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

TO THE Earl of Melford, etc. KNIGHT Of the most Noble Order OF THE THISTLE.  
My LORD,  
THis Epistle Dedicatory which humbly lays this Little Volume at your Lordship's feet, and begs a Protection there, is rather an Address than a Dedication; to which a great many hands have subscribed, it Presenting your Lordship a Garland whose Flowers are culled by several judgements in which I claim the least part; whose sole Ambition is this way to congratulate your Lordship's new Addition of Honour, that of the Most Noble Order of the Thistle, an Honour which preced's that of the Garter, having been supported by a long Race of of Kings, and only fell with the most Illustrious of Queens, whose memory (which ought to be Established, in all hearts can not be better preserved,) than by reviving this so Ancient Order; well has His Majesty chosen its Noble Champions, among whom none merits more the Glory of that Royal Favour than your Lordship: whose Loyalty to His Sacred Person and interest through all the adversities of Fate, has begot you so perfect a veneration in all hearts, and is so peculiarly the Innate virtue of your Great mind; a virtue not shown by unreasonable fits when it shall serve an end, (a false Bravery for a while when least needful, and thrown off when put to useful Trial; like those who weighing Advantages by Probabilities only, and fancying the future to outpoise the present, cast there their Anchor of Hope,) but a virtue built on so sure and steady Basis' of Honour, as nothing can move or shake; the Royal Interest being so greatly indeed the Property of Nobility, and so much even above life and Fortune: Especially when to support a Monarch so truly just, so wise and great; a Monarch whom God Almighty Grant long to Reign over Us, and still to be served by men of Principles so truly Brave, as those that shine in your Lordship.  
Pardon, my Lord, this Digression and the meanness of this Present, which to a Person of your Lordship's great and weighty Employments in the world may seem Improper, if I did not know that the most Glorious of Statesmen must sometimes unbend from Great Affairs, and seek a diversion in trivial Entertainments: Though Poetry will justle for the Preeminency of all others, and I know is not the least in the Esteem of your Lordship, who is so admirable a judge of it, if any thing here may be found worthy the Patronage it Implores, 'twill be a sufficient Honour to,  
My Lord, Your Lordship's most humble, most obliged, and obedient Servant, A. BEHN.   

To Mrs. B. on her Poems.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LYCIDUS: OR, THE Lover in Fashion, etc.  
I Have received your melancholy Epistle, with the Account of your Voyage to the Island of Love; of your Adventures there, and the Relation of the death of your Aminta: At which you shall forgive me if I tell you I am neither surprised nor grieved, but hope to see you the next Campagne, as absolutely reduced to reason as myself. When Love, that has so long deprived you of Glory, shall give you no more Sighs but at the short remembrances of past Pleasures; and that after you have heard my Account of the Voyage I made to the same place, with my more lucky one back again, (for I, since I saw you, have been an Adventurer) you will by my Example become of my Opinion, (notwithstanding your dismal Tales of Death and the eternal Shades,) which is, that if there be nothing that will lay me in my Tomb till Love brings me thither, I shall live to Eternity.  
I must confess 'tis a great Inducement to Love, and a happy Advance to an Amour, to be handsome, finely shaped, and to have a great deal of Wit; these are Charms that subdue the Hearts of all the Fair: And one sees but very few Ladies, that can resist these good Qualities, especially in an Age so gallant as ours, yet all this is nothing if Fortune do not smile: And I have seen a Man handsome, well shaped, and of a great deal of Wit, with the advantage of a thousand happy Adventures, yet finds himself in the end, fitter for an Hospital than the Elevation of Fortune: And the Women are not contented we should give them as much Love as they give us, (which is but reasonable,) but they would compel us all to Present and Treat 'em lavishly, till a Man hath consumed both Estate and Body in their Service. How many do we see, that are wretched Examples of this Truth, and who have nothing of all they enjoyed remaining with 'em, but a poor Idea of past Pleasures, when rather the Injury the Jilt has done 'em, aught to be eternally present with 'em. Heaven keep me from being a Woman's Property. There are Cullies enough besides you or I, Lysander.  
One would think now, That I, who can talk thus Learnedly and Gravely, had never been any of the number of those wretched, whining, sighing, dying Fops, I speak of, never been jilted and cozened of both my Heart and Reason; but let me tell those that think so, they are mistaken, and that all this Wisdom and Discretion, I now seem replenished with, I have as dearly bought as any keeping Fool of 'em all. I was lied and flattered into Wit, jilted and cozened into Prudence, and, by ten thousand broken Vows and perjured Oaths, reduced to Sense again; and can laugh at all my past Follies now.  
After I have told you this, you may guests at a great part of my Story; which, in short, is this: I would needs make a Voyage, as you did, to this fortunate Isle, and accompanied with abundance of young Heirs, Cadets, Coxcombs, Wits, Blockheads, and Politicians, with a whole Cargo of Cullies all, nameless and numberless we Landed on the Enchanted Ground; the first I saw, and liked, was charming Silvia; you believe I thought her fair as Angels; young, as the Spring, and sweet as all the Flowers the blooming Fields produce; that when she blushed, the Ruddy Morning opened, the Rosebuds blue, and all the Pinks and Daisies spread; that when she sighed or breathed, Arabia's Spices, driven by gentle Winds, perfumed all around; that when she looked on me, all Heaven was opened in her Azure Eyes, from whence Love shot a thousand pointed Darts, and wounded me all over; that when she spoke, the Music of the Spheres, all that was ravishing in Harmony, blest the Adoring Listener; that when she walked, Venus in the Myrtle Grove when she advanced to meet her loved Adonis, assuming all the Grace young Loves could give, had not so much of Majesty as Silvia: In fine, she did deserve, and I compared her to all the Fopperies, the Suns, the Stars, the Coral, and the Pearl, the Roses and Lilies, Angels Spheres, and Goddesses, fond Lovers dress their Idols in. For she was all, fancy and fine imagination could adorn her with, at least, the gazing Puppy thought so. 'Twas such I saw and loved; but knowing I did Adore, I made my humble Court, and she, by all my trembling, sigh, pant, the going and returning of my Blood, found all my Weakness and her own Power; and using all the Arts of her Sex, both to engage and secure me, played all the Woman over: She would be scornful and kind by turns, as she saw convenient, This to check my Presumption and too easy hope; That to preserve me from the brink of despair. Thus was I tossed in the Blanket of Love, sometimes up, and sometimes down, as her Wit and Humour was in or out of tune, all which I watched, and waited like a Dog, that still the oftener kicked would fawn the more.  
Oh, 'tis an excellent Art this managing of a Coxcomb, the Serpent first taught it our Grandam Eve; and Adam was the first Cully: ere since they have kept their Empire over Men, and we have, ere since, been Slaves. But I, the most submissive of the whole Creation, was long in gaining Grace; she used me as she meant to keep me, Fool enough for her Purpose. She saw me young enough to do her Service, handsome enough to do her Credit, and Fortune enough to please her Vanity and Interest: She therefore suffered me to Love, and Bow among the Crowd, and fill her Train. She gave me hope enough to secure me 100, but gave me nothing else, till she saw me languish to that degree, she feared, to lose the Glory of my Services, by my death; only this Pleasure kept me alive, to see her treat all my Rivals with the greatest Rigour imaginable, and to me all sweetness, exposing their feblesses; and having taken Notice of my Languishment, she suffered me Freedoms that wholly Ravished me, and gave me hopes I should not be long a dying for all she could give.  
But, since I have a great deal to say of my Adventures in passing out of this Island of Love: I will be as brief as I can in what arrived to me on the Place; and tell you, That after Ten thousand Vows of eternal Love on both sides, I had the Joy, not only to be believed and loved, but to have her put herself into my Possession, far from all my Rivals: Where, for some time I lived with this charming Maid, in all the Raptures of Pleasure, Youth, Beauty, and Love could create. Eternally we loved, and lived together, no day nor night separated us, no Frowns interrupted our Smiles, no Clouds our Sunshine; the Island was all perpetual Spring, still flowery and green, in Bowers, in Shades, by purling Springs and Fountains, we passed our hours, unwearied and uninterrupted. I cannot express to you the happy Life I led, during this blessed Tranquillity of Love, while Silvia still was pleased, and still was gay. We walked all day together in the Groves, and entertained ourselves with a thousand Stories of Love; we laughed at the foolish World, who could not make their Felicity with out Crowds and Noise: We pitied Kings in Courts in this Retirement, so well we liked our Solitude; till on a day, (blest be that joyful day, though than 'twas most accursed,) I say upon that day, I know not by what accident I was parted from my Charmer, and left her all alone, but in my absence, there encountered her a Woman extremely ugly, and who was however very nice and peevish, inconstant in her temper, and no one place could continue her: The finest things in the World were troublesome to her, and she was Shagreen at every thing; her Name is Indifference; she is a Person of very great Power in this Island, (though possibly you never encountered her there,) and those that follow her, depart from the Isle of Love without any great pains. She brought Silvia to the Lake of Disgust, whether, in pursuing her (at my return,) I found her, ready to take Boat to have passed quite away, and where there are but too many to transport those Passengers, who follow Indifference over the Lake of Disgust. I saw this disagreeable Creature too, but she appeared too ugly for me to approach her, but forcing Silvia back, I returned again to the Palace of True Pleasure, where some days after there arrived to me a Misfortune, of which, I believed I should never have seen an end. I found Silvia environed round with new Lovers, still adoring and pleasing her a thousand ways, and though none of 'em were so rich, so young, or so handsome as I, she nevertheless failed not to treat 'em with all the Smiles and Caresses 'twas possible to imagine; when I complained of this, she would satisfy my fears with so many Vows and Imprecations, that I would believe her, and think myself unreasonable, but when she would be absent whole days, in an hundred places, she would find such probable Excuse, and lie with such a Grace, no mortal could have accused her, so that all the whole Island took notice that I was a bassled Cuckold, before I could believe she would deceive me, so heartily she damned herself: Through all the Groves I was the pointed Coxcomb, laughed at aloud, and knew not where the jest lay; but thought myself as secure in the Innocence of my deceiving fair One, as the first hour I charmed her, and like a keeping Cully, lavished out my Fortune, my plenteous Fortune, to make her fine to Cuckold me. 'Sdeath! how I scorn the Follies of my Dotage; and am resolved to pursue Love for the future, in such a manner as it shall never cost me a Sigh: This shall be my method.  

