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                             THE WORKS OF
                              APHRA BEHN.

                               VOL. VI.




                               THE WORKS

                                  OF

                              APHRA BEHN


                               EDITED BY

                           MONTAGUE SUMMERS

                                VOL. VI

                           THE LOVER’S WATCH
                     POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS
                     A VOYAGE TO THE ISLE OF LOVE
                   LYCIDUS; OR, THE LOVER IN FASHION
                          MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

                            [Illustration]

                       LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
                    STRATFORD-ON-AVON: A. H. BULLEN
                                 MCMXV




CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE

  THE LOVER’S WATCH                                                    1

  POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS (1684)                                113

  A VOYAGE TO THE ISLE OF LOVE                                       223

  LYCIDUS; OR, THE LOVER IN FASHION (1688)                           293

  POEMS APPENDED TO LYCIDUS                                          343

  WESTMINSTER DROLLERY (1671)                                        364

  MISCELLANY (1685)                                                  365

  GILDON’S MISCELLANY (1692)                                         387

  GILDON’S CHORUS POETARUM (1694)                                    390

  MUSES MERCURY (1707)                                               391

  FAMILIAR LETTERS (1718)                                            395

  PROLOGUE TO ROMULUS                                                398

  EPILOGUE TO ROMULUS                                                399

  SATYR ON DRYDEN                                                    400

  PROLOGUE TO VALENTINIAN                                            401

  TO HENRY HIGDEN, ESQ.                                              403

  ON THE DEATH OF E. WALLER, ESQ.                                    405

  A PINDARIC POEM TO DR. BURNET                                      407

  NOTES                                                              411

  INDEX OF FIRST LINES OF POEMS                                      439

  GENERAL INDEX                                                      446




THE LOVER’S WATCH.


INTRODUCTION.

_La Môntre: or, The Lover’s Watch_, ‘Licensed 2 Aug. 1686. R.L.S.’
is taken by Mrs. Behn from _La Môntre_ of Balthazar de Bonnecorse.
After having received an excellent education at Marseilles, where
he was born, de Bonnecorse was appointed consul at Cairo, and later
transferred to Sidon in the Levant. Whilst at Cairo he composed _La
Môntre_, a mixture of prose and verse, which he sent to the great
arbiter of Parisian taste, Georges de Scudéri, under whose care it was
printed in 1666 at Paris. It was followed in 1671 by the second part,
_la Boëte et le Miroir_, dedicated to the Duke de Vivonne. Upon his
return to France, de Bonnecorse abridged _La Môntre_ and put it wholly
into verse, in which form it appears in his collected (yet incomplete)
works, ‘Chez Theodore Haak.’ Leyden, 1720. Bonnecorse died at
Marseilles in 1706. He is always piquant and graceful in his madrigals
and songs, though both sentiment and verse have faded a little with the
passing of time. Boileau immortalized him in _Le Lutrin: la Môntre_ is
one of the missiles the enraged canons hurl at each other’s reverend
pates: ‘L’un prend _l’.dit d’amour_, l’autre en saisit _la Môntre_.’
Bonnecorse’s attempted parody on _Le Lutrin, le Lutrigot_ (Marseille,
1686), is of no value, and brought a caustic epigram down on his head.


To Peter Weston, Esq.; Of The Honourable Society Of The Inner-Temple.

  Sir,

When I had ended this little unlaboured Piece, the _Watch_, I resolv’d
to dedicate it to some One, whom I cou’d fancy, the nearest approacht
the charming _Damon_. Many fine Gentlemen I had in view, of Wit and
Beauty; but still, through their Education, or a natural Propensity to
Debauchery, I found those Vertues wanting, that should compleat that
delicate Character, _Iris_ gives her Lover; and which, at first Thought
of You, I found center’d there to Perfection.

