIP of LOVE.  
To Mr—  

IN vain, My Friend, your kind advice you sand,  
Bid me Love on, you will be more my Friend,  
The Fettered Wretch, not struggling, feels no pain,  
'Tis he's Tormented, who would stretch the Chain,  
Not the Eternal links of fate can prove,  
Moore firm and strong, than are my links of Love.  
Bound to my fair Amasia I appear,  
(O would to Heaven, I were bound truly here!)  
'Tis more than freedom, to be so confined,  
She's all the Charm of her whole Beauteous kind.  
Homage to her would you consinement call?  
We know the Deity is every where, and all.  
Confined to her! alas! it cannot be,  
But bless me, Heaven's! Make her confined to me.  
Not more advice me to forsake my fair,  
I must Love on, yet, while I Love, Despair.  
In vain you strive my Passion to remove,  
For Oh! I cannot live, unless I Love.  
If you are grieved I bear Amasia's scorn,  
Quench not my Fires, but make her kindly burn.  
Love is a Weight to me indeed severe,  
But should she help, I could the burden bear.  
Beneath the load I should not longer Bow,  
For that would raise me, which depresses now.  
Thou no such hope does to your Friend remain,  
I boast the freedom to embrace my Chain.  
A Slave how Wretched must your Silvius grow,  
When not permitted to be longer so?  
Kind tho' you are, you seem not kind to me,  
For he Enthralls me, who would set me free.  
By no device you can obtain your end,  
I can't my Mistress loose, but may my Friend.  
In vain, often practised methods you device,  
'Tis all in vain, Amasia still has Eyes.  
Not more to me your hard addresses move,  
For, I assure you, by the Gods above,  
I can't— I will not part from what so dear I Love.    

To Mr—  

MUch am I pleased, to hear your new design,  
For, my Friend's happiness I reckon mine.  
I should repined, to bid these Shades adieu,  
Not fond of praise myself, but wish it you.  
Still may applause your undertake bless,  
Your rising Muse be Winged with swift success,  
Esteemed by all, for you deserve not lesle.  
As some young Bird, who late has taken Wing,  
With fond desire in the warm Air to Sing.  
When he has felt the Sun's enlivening Ray,  
Fluttering sometimes around his Nest does Play,  
And Chirps to call his Fellow Bird away.  
So you, now Cherished by your Patron's Love,  
With fonder hopes of a warm Season move,  
And Sing to me, to meet you, in the Air above.  
But more assurance than the Bird's you found,  
For, trusting him, you do not beaten on Wind.  
Scarce can I hold, for I would feign commend  
That generous Man, who is the Muse's Friend.  
Long in full Tides may his smooth Fortunes flow,  
He Merits Plenty, who bestows it so.  
Whilst from his lasting Springs small Streams distil,  
His overflowings shall your Current fill.  
Such bounty sure may be dispensed to you,  
Poets, like Kings, are Heavens' Anointed too.  
But ah! Their Art is now debased, and low,  
It only serves to make a gaudy show.  
The shining Light their Phoebus gives, they use,  
But the productive, vigorous heat, abuse.  
They, whose true merits can a Patron claim,  
(And such there are, who part with Gold for Fame,)  
Should Honours, worthy their true greatness, raise,  
The generous few deserve the nobler praise.  
You, to grow famed, must lofty'st Subjects choose,  
For still applause bears up the Towering Muse.  
While round your Head a Crown of Laurel spreads,  
Me shall my Groves content, and grateful Shades.  
I on no other's greatness would depend,  
But make my own Humility my Friend.  
On Flowery Banks, in Bowers the Lover Lies,  
He wants no Prop, who will not strive to rise.  
'Tis not through Pride, I am thus careless grown,  
And slight applause, to make it more my own.  
I don't disclaim the Favours of the great,  
But I can't stoop, and Cringe to mere estate.  
If from great Men to me their Favours came,  
I should respect the Person, not the Name.  
Through me, the World should his kind bounty know '  
And my raised Muse should tell who raised her so.  
Nay, from a Prosperous Friend, I could receive,  
Favours, I found him truly fond to give.  
This, as my highest Friendship, I may boast,  
For grateful sense in this still struggles most.  
To be obliged, costs generous Souls some pain,  
When in Despair to make returns again.  
Your Silvius only to his fair one sues,  
Her, only her, I for my Subject choose,  
Amasia's both my Patroness, and Muse.  
My Love for her no Rival Charm endures,  
Were I not here's entire, I should be Yours    