A Constancy in Love I'll prize,  
And be to Beauty true:  
And dote on all the lovely Eyes,  
That are but fair and new.  
On Cloris Charms to day I'll feed,  
To morrow Daphne move;  
For bright Lucinda next I'll bleed,  
And still be true to Love.   

But Glory only and Renown  
My serious hours shall charm;  
My Nobler Minutes those shall Crown,  
My loser hours, my Flame.  
All the Fatigues of Love I'll hate,  
And Phillis' new Charms  
That hopeless Fire shall dissipate,  
My Heart for Cloe warms.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When to the charming Bellinda I came,  
With my heart full of Love and desire,  
To gain my wished end I talked of a flame,  
Of sighing, and dying, and sire,  
I swore to her charms that my soul did submit,  
And the slave was undone by the force of her Wit.   

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

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

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

Oh! how charming tis, to meet  
Soft resistance from the fair;  
When her pride and wishes meet  
And by turns increase her care.  
Oh! how charming 'tis to know,  
She would yield but can't tell how,   

Oh! how pretty is her scorn  
When confused 'twixt Love and Shame,  
Still refusing (though she burn,)  
The soft pressures of my Flame.  
Her Pride in her denial lies,  
And mine is in my Victories.   
I feigned nevertheless abundance of Grief to find her-still persist in her rigorous Cruelty; and I made her believe, that all my absent hours I abandoned myself to sorrows and despairs; though Love knows I parted with all those things in Silia's Arms. But whatever I pretend, to appear at Cruelty and before Bellimante; at Intelligence I was all Galliard and never in better Humour in my Life than when I went to visit Bellinda: I put on the Gravity of a Lover, and beheld her with a Solemn Languishing Look: In fine, I accustomed myself to counterfeit my Humour, whenever I found it convenient for my Advantage: Tears, Vows, and Sighs cost me nothing, and I knew all the Arts to jilt for Love, and could act the dying Lover, whenever it made for my Satisfaction.  
He that would precious time improve,  
And husband well his hours,  
Let him complain and die for Love,  
And spare no Sighs or Showers.  
To second which, let Vows and Oaths  
Be ready at your will,  
And fittest times and seasons choose,  
To show your cozening skill.  
In fine, after I had sufficiently acted the Languishing Lover, for the accomplishment of all my Wishes, I thought it time to change the Scene, and without having recourse to Pity, I followed all the Counsels of my Cupid; who told me, that in stead of dying and whining at her Feet, and damning myself to obtain her Grace, I should affect a Coldness, and an Unconcern; for, Lycidus, assure yourself, said he, there is nothing a Woman will not do, rather than lose her Lover either from Vanity or Inclination. I thanked Love for his kind Advice; and to pursue it, the next day I dressed myself in all the Gaiety imaginable: My Eyes, my Air, my Language, were all changed; and thus fortified with all the put-on indifference in the World, I made Bellimante a Visit; and after a thousand things all cold and unconcerned, far from Love or my former Softness, I cried laughing to her;  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Miscellany OF POEMS.  

