THE ENJOYMENT.  
SInce now my Silvia is as kind as fair,  
Let wit and joy succeed my dull despair.  
O what a night of pleasure was the last!  
A full reward for all my troubles past!  
And on my head if future mischief fall,  
This happy night shall make amends for all.  
Nay though my Silvia's Love should turn to hate,  
I'll think of this, and die contented with my fate.  
Twelve was the lucky Minute when we met,  
And on her Bed were close together set;  
Though listening Spies might be perhaps too near,  
Love filled our hearts, these was no Room for fear.  
Now whilst I strive her melting heart to move  
With all the powerful Eloquence of Love:  
In her fair face I saw the Colour rise,  
And an unusual Softness in her Eyes,  
Gently they look, and I with Joy adore  
That only Charm they never had before!  
The wounds they made, her Tongue was used to heal,  
But now these gentle Enemies reveal  
A Secret, which that friend would still conceal.  
My Eyes transported too with Amorous rage,  
Seem fierce with expectation to engage:  
But fast she holds my hands, and close her thighs,  
And what she longs to do, with frowns denies.  
A strange effect on foolish Women wrought,  
Bred in disguises, and by Custom taught:  
Custom, which Wisdom sometimes over rules,  
But serves instead of reason to the fools:  
Custom, which all the world to Slavery brings;  
The dull excuse for doing silly things.  
She by this Method of her foolish Sex,  
Is forced a while me and herself to vex.  
But now when thus we had been struggling long,  
Her Limbs grow weak, and her desires grow strong:  
How can she hold to let the Hero in;  
He storms without, and Love betrays within.  
Her hands at last to hide her blushes, leave  
The Fort unguarded, willing to receive  
My fierce assault, made with a Lover's haste;  
Like Lightning piercing, and as quickly passed.  
Thus does fond Nature with her Children play,  
Just shows us Joy, then snatches it away.  
'Tis not th' excess of pleasure makes it short;  
The pain of Love's as raging as the sport:  
And yet, alas, that lasts; we sigh all night  
With grief, but scarce one moment with delight.  
Some little pain may check her kind desire,  
But not enough to make her once retire:  
Maids wounds for pleasure bear as Men for praise,  
Here Honour heals, there Love the smart allays:  
The World if Just, would harmful courage blame,  
And this more innocent reward with fame.  
Now she her well contented thoughts employs,  
On her past fears, and on her future Joys:  
Whose Harbinger did roughly all remove,  
To make fit room for great Luxurious Love,  
Fond of the welcome guest, her Arms embrace  
My body, and her hands a better place:  
Which with one touch so pleased and proud does grow,  
It swells beyond the grasp that made it so.  
Confinement Scorns in any straighter Walls,  
Then those of Love, where it contented falls:  
Though twice o'erthrown he more inflamed does rise:  
And will to the last drop fight out loves prize.  
She like some Amazon in story proves,  
That overcomes the Hero whom she Loves.  
In the close strife she takes so much delight,  
She then can think of nothing but the fight:  
With Joy she lays him panting at her feet,  
But with more joy does his recovery meet.  
Her trembling hands first gently raise his head,  
She almost dies for fear that he is dead:  
Then binds his wounds up with a busy hand,  
And with that balm enables him to stand,  
Till by her eyes she Conquers him once more,  
And wounds him deeper than she did before.  
Though fallen from the Top of pleasures hill,  
With longing Eyes we look up thither still:  
Still thither Our unwearied wishes tend,  
Till we that height of happiness ascend  
By gentle steps, th' ascent itself exceeds  
All Joys, but that alone to which it leads.  
First then so long and lovingly we kiss,  
As if like Doves, we knew no dearer bliss:  
Still in one Mouth our Tongues together play,  
While groping hands are pleased no less than they.  
Thus clinged together now awhile we rest,  
Breathing our Souls into each others breast:  
Then give a general kiss of all our parts  
While this best way we make exchange of hearts.  
Here would my praise as well as pleasure dwell,  
Enjoyments self I scarcely like so well:  
The little this comes short in Rage and strength,  
Is largely recompensed with endless length.  
This is a joy would last, if we could stay,  
But Loves too eager to admit delay,  
And hurries us along so smooth away.  
Now wanton with delight we nimbly move,  
Our pliant Limbs in all the shapes of Love:  
Our motions not like those of gamesome fools,  
Whose active Bodies show their heavy Souls.  
But sports of Love, in which a willing mind,  
Makes us as able as our hearts are kind.  
At length all languishing and out of breath,  
Panting as in the agonies of death,  
We lie entranced, till one provoking kiss  
Transports our ravished Souls to paradise.  
O Heaven of Love, thou moment of delight!  
Wronged by my words, my fancy does thee right.  
Methinks I lie all melting in her Charms,  
And fast locked up within her Legs and Arms:  
Bent are our minds and all our thoughts on fire,  
Just labouring in the pangs of fierce desire.  
At once, like Misers Wallowing in their store,  
In full possession, yet desiring more.  
Thus with repeated pleasures while we wast  
Our happy hours, that like short Minute's past,  
To such a sum of bliss our Joys amount,  
The number now becomes too great too count.  
Silent as Night are all sincerest Joys,  
Like deepest Waters running with least Noise.  
But now at last for want of further force  
From deeds, alas, we fall into discourse!  
A fall which each of us in vain bemoans,  
A greater fall than that of Kings from Thrones,  
The Tide of pleasure flowing now no more,  
We lie like Fish left gasping on the shore.  
And now as after fight, wounds appear,  
Which we in heat, did neither feel for fear,  
She for her sake entreats me to give o'er,  
And yet for mine would gladly suffer more.  
Her words are coy, while all her motions Woe,  
And when she asks me if it please me too,  
I rage to show how well but 'twill not do.  
Thus would hot Love run itself out of breath,  
And wanting rest, find it too soon in death,  
Did not wise Nature with a gentle force  
Restrain its rage, and stop its headlong course:  
Indulgently severe, she well does spare  
This Child of hers, which most deserves her care.   

These Verses amongst many others, being ready to be Published and not possibly to be stopped in this Liberty of the Press; a friend of the Authors thought it necessary to print them single by the Original paper, to prevent the errors which will be found in that which is coming out, which is falsely transcribed from a surreptitious Copy.   

London, Printed in the Year, 1679.