To Mr—  

AS some blessed Youth, who, led by chance, has found  
A blooming Maid, that has his long Crowned.  
Whose every Charming Beauty can surprise,  
And draw soft glances, from his wishing Eyes.  
Stands silent long, and in a fond amaze,  
Admires, what 'tis, that thus his Soul could raise,  
Above his wonder, and beyond his praise.  
But when he finds the generous fair inclined  
To Love like him, like him, entirely kind,  
Gushed with the Joys, he no endearments shows,  
Because, he can't express, to the vast height he owes.  
So, you, dear Daphnis, I admired, and praised,  
In me, long since, you have fond wishes raised.  
I viewed you always with a Loving Eye,  
Yet feared to Court you, for I thought you shy.  
But, when I found that I had aught could move,  
In you a fondness to return my Love.  
I grew amazed, and struggling I suppressed  
The soft Emotions of my swelling Breast.  
Even now I feel the Flow of my Soul  
With an Unusual, Ardent vigour roll,  
I can't the rise of my Thoughts express,  
Enlarging on them, does but show them lesle.  
I, like the Sibyls, by Strange heats inspired,  
Am with a rage of Sacred Friendship Fired.  
In Verse, like them, I my Conceptions show,  
They by their God possessed, and I by you.  
But mine, not dubious as their Speech, assures  
That I am certainly, and wholly yours.  
As the fond Youth, who has divulged his pain,  
Has owned his Love, and is beloved again.  
Burns, for the dear enjoyment, of that fair  
Who heard his Vows, and who received his Prayer.  
So I, who Justly may myself commend  
A constant Lover, and a real Friend.  
Long to enjoy you, to possess you whole,  
For, he does truly so, who gains the Soul.  
In your Embrace, I would my Thoughts express,  
Declare my Love, and hear from you not lesle.  
This fond desire, no hope of interest Frames,  
For I feel earnest, and transporting Flames.  
I would the dearest Friendship here improve,  
Not a dull Duty like Eraternal Love.  
A near Alliance Nature formed before,  
Blest me with that, but you have blest me more.  
Your generous Temper does your greatness show,  
And proves you highest, when you stoop so low.  
To what excess must my vast Blessings fly,  
If we grow nigher, when already nigh!  
The strictest Union moves the most delight,  
And that must needs be so, where Hearts and Souls Unite.    