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

To Urania in Mourning.  

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

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

SONG.  

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

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

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

On Beauty.  
A PINDARIC.  

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

Iudah's wise King, when he  
Had studied Nature o'er and o'er,  
Surveying all her hidden Store,  
Even from the Reed to the triumphant Tree,  
Through all the spacious Universal round,  
Soft Beauty was the only good he found  
Worth setting his select Affections on.  
'Twas there he bounded his Delights,  
His cheerful Days, and charming Nights,  
On that most perfect Bliss beneath the Sun.  
Beauty alone inspired him with the Theme  
Of the bright Virgins of Jerusalem.  
From that alone his Divine Raptures sprung,  
Beauty his Business was, and Love was all his Song.   

When Alexander had his Conquest hurled  
O'er all the yielding Tributary World,  
And found no more that could afford  
New Business for his Glory, and his Sword,  
'Tis said, He wept; but when the Persian Maid  
(With greater Charms) the Hero had surveyed,  
He found the toil of Conquering her much more  
Than all his worthless Worlds before.  
He sighed and bowed, looked pale and red by turns,  
To serve her was his whole delight,  
Thinks it as brave, while thus he burns  
Under soft Venus, as rough Mars to fight.  
And Sieges lays of Sighs and Tears,  
And tells soft Stories of his Heart,  
Of restless Nights, and Days of Cares,  
Of Pains, and Flames, and wild Despairs,  
Of bleeding Wounds and Smart,  
And found that no Fatigues of War  
Were half so great as vanquishing the Fair!  
But oh, no Victory could so Charming prove,  
As that of the dear Maids confessing Love!   

David, whose harmonious String  
Could Saul's infernal Tempest calm,  
And by the Music's strange mysterious Balm,  
Appeased the Frenzies of a raging King;  
Yet stranger Charms in the fair Hittite found,  
Which kindled to a softer Fire  
His cold and languishing Desire.  
And struggling Virtue in strong Fetters bound,  
That powerful Aid was useless now,  
When yet more powerful Beauty was in view,  
He found no Music could appease  
The troubled Spirits her fair Eyes did raise.  
The Music of her Voice did but inspire  
A more tormenting Fire;  
So great a Sympathy  
There is between soft Love and Harmony.   

In the wild darkness of Idolatry  
Did Clodovaeus see  
'Twas more than vulgar Light  
That made the fair Clotilda look so bright,  
When from her conquering Eyes  
Surprised, he saw such sparkling Flames arise,  
And therefore wished to know  
The Spring from whence such streams of Light did flow.   

Why then should I,  
Ye learned Stoics tell me why?  
Think it unworthy of my Name  
To own a Generous and a Noble Flame,  
Since Love's Almighty Power  
To whom the Young, the Great and Brave,  
The Wise, the Politic and Grave,  
Have bowed to as their Conqueror.   

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

SONG.  

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

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

SONG.  
AH how Dull it is to love,  
Ah how Dull is past Desire,  
How insipidly we move  
In the flames of dying Fire.  
Maidens if you will be Wise,  
Rather die than lose the Prize.  
Ah what Angel things are Men  
E'er the last Desires obtained,  
But alas are Devils when  
Cold forced Kisses are but feigned.  
Maidens ah be warned by me,  
Rather Dye than Conquered be.   

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

To Laurinda.  

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

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

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

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

On a Lady singing.  

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

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

To Mr. W.  

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

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

Armida: Or, The Fair Gill.  

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

Ah cruel Love! the Honey and the Gall,  
Which thou afford'st, do equally Enthral;  
And all our Ills, and all our Cures from Thee,  
Are mortal to us in the same degree:  
If any of Inconstancy complain  
Of broken Vows and her unjust disdain,  
She feigns herself unpractised in Love's Arts,  
And that she wants the charms should vanquish hearts.  
And looks with such a Blushing Modesty,  
As undeceives your fancied Injury.  
And thus the Thorn lies hid that she does bear  
Under the Roses which her Beauties wear.  
So in the earliest rise of day, we spy  
The ruddy Morning mingled with the Sky.  
While shame and anger in her looks appear,  
Both seem confusedly mixed together there  
Thus in delusive Dream the time being spent,  
Weary with cozenage and discontent,  
Even hope itself he scarcely now retains,  
But like a Hunter at the last remains,  
Who having to no purpose spent the day,  
At last loses the tract of the lost Prey.   

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

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

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

To Cloris going into the Country.  

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

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

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

Ah Nymph, if you persist to take  
This course, and every place forsake,  
Assoon as you a Lover make.  
No Residence for Cloris can be found,  
Since where soe'er she goes she's sure to wound.    

SONG.  

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

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

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

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

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

Song by the same hand.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love cannot be indifferent.  

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

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

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

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

To my Heart.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chorus.  
Now we'll chant, we'll live and love  
And welcome in the Spring.  
Our Pleasures we will still improve,  
In every Thicket, Shade and Grove,  
With Love and Music's trembling string.    

SONG.  

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

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

Strephon to his three Mistresses.  

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

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

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

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

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

SONG.  