Yes, Sir, I found You had all the Youth of _Damon_; without the forward
noisy Confidence, which usually attends your Sex. You have all the
attracting Beauty of my young Hero; all that can charm the Fair;
without the Affectation of those, that set out for Conquests (though
You make a Thousand, without knowing it, or the Vanity of believing
it.) You have our _Damon’s_ Wit with all his agreeable Modesty: Two
Vertues that rarely shine together: And the last makes You conceal the
noble Sallies of the first, with that Industry and Care, You wou’d an
Amour: And You wou’d no more boast of either of these, than of your
undoubted Bravery.

You are (like our Lover too) so discreet, that the bashful Maid may,
without Fear or Blushing, venture the soft Confession of the Soul with
You; reposing the dear Secret in Yours, with more Safety than with her
own Thoughts. You have all the Sweetness of Youth, with the Sobriety
and Prudence of Age. You have all the Power of the gay Vices of Man;
but the Angel in your Mind, has subdu’d you to the Vertues of a God!
And all the vicious and industrious Examples of the roving Wits of
the mad Town, have only served to give You the greater Abhorrence to
Lewdness. And You look down with Contempt and Pity on that wretched
unthinking Number, who pride themselves in their mean Victories over
little Hearts; and boast their common Prizes with that Vanity, that
declares ‘em capable of no higher Joy, than that of the Ruin of some
credulous Unfortunate: And no Glory like that, of the Discovery of the
brave Achievement, over the next Bottle, to the Fool that shall applaud
’.m.

How does the Generosity, and Sweetness of your Disposition despise
these false Entertainments, that turns the noble Passion of Love into
Ridicule, and Man into Brute.

Methinks I cou’d form another _Watch_ (that should remain a Pattern
to succeeding Ages) how divinely you pass your more sacred Hours, how
nobly and usefully You divide your Time: in which, no precious minute
is lost, not one glides idly by; but all turns to wondrous Account. And
all Your Life is one continu’d Course of Vertue and Honour. Happy the
Parents that have the Glory to own You! Happy the Man, that has the
Honour of your Friendship! But, oh! How much more happy the fair She,
for whom you shall sigh! Which surely, can never be in vain.

There will be such a Purity in Your Flame: All You ask will be so
chaste and noble, and utter’d with a Voice so modest, and a Look so
charming, as must, by a gentle Force, compel that Heart to yield, that
knows the true Value of Wit, Beauty, and Vertue.

Since then, in all the Excellencies of Mind and Body (where no one
Grace is wanting) you so resemble the All-perfect _Damon_, suffer me
to dedicate this _Watch_ to You. It brings You nothing but Rules for
Love; delicate as Your Thoughts, and innocent as Your Conversation.
And possibly, ‘tis the only Vertue of the Mind, You are not perfectly
Master of; the only noble Mystery of the Soul, You have not yet
studied. And though they are Rules for every Hour, You will find,
they will neither rob Heaven, nor Your Friends of ther Due; those so
valuable Devoirs of Your Life; They will teach You Love; but Love, so
pure, and so devout, that You may mix it, even with Your Religion; and
I know, Your fine Mind can admit of no other. When ever the God enters
there (fond and wanton as he is, full of Arts and Guiles) he will be
reduc’d to that Native Innocency, that made him so ador’d, before
inconstant Man corrupted his Divinity, and made him wild and wandring.
How happy will _Iris’s_ Watch be, to inspire such a Heart! How honour’d
under the Patronage of so excellent a Man! Whose Wit will credit,
whose Goodness will defend it; and whose noble and vertuous Qualities
so justly merit the Character _Iris_ has given _Damon_: And which is
believed so very much your Due, by

                                                Sir,
                                       Your most Obliged, and
                                                Most Humble Servant,
                                                               A. Behn.


_To the Admir’d_ ASTREA.