To Mr—  

Tired of Mankind, I long have born in vain  
With silent greatness, my increasing pain,  
But now, my Friend, I must at last complain.  
My growing ills, in swelling Torrents roll,  
And, with impetuous Tides, overflow my Soul.  
All my desires and wishes fly me far,  
My Fortunes wrecked in the loud Storms of War.  
Happy I lived, while Childish Years did last,  
But our best Pleasures are but Dreams, when past.  
The Thoughts of those disturb my present rest,  
I were not Wretched now, had I not than been blest.  
Born to be cursed by Destiny, I stand,  
And can't, so much as view the happy Land.  
Friendless, and all, but Resolution lost,  
A mark for Fate I seem, upon a ruin'd Coast.  
Kept back by Winds, and tides which loudly roar,  
I sit deserted on the Barren shore,  
And view the Sea of Time, which I must yet pass over.  
Heaven's utmost rage, and tortures here I see;  
Ill do my Fortunes with my Soul agreed;  
I have a Spirit formed to be above  
A low submission to aught else than Love.  
None but Amasia can my mind control,  
She melts my Thoughts, and softens all my Soul.  
How could I hope she should my Flames prefer,  
If I knew how to stoop to aught, but her?  
Blest were my days, while here the Charmer stayed,  
But I lost all, soon as I lost the Maid.  
In her alone, was all my valued store,  
And robbed of her, I could be robbed not more.  
War's threatening Tempest bore the Nymph away,  
This Venus took her flight upon the boisterous Sea.  
The gallic Court with joy the Virgin saw,  
There still she Reigns, spite of the Salic Law.  
Of wished success, and Triumph I Despair,  
France can't be vanquished, while Amasia's there.  
Her Charms give Courage the to Youth, to wield  
Their brandished Swords, bold, in the dusty Field.  
Bravely they Fight, and Venture for the spoil,  
They hope her smiles will soon reward their toil.  
For her bright Charms they dare encounter far,  
'Tis she's the Goddess, that sustains their War.  
She gives them Valour, sets their Souls on Fire,  
And so, her Eyes against themselves conspire.  
Warmed by their rays, they to the onset move,  
The Youth, so raised, must needs successful prove,  
And than they claim, for their exploits, her Love.  
Around her Brows their Wreaths of Laurel rise,  
But all can't Shade them from her Radiant Eyes.  
By force, they Conquer Squad'rons in the Field,  
Oppose whole Armies, yet to her they yield.  
Her dearer Chains to freedom they prefer,  
And stoop, when Conqueror's, to be Slaves to her.  
While I, with folded Arms, in fond Despair,  
Clasp my sad Breast, to press her Image there,  
O let me rush impatient to the War,  
Drive, and pursue my flying Rivals far.  
None great in Battles should like Silvius prove,  
He should Fight best, who best knows how to Love.  
'Tis than resolved I'll boldly charge my foes,  
For Nassau Conquers, wheresoever he goes.  
Placed in Command beneath a Chief so great,  
I'll force my Fortune, or I'll urge my fate.  
But ah! I would not undistinguished fall,  
Grant this, ye Gods! And ye have granted all.  
Grant that brave Death I may to flight prefer,  
And let Amasia know, I fought, and died for her.  
To hopes of Joys, and peaceful Thoughts adieu,  
Farewell to them for ever, now to you.  
Not Words my Melancholy Thoughts can tell,  
Let them die with me too; once more, Farewell.    