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

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

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

On an ungrateful and undeserving Mistress, whom he could not help Loving.  
Being a Paraphrastical Translation of Ovid's 10th Elegy Lib. 3. Amorum.  
I Have too long endured her guilty scorn,  
Too long her falseness my fond love has born:  
My freedom and my Wit at length I claim,  
Be gone, base Passion! dy, unworthy flame!  
My lifes sole torment, and my honour's stain,  
Quit this tired heart and end my lingering pain.  
I have resolved to be myself once more;  
Long banished reason to her rights restore.  
And throw off Loves Tyrannic sway, that still encroaching power.  
My growing shame I see at last, though late,  
And my past follies both despise and hate;  
Hold out, my heart, nor let her beauty's move,  
Be constant in thy Anger, as thy Love.  
Thy present pains shall give thee future ease,  
As bitter Potions cure, though they displease.  
'Tis for this end, for freedom more assured,  
I have so long such shameful pains endured.  
Like a scorned slave before her door I lay,  
And proud repulses suffered every day.  
Without complaining, banished from her sight,  
On the cold ground I spent the tedious night.  
While some glad Rival in her Arms did lie,  
Glutted with Love and surfeited with Joy.  
Thence have I seen the tired Adulterer come,  
Dragging a weak exhausted Carcase home;  
And yet this curse a blessing I esteem,  
Compared to that of being seen by him!  
By him descried attending in the street,  
May my Foes only such disgraces meet.  
What toil and time has this false Woman cost,  
How much of unreturning Youth has for her sake been lost?  
How long did I, where fancy, led or fate,  
Unthanked, unminded, on her Rambles wait;  
Her steps, her looks, were still by mine pursued,  
And watched by me, she charmed the gazing crowd.  
My diligent Love and overfond desire  
Has been the means to kindle Others fire.  
What need I mention every little wrong,  
Or curse the softness of her soothing Tongue:  
The private love-signs that in public pass  
Between her and some common staring Ass,  
The Coquette's Arts her faithless heart allows,  
Or tax her with a thousand broken vows.  
I hear she's sick and with wild haste I run,  
Officious haste, and visit Importune.  
Entering, my Rival on her bed I see,  
The Politic sickness only was to me,  
With this and more oft has my Love been tried,  
Some other Coxcomb let her now provide,  
To bear her jilting and maintain her pride.  
My battered Bark has reached the Port at last,  
Nor fears again the billows, it has past.  
Cease your soft Oaths and that still ready shower,  
Those once dear words have lost their wont Power.  
In vain you flatter, I am now no more  
That easy fool you found me heretofore.  
Anger and Love a doubtful fight maintain,  
Each strive by turns my staggering heart to gain  
But what can long against Love's Power contend?  
My Love, I fear, will Conquer in the end.  
I'll do what e'er I can to hate you still;  
And if I Love, know 'tis against my will.  
So the Bull hates the Ploughman's Yoke to wear,  
Yet what he hates his stubborn neck must bear.  
Her Manners oft my indignation raise,  
But straight her Beauty the short storm always.  
Her Life I loathe, her Person I adore,  
Much I condemn her, but I Love her more:  
Both with her and without her, I'm in pain,  
And rage to lose what I should blush to gain,  
Uncertain yet at what my wishes aim:  
Loath to abandon Love, or part with Fame.  
That Angel-Form ill suits a Soul all sin,  
Ah! be less fair without, or more within.  
When those soft smiles my yielding powers invade,  
In vain I call her Vices to my Aid.  
Tho' now disdaining the disguise of Art,  
In my esteem her conduct claims no part,  
Her Face a natural right has to my heart.  
No crimes so black are to deform her Eyes,  
Those Clouds must scatter when these Suns shall rise.  
Enough, fair Conqueror, the day's your own;  
See at your feet love's Vanquished Rebel thrown.  
By those dear Joys, Joys dear though they are passed,  
When in the kindest links of Love we held each other fast.  
By the injured Gods, your false Oaths did profane,  
By all those Beauties that inspire disdain,  
By that Loved face from the whole sex elect,  
To which I all my Vows and Prayers direct.  
And equal with a Power divine respect,  
By every feature of a form so fine,  
And by those Eyes that charm and dazzle mine,  
Spare from new triumph, cherish without Art  
This ever faithful, this too tender, heart.  
A heart, that was respectful while it strove,  
But yielding is all blind impetuous Love.  
Live as you please, torment me as you will,  
Still are you fair, and I must Love you still,  
Think only if with just and clement Reign,  
A willing subject you would choose to gain,  
Or drag a Conquered Vassal in a chain.  
But to what ever conduct you incline  
Do, suffer, be, what my worst fears divine;  
You are, you ought, you must, you shall be Mine.  
Reason, for ever the vain strife give o'er,  
Thy cruel wisdom I can bear no more;  
Let me indulge this one soft Passions rule,  
Curb vexing Sense, and be a happy fool.  
With full-spread Sails the tempting gale obey,  
That down Loves-current drives me fast away.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Song by Robert Wolseley Esq  

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

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

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

SONG.  

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

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

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

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

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

HAil, thou sole Empress of the Land of wit,  
To whom all conquered Authors must submit,  
And at thy feet their sading Laurels lay,  
The utmost tribute that a Muse can pay,  
To thy unlaboured Song o'th' Coronation day.  
The subject was Divine we all confess,  
Nor was that flame, thy mighty fancy, less.  
That clothed thy thought in such a pleasing dress,  
As did at once a Masculine wit express,  
And all the softness of a Female tenderness.  
No more shall men their fancied Empire hold,  
Since thou Astrea formed of finer mould,  
By nature tempered more with humid cold,  
Doth man excel—  
Not in soft strokes alone, but even in the bold.  
And as thy purer Blood,  
Through more transparent vessels is conveyed  
Thy spirits more fine and subtle do thy brain invade.  
And nimbler come uncalled unto thy aid;  
So the gay thought—  
Which thy still flowing fancy does inspire  
New, uncontrolled, and warm, as young desire,  
Have more of kindling heat and fiercer fire;  
Not to be reached, or praised, unless by such  
As the same happy temperament possess;  
Since none with equal numbers can reward thy Lays,  
May the just Monarch, which you praise,  
Deign to acknowledge this.  
Not with a short applause of crackling Bays  
But a return that may revive thy days;  
And thy well-meaning grateful loyal Muse  
Cherished by that blessed theme its zeal did choose.  
Mayst thou be blest with such a sweet retreat,  
That with contempt thou mayst behold the great;  
Such as the mighty Cowlies well-known seat.  
Whose lofty Elms I would have all thy own,  
And in the midst a spacious shady Throne,  
Raised on a Mount that should Parnassus be,  
And every Muse included all in thee.  
On whose cool top alone thou shouldst dispense  
The Laws of Wit, Love, Loyalty and Sense:  
The new Arcadia should the Grove be named  
And for the gift our grateful Monarch famed.   

Amidst the shade, I'd wish a well built House,  
Like Sidneys Noble Calendar should stand,  
Raising its head and all the rest command.  
It's outside gay, its inside clean and neat  
With all of life's conveniencies replete,  
Where all the Elements at once conspire  
To give what man's necessities require,  
Rich soil, pure Air, streams cool, and useful fire.  
The fertile spot with pleasure should abound  
And with Elysium-spring be ever crowned.   

When thou thy mind unbendest from thoughtful hours,  
Then shouldst thou be refreshed with Fruits and Flowers,  
The Gods and Nymphs of Woods and Springs  
Shall Dance in Antique Rural Rings:  
While scaly Tritons and grim Satyrs play  
Such Tunes, as Birds compose, to welcome day.  
Till the glad noise to distant shores resound,  
And flying Birds join in th' Harmonious sound.  
Which listening Echoes catch at the rebound.  
Here without toil, or pining want perplexed  
Thy Body easy and thy mind at rest,  
With all Lifes valued pleasures blest,  
Thy largest wishes still thou shouldst enjoy  
Environed with delights that ne'er can cloy.   

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

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

Mr. Wolsely's Answer to the foregoing Copy.  

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

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

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

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

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

LOng have our Priests condemned a wicked Age,  
And every little critics senseless rage  
Damned a forsaken self-declining stage:  
Great 'tis confessed and many are our crimes,  
And no less profligate the vicious times,  
But yet no wonder both prevail so ill,  
The Poet's fury and the Preachers skill;  
While to the World it is so plainly known  
They blame our faults, with greatones of their own,  
Let their dull Pens flow with unlearned spite  
And weakly censure what the skilful write;  
You, learned Sir, a nobler passion show,  
Our best of rules and best example too.  
Precepts and grave instructions dully move,  
The brave Performer better does improve,  
Verest in the truest satire you excel  
And show how ill we write by writing well.  
This noble Piece which well deserves your name  
I read with pleasure though I read with shame,  
The tender Laurels which my brows had dressed  
Flag, like young Flowers, with too much heat oppressed.  
The generous fire I felt in every line  
Showed me the cold, the feeble, force of mine.  
Henceforth I'll you for imitation choose  
Your nobler flights will wing my Callow Muse;  
So the young Eagle is informed to fly  
By seeing the Monarch Bird ascend the sky.  
And though with less success her strength she'll try,  
Spreads her soft plumes and his vast tracks pursues  
Tho' far above the towering Prince she views:  
High as she can she'll bear your deathless fame,  
And make my song Immortal by your name.  
But where the work is so Divinely wrought,  
The rules so just and so sublime each thought,  
When with so strict an Art your scenes are placed  
With wit so new, and so uncommon, graced,  
In vain, alas! I should attempt to tell  
Where, or in what, your Muse does most excel.  
Each character performs its noble part,  
And stamps its Image on the Readers heart.  
In Tamerlan you a true Hero dressed,  
A generous conflict wars within his breast,  
This there the mightiest passions you have showed  
By turns confessed the Mortal and the God.  
When e'er his steps approach the haughty fair  
He bows indeed but like a Conqueror,  
Compelled to Love yet scorns his servial chain,  
In spite of all you make the Monarch reign.  
But who without resistless tears can see  
The bright, the innocent, Irene die:  
Axalla's life a noble ransom paid,  
In vain to save the much-loved charming maid,  
Nought surely could but your own flame inspire  
Your happy Muse to reach so soft a fire.  
Yet with what Art you turn the powerful stream  
When treacherous Ragallzan is the theme:  
You mix our different passions with such skill,  
We feel 'em all and all with pleasure feel.  
We love the mischief, though the harms we grieve,  
And for his wit the villain we forgive.   

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

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

Cato's Answer to Labienus, when he advised him to consult the Oracle of Jupiter Ammon.  
Being a Paraphrastical Translation of part of the 9th Book of Lucan, beginning at— Quid quaeri, Labiene, jubes, etc.  
WHat should I ask my friend, which best would be  
to live enslaved, or thus in Arms die free?  
If any force can Honour's price abate?  
Or virtue bow beneath the blows of fate?  
If fortunes threats a steady Soul disdains,  
Or if the Joys of Life be worth the pains?  
If it our happiness at all import  
Whether the foolish scene be long, or short.  
If when we do but aim at noble ends  
The attempt alone Immortal fame attends?  
If for bad accidents, which thickest press  
On merit, we should like a good cause less?  
Or be the fonder of it for success?  
All this is clear, wove in our minds it sticks,  
Nor Ammon, nor his Priest's can deeper fix;  
Without the Clergy's venal cant and pains  
Gods never-frustrate Will holds ours in chains,  
Nor can we Act but what th' Alwise ordains.  
Who needs no voice, nor perishing words to awe  
Our wild desires, and give his creatures Law:  
What e'er to know, or needful was or fit.  
In the wise frame of human souls 'tis writ,  
Both what we ought to do, and what forbear,  
He once for all, did at our births declare.  
But never did he seek out Desert Lands  
To bury truth in unfrequented Sands;  
Or to a corner of the World withdrew,  
Head of a sect and partial to a few.  
Nature's vast fabric is his house alone,  
This Globe his footstool, and high Heaven his throne.  
In Earth, Air, Sea, and in who e'er excels  
In knowing heads and honest hearts he dwells;  
Why seek we then among these barren sands,  
In narrow shrines and temples built with hands,  
Him whose dread presence does all places fill?  
Or look but in our reason for his will?  
All we e'er saw is God in all we find  
Apparent Prints of the eternal mind;  
Let floating fools their course by Prophets steer  
And always of the future live in fear;  
No Oracle, or Dream the crowd is told  
Can make me more or less resolved and bold.  
But surer death, which equally on all  
Both on the coward and the brave must fall.  
This said, and turning with disdain about,  
He left scorned Ammon to the vulgar Rout.   

To his Grace the Duke of Ormond, upon his leaving the Government of Ireland.  
HAve we a farther trouble yet in store,  
And can our destiny afflict us more?  
To lose our Prince we thought too great a blow,  
And must we lose his glorious Image too?  
Ireland for more than twice seven years has been  
Envied without, for being so blest within;  
While Plague, Fire, Famine, War abroad has Reigned,  
This only was the safe and happy Land;  
Which happiness, great Sir, to you we owe  
Next to the God above and God below.  
The Irish Harp, which long abused had lain,  
Your skilful hand first brought in tune again.  
And when some others by our King were sent  
To play upon the noble Instrument,  
Such was their Ignorance, or their Error such  
They proved but foils to your Melodious touch.  
Into your hands then, which before it graced,  
The noble Instrument again was placed,  
On which a long, soft tune again you played,  
When Jarring discord did all else invade,  
And we rejoiced to think you would play on:  
But Heavens and the Kings will must still be done,  
While we submit as humbly to that power  
Which can the bliss, it takes away, restore,  
More we can't have, nor do we wish for more.  
Adieu then, much loved Prince,  
With mournful hearts we make this Prayer for you,  
Greatest and best of uncrowned Heads adieu,  
And since you must go hence—  
We'll waft you o'er with steady Gales of Prayers,  
And bear you on a Sea of humble tears,  
All the Amends which for your mighty toil,  
Can be returned by a poor widowed Isle.  
Such now alas, She is, and ne'er till now  
That Ormonds noble house did wholly from her go,  
Not leaving to support her mighty Mind,  
An Arran, or an Ossory behind.  
May Heavens choice blessings on 'em all attend,  
And bring'em to a calm and glorious end.  
Glorious and calm may all their passage be  
As was the hour in which they put to Sea.  
And landed, wheresoever her Ormond goes,  
May England dote on him as Ireland does.   