To Mr—  

AS two dear Friends, who, by some fate unkind,  
Wrecked by the Seas, and by the faithless Wind,  
Had lived a tedious, Melancholy while  
In some dark, barren, unfrequented Isle,  
Together still, till one, unfit to bear  
Unpractised Hunger, and so bleak an Air.  
Urged by Prophetic Dreams of Feasts to come,  
With Weep parts, and round the Isle does roam.  
Both for the sufferings of each other Mourn,  
And he that stayed, prays for his Friend's return.  
So, you and I, from the World's noise removed,  
A Fate like theirs, have in some Measure proved,  
Alone we Lived, and so alone we Loved.  
Whilst busy Slaves, yet, an unthinking herd,  
Passed Savage by, and like mere Brutes appeared.  
Till different Thoughts, and some designs that please,  
Urged me from you, to follow purposed ways.  
As Famished Men, who long had Dreamt of Meats,  
Of fancied Dainties, in delightful Seats,  
Yet still, not they, but their starved fancy Eats.  
And between slumbers, with regret they found  
It was mere Hunger, that had fed their Mind.  
Till some kind hand spreads Spacious Tables over,  
With choicer Banquets, and with greater store,  
Than what were furnished by their sleep before.  
So, what the Muses did in Visions show,  
Of Love, and Friendship Daphnis proves is true,  
For he's at once a Friend, and Mistress too.  
The richest Feasts of fondness he prepares,  
And fills my Soul with the most pleasing Airs.  
My Thoughts for him rise up to such excess,  
As to Amasia in a dear Address,  
Her I Love more, yet him esteem not lesle.  
And now, Adonis, since that Name you choose,  
And Cytherea, for your Mistress use;  
The softest Titles, for the softest Muse.  
I wish success, but that I need not do,  
For it attends, and waits to fly to you.  
Among the rest, two Charming Beauties shine,  
Painting, and Poetry entirely thine.  
Scarce can I tell, both are so well expressed,  
Which takes me most, or draws an image best.  
Nature to you those Charming Arts procures,  
I Court them most, yet they the most are yours.  
Fortune has given you all, to make you great,  
All she could give you, but a large Estate.  
And had you that, the rest would useless prove,  
For that alone can gain a Virgin's Love.  
Than Cytherea, that proud fair, would sue,  
And beg herself, to be beloved by you.  
But she deserves not the fond Name you give,  
If she's like Venus, fair, she should like Venus live.  
But you indeed your Title Justly claim,  
Soft as Adonis, and as full of Flame.  
Your Breast, pierced deeper than his Thigh is found,  
For Love's the Savage, that gave you your Wound.  
Yours, and my Mistress are almost alike,  
With equal Power on both our Hearts they strike.  
She with Amasia may for scorn compare,  
Amasia is like Cytherea fair.  
I, tho' despised, for want of 〈◊〉 and show,  
Am pleased as you are, when myself I know  
Above those Slaves, who think me much below.  
Alike our Souls, alike our wishes move,  
The same our Friendship, and the same our Love.  
I never yet to Honoured Fools have Bowed,  
Born to be slighted, and to slight the proud.  
And you I know, as well as I, can boast,  
That, where despised, you can despise the most.  
Yet Cytherea still exempted stands,  
Spite of her Pride, she your fond Heart Commands.  
So I Amasia Love, but Love in vain,  
Thou she too, proudly Triumphs in my pain.  
Believe me, Friend, I have a Miser's Mind,  
For, tho' I here my best Loved Treasure found,  
I want my other store, you, whom I left behind.    

To Mr—  

O quam te memorem virgo!  
O Dea certe.   

TO you, dear Youth, did Silvius often complain,  
I took delight to tell you all my pain.  
I did a Melancholy Pleasure feel,  
Breathing the Thoughts of my bewitching ill.  
But now, my Muse not more such sufferings Sings,  
My flowing Sorrows damp her Flagging Wings.  
Her Towering flight often Loved Amasia bore,  
But ah! That Lovely Fair must now be Sung no more  
Gods! Let 〈◊〉 Happy, who your Blessings know,  
Adore your Power, to keep them ever so.  
O with what Justice may the Wretch repined!  
Amasia's Dead! She's Dead! and died not mine!  
Yet do I live, and the Earth's surface Tread?  
Meanly survive, when dear Amasia's Dead!  
God's! Can I say she died— can I believe  
She was not born, that she might ever live!  
Echo my Plaints, ye Groves, and Vales around,  
Let the Word Death from all the Hills rebound,  
That I, at last, may Credit the repeated sound.  
From hollow Rocks, in Murmurs be it made,  
For naught, but hardest Rocks, should speak Amasia Dead.  
With Sickly Voice, let fainting Echoes try  
But to reflect Amasia's Name, and die.  
Let each return in so much softness break,  
As if the very Echoes feared to speak.  
As if they dreaded, lest some place might hear,  
That would sand back the sound, to be repeated there.  
Ah! Grieve, dear Youth, think on your Silvius woe,  
Mourn, Mourn, my Friend, if you are truly so.  
I ask you not to share in what I feel,  
Oh! not— I would be greatly Wretched, and engross my ill.  
But bear your part, upon a Friendly score,  
To make the mighty Pomp of Sorrow more.  
Let meaner Souls in sighs, and Tears complain,  
And, with their fond indulgence, soften pain.  
Whilst I, with lofty Pride, my sufferings bear,  
And with a sort of Joy, pursue Despair.  
What offerings, Gods! Should at her Shrine be paid,  
Had the dear, fatal Charmer died a Maid!  
But ah! For Gold she gave up all her Charms,  
And, meanly sold, fled to my Rival's Arms.  
Hymen incensed, far of took speedy flight,  
Death, with his Torches, did her Nuptials Light.  
Oh! Had she lived, I might some Blessings know,  
I should be Happy still, if she were so.  
Her, in my Rival's Arms I could adore,  
With Flames as Sacred, as I felt before,  
Love her as much, and let her know it more.  
But now what satisfaction can there be?  
Naught but Despair is left, for Wretched me;  
Death is a Rival, more unkind than he.  
You kept (False Muse) Amasia in my view,  
Thy Fairy Pleasures I'll no more pursue,  
To fancied Dreams of Happy Loves— Adieu.  
All that I hoped from Poetry to found,  
Was to gain praise, to make Amasia kind.  
But now, what other Mistress can I choose,  
Worthy my Love, and to deserve my Muse?  
Now, many shining Nymphs may Justly claim  
Some small pretence to an immortal Fame,  
And, who deserves it best, shall bear Amasia's Name.  
So, when some great, some mighty conqueror dies,  
Many, lesle noted Heroes, share the prize,  
And he's Named Caesar, who does highest rise.  
Thus the Pellaean Monarch born away,  
Made room for Princes, to divide the sway.  
If any fair, henceforth, has Power to move,  
With my Amasia's Charms she must renew my Love.  
I From my Joys of Paradise am hurled,  
Condemned— Condemned alone to wander through the World.  
Farewell, to all that please the ravished view,  
Farewell, to Love, with my Amasia too,  
To Shades, and seats of bliss, and Golden Dreams, Adieu.    