SONG.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SONG of Basset, by Sir George Ethrege.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To the Lord Bishop of Rochester, on His History of the Plot written by His late Majesty's command. And an Apology for these Verses called the Advice to a Painter, by the same Author.  
My Lord,  
WIth humble hope your goodness will excuse  
The hasty zeal of an aspiring Muse;  
I with unequal pace your steps pursue,  
And thought I trod securely following you,  
Repenting now, like Phaeton, too late  
I feebly sink beneath the Glorious weight.  
And own the work for all but you too great:  
The hand that rivalled Heaven took thence its fire  
Ere he the senseless Machine could inspire;  
And the rash Author would attempt in vain,  
Unless he borrowed your diviner Pen;  
To imitate or praise with equal flight  
What only Charles could Dictate, only you could Write.  
If trouble passed by repetition please,  
Tho' meaner tongues the grateful tale rehearse,  
What mighty Raptures must these Ills create,  
Which bravely, as he conquered, you relate;  
Our joys without our sufferings had been less,  
And for the remedy, the wound we bless.  
So did not Catiline's defeated rage  
Your much-loved Tully's daring Pen engage,  
His Rome would want one Glory of his tongue,  
The World a Masterpiece, and Fame a Song.   

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

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

Like Northern Mariners, our longing Eyes  
A thousand times towards the East were sent,  
Expecting still the same bright Sun would rise,  
And bring us back the joys that with him went.  
Mean while, the wished-for blessing to ensure,  
Our earthly God designed for us below,  
His absence that we better might endure,  
Two shining Planets did on us bestow.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A PASTORAL Pindaric.  
On the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Earl of Dorset and Midlesex, to the Lady Mary Compton.  
A DIALOGUE. Between Damon and Aminta.  By Mrs. Behn. Aminta. 
WHither, young Damon, whither in such haste,  
Swift as the Winds you sweep the Grove,  
The Amorous God of Day scarce hied so fast  
After his flying Love?  Damon. 
Aminta, view my Face, and thence survey  
My very Soul and all its mighty joy!  
A joy too great to be concealed,  
And without speaking is revealed;  
For this eternal Holiday.  
A Day to place i'th' Shepherd's Calendar,  
To stand the glory of the circling year.  
Let its blessed date on every Bark be set,  
And every Echo its dear name repeat.  
Let 'em tell all the neighbouring Woods and Plains,  
That Lysidus, the Beauty of the Swains,  
Our darling youth, our wonder and our Pride,  
Is blest with fair Clemena for a Bride.  
Oh happy Pair! Let all the Groves rejoice,  
And gladness fill each heart and every voice!  Aminta. 
Clemena! that bright maid for whom our Shepherds pine,  
For whom so many weeping Eyes decline!  
For whom the Echoes all complain,  
For whom with sigh and falling tears  
The Lover in his soft despairs  
Disturbs the Peaceful Rivers gliding stream?  
The bright Clemena who has been so long  
The destiny of hearts and yet so young,  
She that has robbed so many of content  
Yet is herself so Sweet, so Innocent.  
She, that as many heart's invade●,  
As charming Lysidus has conquered maids,  
Oh tell me, Damon, is the lovely fair  
Become the dear reward of all the Shepherd's care.  
Has Lysidus that prize of Glory won  
For whom so many sighing Swains must be undone?  Damon. 
Yes, it was destined from Eternity,  
They only should each other's be,  
Hail, lovely pair, whom every God designed  
In your first great Creation should be joined.  Aminta. 
Oh, Damon, this is vain Philosophy,  
'Tis chance and not Divinity,  
That guides Love's Partial Darts;  
And we in vain the Boy implore  
To make them Love whom we Adore.  
And all the other powers take little care of hearts,  
The very soul's by interest swayed,  
And nobler passion now by fortune is betrayed;  
By sad experience this I know,  
And sigh, Alas! in vain because 'tis true.  Damon. 

Too often and too fatally we find  
Portion and Jointure charm the mind,  
Large Flocks and Herds, and spacious Plains  
Becomes the merit of the Swains.  
But here, though both did equally abound,  
'Twas youth, 'twas wit, was Beauty gave the equal wound;  
Their Souls were one before they mortal being found,  
jove when he laid his awful Thunder by  
And all his softest Attributes put on,  
When Heaven was Gay, and the vast Glittering Sky  
With Deities all wondering and attentive shone,  
The God his Luckiest heat to try  
Formed their great Souls of one Immortal Ray,  
He thought, and formed, as first he did the World,  
But with this difference, That from Chaos came,  
These from a beam, which, from his Godhead hurled  
Kindled into an everlasting flame.  
He smiling saw the mighty work was good,  
While all the lesser Gods around him gazing stood.  
He saw the shining Model bright and Great  
But oh! they were not yet complete,  
For not one God but did the flames inspire,  
With sparks of their Divinest fire.   

Diana took the lovely Female Soul,  
And did its fiercer Atoms cool;  
Softened the flame and placed a Crystal Ice  
About the sacred Paradise,  
Bathed it all o'er in Virgin Tears,  
Mixed with the fragrant Dew the Rose receives,  
Into the bosom of her untouched leaves,  
And dried it with the breath of Vestal Prayers,  
juno did great Majestic thought inspire  
And Pallas touched it with Heroic fire.   