To Mr—  

AS parted Lovers, who a while complain,  
And than in fears, and Anxious Thoughts remain,  
Lest they should never meet in Joys again.  
Make haste to writ, and so, some ease they found,  
Tell all their troubles, and reveal their mind.  
So, me as much does your short absence move,  
Friendship for you is like an other's Love.  
What Swain is here, and you departed hence,  
Or who instructed by the Muses since?  
Dull, Thoughtless Hinds, with lifeless aspects Blow,  
And bleaker Groves, with furious Tempests, Bow.  
These are the Scenes, which to my view appear,  
The only prospects, to delight me here.  
Not Beauteous Maid is seen in all the plains,  
To raise my vigour, or to Fire my Veins.  
My Youthful Blood must in one motion roll,  
None knows to Charm, or to surprise the Soul.  
In vain I walk through any pleasing Shade,  
With you the Nymphs, and tender Virgins fled.  
You, who alone are still successful there,  
And gain new Conquests o'er the yielding fair.  
But I, whose Flames boast no engaging Powers,  
I, whose low Fortunes flow not smooth as yours.  
Famed for no Arts, nor in the Field renowned,  
Must still Despair to have my Passion Crowned.  
Should now some fair one, shining in her Charms,  
Prefer my Fires, and raise me to her Arms.  
Exalt me so, nor let me fond die,  
But lift my Passion, and my Fortune's high,  
No Man alive could Love her, sixth, as I.  
How would that Generous, and that Noble she  
Deserve indeed to be beloved by me!  
Success like this, I must not hope to found,  
For rarely Virgins are so nobly kind.  
Not Daphnis self, whose Wit is vastly great,  
Who Loved, as never any Swain Loved yet,  
Can boast a Triumph, perfectly complete.  
His frequent praise Fame's hundred Mouths shall fill,  
Her loudest Trumpet is his lofty quill.  
His latest Work his greatest glories shows,  
The noblest War Sung by the noblest Muse.  
Of British Arms such mighty deeds he tells,  
As prove that Island the Whole World excels.  
Late did his Verse the ravished Swains improve,  
Taught them to Sing, and Blooming Maids to Love.  
But now he's fled, from these Neglected Fields,  
To dear delights, the grateful City yields.  
Each fair one there shall be his shining prize,  
He Charms all Hearts, as he bewitches Eyes.  
To share such Joys, I value Groves not more,  
Since you and he have left their Shades before.  
I come, Dear Youth, past Pleasures to renew,  
Pleasures, which none could ever give, but you,  
And hast to see you soon, Adieu, Adieu.    

To Mr—  

WIth such delight I did your lines receive,  
Your presence only could more transport give.  
Thou here retired in close recess I devil,  
I Joy to hear my City Friends are well.  
The World's vain noise I can not longer eat.  
Since my Amasia died, all hopes are gone.  
Perplexed, cursed Thoughts desired repose remove,  
I found deep Sorrow worse than slighted Love.  
For my own quiet I must hast to Town,  
I want retirement most, when most alone.  
To eat himself your Silvius flies to you,  
And be assured 'tis what all Friends may do.  
Whatever Youthful Thoughts your Breast may bear,  
I can't believe that I inhabit there,  
Such Fond, Dear, Airy Notions suit the fair.  
Youth does to vain, Fantastic fancies bend,  
And Courts, Romantic, Courts a Bosom Friend.  
Ravished with darling hopes, you entertain,  
You view gay Pleasures in the fairy Scene.  
So in our sleep, delightful Groves we frame,  
But when awake, we know we did but Dream.  
Trust me, dear Youth, Friendship is all a cheat,  
A light there is, but voided of real heat.  
No Swain can Passion in another move,  
For Man can ne'er Love Man, with Woman's Love.  
Friendship indeed bears in it some desires,  
It raises wishes, but Creates no Fires.  
Such, for my best Acquaintance long I knew,  
I boast not many, for my Friends are few,  
But of that Number still I reckoned you.  
Thus far a Friend serves his Acquaintance best,  
To raise his Fortunes, when by chance depressed,  
But Man can ne'er Lodge Man, within his inmost Breast.  
Love lives in Sunshine, or that Storm, Despair,  
But gentler Friendship Breathes a Moderate Air.  
Do not infer, from what my Muse assures,  
My Soul feels Passions, lesle extreme than Yours.  
Not, with such transports, as should never end,  
I could 〈◊〉 the darling Name of Friend  
My Thoughts would still with ravished fondness Flow;  
And from a Friend, I should a Lover grow.  
But here's the curse imposed on all Mankind,  
This dear, imagined Friend no search can found.  
Alike, the Youths must both, by Fortune, stand,  
For Friendship stoops not, but goes hand in hand.  
Whatever Swain an other's Friend would be,  
Must found his humour, with his own, agreed.  
Thus far indeed may real Friendship rise,  
As to stand sirm, but sure it never flies.  
He that pretends it can a Passion prove,  
Makes it much blinder, than we fancy Love.  
Believe the honest real Truths I tell,  
Withal, believe thus far, I wish you well.    

To Mr—  

TO you, dear Youth, now Banished from the Swains,  
Your Rural Friend, in Rural Notes, complains,  
From my blessed Groves, those long Loved Mansions, hurled,  
Urged by misfortunes, I must view the World.  
But with as much regret, to see it, fly,  
As they to leave it, who are doomed to die.  
From these dear Shades unwillingly I go,  
As Men, Condemned to visit Shades below.  
Since my late ills, which will be ever new,  
Still Fresh misfortunes your lost Friend pursue.  
Amasia's fall struck me to deep Despair,  
And now Fate's utmost Malice I can bear.  
Inur'd to Storms, now let the Billows roar,  
With full spread Sails, I'll eat the lazy shore,  
He who has once been Wrecked—  
Has felt the worst, and cannot suffer more.  
Just o'er my Head the breaking Clouds have gone,  
The Bolts have struck; than sure their fury's done,  
I fear no Flashes now— let the heavens thunder on.  
By grave Acquaintance, whom the world calls Friends,  
I am 〈◊〉 to quit my purposed ends.  
But now, long Planted in the Muse's Land,  
I can no other Language understand.  
All Worldly gains beyond my reach must prove,  
For I am bend on Poetry, and Love.  
Should frowning Heaven it's usual Storms abate,  
(Which I can't think, without a wrong to Fate,)  
My Joys would grow, as now my Sorrows, great.  
But should no Fortunes, no success attend  
The bold, aspiring Fondness of your Friend.  
Trust me, no disappointment shall I found,  
Nor be deceived, unless the Gods grow kind.  
In vain you move me with your Charming strain,  
And tell of Fancied, Generous Nymphs, in vain.  
The British Beauties sure have noble Souls,  
But still 'tis Gold, 'tis Gold, my Friend, controls.  
No Charming Fair will hear the suppliant sue,  
Who speaks not Golden Words, 'tis Gold must woe,  
And all Despair, who want it, all— but you.  
O should some Beauty, in her Heavenly bloom,  
To the Embraces of your Silvius come.  
Some bright, dear Maid, framed of a nobler mould,  
Who scorns to cell her Charms for sordid Gold,  
Above her Sex's meanest Pride, and generously bold.  
Blessed by our Nuptials, sure, we both should grow,  
I, tho' the Husband, still the Lover too;  
A Mistress, so Divine, should be for ever so.  
My loftiest Muse should Sing her Matchless Fame,  
The Fires of Love should yield my fancy Flame,  
She should for ever live—  
named my Amasia, and adorn the Name.   