While Mars, Apollo, Love and Venus sat,  
About the Hero's Soul in high debate,  
Each claims it all, but all in vain contend,  
In vain appeal to mighty jove,  
Who equal Portions did to all extend.  
This to the God of wit, and that to Love,  
Another to the Queen of soft desire,  
And the fierce God of War completes the rest,  
Guilds it all o'er with Martial fire;  
While Love, and Wit, Beauty and War expressed  
Their finest Arts, and the bright Being's all in Glory dressed.  
While each in their Divine employments strove  
By every charm these new-formed l'ghts t'improve,  
They left a space untouched for might yet Love.  
The finishing last strokes the Boy performed▪  
Who from his Quiver took a Golden Dart  
That could a sympathising wound impart,  
And touched 'em both, and with one flame they burned.  
The next great work was to create two frames  
Of the Divinest form,  
Fit to contain these heavenly flames.  
The Gods decreed, and charming Lysidus was born,  
Born, and grew up the wonder of the Plains,  
Joy of the Nymphs and Glory of the Swains.  
And warmed all hearts with his enchanting strains;  
Soft were the Songs, which from his lips did flow,  
Soft as the Soul which the fine thought conceived.  
Soft as the sighs the charming Virgin breathed  
The first dear night of the chaste nuptial vow.  
The noble youth even Daphnis does excel  
Oh never Shepherd piped and sung so well.   Aminta. 
Now, Damon, you are in your proper sphere,  
While of his wit you give a character.  
But who inspired you a Philosopher?  Damon. 
Old Colin, when we oft have led our Flocks  
Beneath the shelter of the shad's and Rocks,  
While other youths more vainly spent their time,  
I listened to the wondrous Bard;  
And while he sung of things sublime  
With reverend pleasure heard.  
He soared to the Divine abodes  
And told the secrets of the Gods.  
And oft discoursed of Love and Sympathy;  
For he as well as thou and I  
Had sighed for some dear object of desire;  
But oh! till now I ne'er could prove  
That secret mystery of Love;  
ne'er saw two hearts thus burn with equal fire.  Aminta. 
But, oh! what Nymph e'er saw the noble youth  
That was not to eternal Love betrayed?  Damon. 
And, oh! what swain e'er saw the Lovely maid,  
That would not plight her his eternal faith!  
Not unblown Roses, or the newborn day  
Or pointed Sunbeams, when they gild the skies,  
Are half so sweet, are half so bright and gay,  
As young Clemena's charming Face and Eyes!  Aminta. 
Not full-blown flowers, when all their lustre's on  
Whom every bosom longs to wear,  
Nor the spread Glories of the mid-days sun  
Can with the charming Lysidus compare.  Damon. 
Not the soft gales of gentle breeze  
That whisper to the yielding Trees,  
Nor songs of Birds that through the Groves rejoice,  
Are half so sweet, so soft, as young Clemena's voice.  Aminta. 
Not murmurs of the Rivulets and Springs,  
When through the glades they purling glide along  
And listen when the wondrous shepherd sings,  
Are half so sweet as is the Shepherd's song.  Damon. 
Not young Diana in her eager chase  
When by her careless flying Robe betrayed,  
Discovering every charm and every Grace,  
Has more surprising Beauty than the brighter maid.  Aminta. 
The gay young Monarch of the cheerful May  
Adorned with all the Trophies he has won,  
Vain with the Homage of the joyful day  
Compared to Lysidus would be undone.  Damon. 
Aminta, cease; and let me hast away,  
For while upon this Theme you dwell,  
You speak the noble youth so just, so well,  
I could for ever listening stay.  Aminta. 
And while Clemena's praise becomes thy choice,  
My Ravished soul is fixed upon thy voice.  Damon. 
But see the Nymphs and dancing swains  
Ascend the Hill from yonder Plains,  
With Wreaths and Garlands finely made,  
To crown the lovely Bride and Bridegroom's head,  
And I amongst the humbler throng  
My Sacrifice must bring  
A rural Hymeneal song,  
Alexis he shall pipe while I will sing.  
Had I been blest with Flocks or Herd  
A nobler Tribute I'd prepared,  
With darling Lambs the Altars I would throng:  
But I, alas! can only offer song.  
Song too obscure, too humble verse  
For this days glory to rehearse,  
But Lysidus, like Heaven, is kind,  
And for the Sacrifice accepts the Humble mind.  
If he vouchsafe to listen to my Ode  
He makes me happier than a fancied God.   

On Desire  
A Pindaric.  By Mrs. B. 

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

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

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

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

Where wert thou, oh, malicious spirit,  
When shining Honour did invite.?  
When interest called, than thou wert shy,  
Nor to my aid one kind propension brought,  
Nor wouldst inspire one tender thought,  
When Princes at my feet did lie.   

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

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

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

Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate  
Thy mighty force through every part,  
What God, or Human power did thee create  
In my, till now, unfacile heart?  
Art thou some welcome plague sent from above  
In this dear form, this kind disguise?  
Or the false offspring of mistaken love,  
Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove,  
With the bright piercing Beauties of Lysander's Eyes?  
Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now;  
And found to whom thou dost thy being owe,  
'Tis thou the blushes dost impart,  
For thee this languishment I wear,  
'Tis thou that tremblest in my heart  
When the dear Shepherd does appear,  
I faint, I die with pleasing pain,  
My words intruding sighing break  
When e'er I touch the charming swain  
When ere I gaze, when e'er I speak.  
Thy conscious fire is mingled with my love,  
As in the sanctify'd abodes  
Misguided worshippers approve  
The mixing Idol with their Gods.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

SONG. By a person of Quality.  

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

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

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

SONG. By a person of Quality.  

UNder the Beams of Celia's Eyes,  
See the fair Shepherd panting lys,  
For whom all other Beauty dies?  
Him though she burn with equal fire  
She suffers at her feet t' expire  
Preferring glory to desire.   

Dye then, oh die, unhappy swain,  
And leave her to lament in vain  
The cruel sports of her disdain;  
You fall a Public sacrifice  
Since she will weep away those Eyes  
By whose each look a lover dies.    

SONG. I. by the same hand.  

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

2.  
And for thy ease, believe no bliss  
Is perfect without pain,  
The fairest Summer hurtful is  
Without some showers of Rain.  
The joys of Heaven who would prize  
If men too cheaply bought,  
the dearest part of mortal joys  
Most charming is when sought.   

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

3.  
But that the generous Lover may  
Not always sigh in vain,  
The cruel Nymph that kills to day  
To morrow shall be slain.  
The little God no sooner spoke,  
But from my sight he flew,  
And I that groaned with Cloes yoke,  
Found Love's revenge was true.   

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

A Pastoral Song on the late King.  

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

Ah, Strephon, we are all undone,  
With trembling voice, she said,  
The best of Men to Heaven is gone,  
The great Amintor's dead.  
What will become of thou and I,  
Of these dear Flocks that moan,  
They will be Stole, and we shall die,  
Now wise Amintor's go?  
Best blessings rest upon his Soul,  
The Loyal Swain replied,  
Yet let this thought thy grief control,  
Pan does for us provide;  
And though the brave Amintor's gone,  
Alexis does remain,  
Since he is left we're not undone,  
Nor ought we to complain.   