Give my respects to those few Friend we know,  
To those few Friends, whom I found always so.  
My real Service, and Chief Thoughts commend,  
Who Serves no Mistress, best can Serve his Friend.  
Born on my Muse's Wings, I hast to you,  
Leave these low Vales, and glory's heights pursue,  
Adieu, my Friend—  
Adieu, dear Shades, Adieu.    

MARTIN, THE FRIEND.  

Nos quoque per totum pariter cantabimur orbem;  
Junctaque semper erunt nomina nostra tuis,   

O Martin! I grow ravished, while I writ,  
And Friendship Works me to a Sacred height.  
Martin the Friend! When will the transport end!  
Martin, the best, the truest, only Friend!  
So much I Love thee, more than Poet's Fame,  
That I could devil for ever on the Name.  
O Martin! Martin!— Let the grateful sound Crowned.  
Reach to that Heaven, which has our Friendship  
And like our endless Friendship, meet not bound.  
Friendship, the truest Blessing Heaven can give,  
From Heaven descended, does in Martin live.  
Heaven gave me you, in you was Friendship given,  
Heaven gave me you, and you would give me Heaven.  
O Friend! O Sacred! Ever-Charming Word!  
Poetic fury can no sense afford  
Fit for the Echoes of that sound restored.  
If e'er we meet, than shall we best commend  
The Sense, the Name, the Nature of a Friend.  
Sure we meet now, with thine I mix my Soul,  
And all, all Friendship does my sense control,  
Exalt the Man, and high as Passion roll.  
Beyond all thought transcendent Friendship towers,  
Beyond the faculties of Mortal Powers,  
While with Extatick Pride my ravished Soul grows yours.  
Feign would I speak; but how can Words express  
The Debt I own? To own would make it lesle.  
You Love with fondness, not Austere, tho' Wise,  
Blind to my Faults, yet still with sense advice.  
Believe me, Friend, since you the Name will own,  
And since my welfare so much yours is grown,  
When ever Heaven shall the blessed change permit,  
The Muse, your Rival long, at last I'll quit.  
I'll make no Poet's unsuccessful vow,  
The Friend protests, and 'tis to Martin now.  
But if by wit, the worst of Follies, cursed,  
I must writ on, still wretched as at worst.  
To you I'll still appeal, to you who know  
I never thought that Verse was fated so.  
Who only errs, his error may excuse;  
I own the Folly, and condemn the Muse.  
What's passed the World forgive— forgive me Friend,  
And, if a Poet ever can— I'll mend.  
Not more shall Verse delude with hopes of Fame,  
Not more the Muse my Senses Empire claim,  
Not more shall numbers Charm—  
Nor with Amasia's, nor with Martin's Name.  
Not more shall Love be as an Art displayed,  
Only I'll cure those Wounds my Verse has made.  
To every Name, to all, but Heaven and you,  
The best-good Man, Martin, my Friend— Adieu.    
FINIS.