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

The Departure.  [by Damon: Nouem. 78.] 
I Never knew what 'twas to mourn,  
Ere the too hasty glass had run  
Which measured every thought of mine:  
Still as I offered at Love's shrine  
My heart a bleeding Sacrifice,  
The conquest of Aminta's Eyes.  
Those shining objects of my Love,  
How did the searching passion rove,  
O'er all my soul its quickening fire  
Melted my heart with soft desire,  
While my Aminta blest this plain,  
I never felt another pain  
Than Love; which always does belong  
To the gentle Amorous throng;  
But now—  
Oh! wonder not, great God of Love,  
If the strong passion cease to move  
Within my soul; Aminta's gone,  
And left me here to sigh alone.  
How vain does the vast Globe appear  
No sweetening pleasures can live here,  
While bright Aminta is not near.  
No warbling notes which fill the Wood,  
Nor murmurs which the streams afford,  
Can raise in me that harmony  
Which ravished with such ecstasy.  
When the fair she approached, each charm  
Guarded my humble soul from harm,  
Nothing can now transport or cheer  
A tortured soul that's filled with fear;  
Since loved Aminta quits the place,  
Which she with Innocence did Grace.  
Then will I wander to some Grove  
Where I'll lament my absent Love,  
And with cold Winter still complain  
Till the lost spring return again.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where no dissembled complaisance may veil  
The griefs with which, my soul, thou art oppressed.  
But dying, breath thyself out in a tale  
That may declare the cause of thy unrest:  
The toils of Death 't will render far more light  
And soon convey thee to the shades of night.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SONG.  

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

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

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

The Choice.  

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

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

A Letter to Asfrea.  
THe Muse, which fair Astrea first inspired,  
Has drooped and lost its flame since she retired;  
And to the feathered Poets which belong  
To Groves resigns her fainting Song.  
Nor is this Lethargy her fate alone  
For general dulness has possessed the Town,  
The Town that now can boast no crowded street,  
Where none but sharp set younger Brothers meet alas!  
For well they know their mirth and Wit,  
Their only coin,) will not i'th' country pass.  
Yet in a cloud of smoke o'er Coffee dry,  
What pleasure 'tis to hear the Sharpers' cry.  
Pox o' this business, that still sticks and dwells  
Upon my hands and keeps me from the Wells,  
But I resolve a bold escape to make,  
And to thronged Tunbridg a short journey take;  
My humblest service to Eliza give,  
And when your Gloriana shall receive  
Your next, let my respects have then a place.  
Let fair Astrea last be pleased to grace  
These lines with her acceptance, and excuse  
The broken Language of a dying Muse.  
Since she's already drawing to a close,  
To write in verse I can no more propose,  
What next I send expect in honest prose.   

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

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

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

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

The Table  

TO a fair Lady, sent with a Miscellany of Poems. P. 1  
To Urania in Mourning. 2  
SONG. 3  
On Beauty, A Pindaric. 4  
SONG. 10  
SONG. Ibid.  
To the Heroic Antonia. 11  
To Laurinda. 13  
On a Lady singing. 15  
To Mr. W. 16  
Armida: Or, the fair Gill. 17  
Predictions for Saturday next. 21  
To Astrea, on her sending me a Bottle of Orange Flower Water. 22  
To Cloris, going into the Country. 23  
SONG. 24  
To a Lady, (whom he never saw, nor had any description of,) to prove he loves her, By a Person of Quality. 24  
Song by the same hand. 26  
Sleeping on her fair hand. 28  
To Gloriana, on saying I had a tough heart. Ibid.  
Sent with Ovid's Epistles to a fair Lady. 29  
Sent with a Basket of Fruit. 30  
Love cannot be indifferent. 31  
To Astrea. On her absence, during which I could not write. 32  
To the most accomplished Heroick, and incomparable, the Lady Antonia. 33  
Sent with Cowley's Works to Astrea. 35  
To my Heart. 36  
Dialogue. Thirsis and Clarona. 39  
SONG. 40  
Strephon, to his three Mistresses. 42  
To the Famed Antonia. On her Duelling. 44  
SONG. 47  
On an ungreateful and undeserving Mistress, whom he could not help loving. 49  
On the Death of Melantha. 55  
To the Nightingale coming in the spring. 60  
A Pastoral on the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Earl of Ossory, to the Lady Mary Somerset. By Edw. Arwaker, M. A. 71  
A SONG. 80  
A Pastoral on the Death of His late Majesty, written by M. Otway. 81  
SONG. 82  
Strephon's complaint banished from Sacarisa. 84  
An Elegy written by Mr. W. O. 85  
A Pindaric to Mrs. Behn, on her Poem on the Coronation written by a Lady. 89  
To Mr. Wolseley on his Preface to Valentinan. By a Lady of Quality. 95  
Mr. Wolseley's Answer to the foregoing Copy. 96  
To the Honourable Sir Francis Fane on his Play called the Sacrifice, by Mrs. A. B. 102  
Cato's Answer to Labienus, when he advised him to consult the Oracle of Jupiter Ammon. 106  
To his Grace the Duke of Ormond upon his leaving the Government of Ireland. 109  
SONG. 111  
To Damon. 112  
Song of Basset, by Sir George Etherege. 118  
To the Lord Bishop of Rochester on his History of the Plot. 120  
Upon the arrival of his Excellency the Earl of Clarendon in Ireland, by a M. of A. 122  
A Poem against Fruition, by Alexis. 127  
To Alexis in Answer to his Poem against Fruition. 129  
To Alexis, on his saying, I loved a man that talked much by Mrs. B. 132  
A Pastoral on the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, to the Lady Mary Compton by Mrs. Behn. 134  
On desire. A Pindaric by Mrs. B. 145  
Song. By a Person of Quality. 152  
Song. By a Person of Quality. 153  
Song. By the same hand. 154  
A Pastoral Song on the late King. 157  
The departure, by Damon: Novemb. 78. 159  
To Amintas, upon reading the lives of some of the Romans by Mrs. B. 161  
On the first discovery of falseness in Aminta, by Mrs. B. 164  
SONG. 167  
On a Blow spot made in a Lady's neck by Gunpowder, by a Person of Quality. 168  
On Dido. 169  
SONG. Ibid.  
The Choice. 170  
A Letter to Astrea. 171  
To Mrs. B. from a Lady who had a desire to see her. 172  
To the fair Clarinda, who made Love to me, imagined more than Woman. By Mrs. B. 175   
FINIS.