    I Never mourn’d my Want of Wit, ‘till now;
    That where I do so much Devotion vow,
    Brightest _Astrea_, to your honour’d Name,
    Find my Endeavour will become my Shame.
    ‘Tis you alone, who have the Art, and Wit
    T’ involve those Praises in the Lines y’have writ,
    That we should give you, could we have the Sp’rite,
    Vigour, and Force, wherewith your self do write.
    Too mean are all th’ Applauses we can give:
    You in your self, and by your self, shall live;
    When all we write will only serve to shew,
    How much, in vain Attempt, we flag below.
    Some Hands write some things well; are elsewhere lame:
    But on all Theams, your Power is the same.
    Of Buskin, and of Sock, you know the Pace;
    And tread in both, with equal Skill and Grace,
    But when you write of Love, _Astrea_, then
    _Love_ dips his Arrows, where you wet your pen.
    Such charming Lines did never Paper grace;
    Soft, as your Sex; and smooth, as Beauty’s Face.
    And ‘tis your Province, that belongs to you:
    Men are so rude, they fright when they wou’d sue
    You teach us gentler Methods; such as are
    The fit and due Proceedings with the Fair.

    But why should you, who can so well create,
    So stoop, as but pretend, you do translate?
    Could you, who have such a luxuriant Vein,
    As nought but your own Judgment could restrain;
    Who are, your self, of Poesie the Soul,
    And whose brave fancy knocks at either Pole;
    Descend so low, as poor Translation,                               }
    To make an Author, that before was none?                           }
    Oh! Give us, henceforth, what is all your own!                     }
    Yet we can trace you here, in e’ery Line;
    The Texture’s good, but some Threds are too fine:
    We see where you let in your Silver Springs;
    And know the Plumes, with which you imp his Wings.

    But I’m too bold to question what you do,
    And yet it is my Zeal that makes me so.
    Which, in a Lover, you’ll not disapprove:
    I am too dull to write, but I can love.

                                                 _Charles Cotton._


_To the Incomparable Author._

    While this poor Homage of our Verse we give,
    We own, at least, your just Prerogative:
    And tho’ the Tribute’s needless, which we pay;
    It serves to shew, you reign, and we obey.
    Which, adding nothing to your perfect Store,
    Yet makes your polisht Numbers shine the more:
    As Gems in Foils, are with Advantage shown;
    No Lustre take from them, but more exert their own.

      Male Wits, from Authors of a former Date,                        }
    Copy Applause; and but at best, translate;                         }
    While you, like the immortal Pow’rs, Create.                       }
    _Horace_ and _Pindar_ (tho’ attempted long                         }
    In vain) at last, have learnt the British Tongue;                  }
    Not so the Grecian Female Poet’s Song.                             }
    The Pride of _Greece_ we now out-rival’d see:
    _Greece_ boasts one _Sappho_; two _Orinda’s_, we.

      But what unheard Applause shall we impart
    To this most new, and happy piece of Art?
    That renders our _Apollo_ more sublime                             }
    In Num’rous Prose, but yet more num’rous Rhime;                    }
    And makes the God of Love, the God of Time.                        }
    _Love’s_ wandring Planet, you have made a Star:
    ‘Twas bright before, but now ‘tis _Regular_.
    While _Love_ shall last, this Engine needs must vend:              }
    Each Nymph, this _Watch_ shall to her Lover send,                  }
    That points him out his Hours, and how those Hours to spend.       }

                                                        _N. Tate._


_To the most ingenious_ ASTREA, _upon her Book intituled_, La Môntre,
_or the_ Lover’s Watch.

    To celebrate your Praise, no Muse can crown
    You with that Glory, as this Piece hath done.
    This Lover’s _Watch_, tho’ it was made in _France_,
    By the fam’d _Bonnecorse_; yet you advance
    The Value of its curious Work so far,
    That as it shin’d there like a glitt’ring Star,
    Yet here a Constellation it appears;
    And in _Love’s_ Orb, with more Applause, it wears
    _Astrea’s_ Name. Your Prose so delicate,
    Your Verse so smooth and sweet, that they create
    A lovely Wonder in each Lover’s Mind:
    The envious Critick dares not be unkind.
    _La Môntre_ cannot err, ‘tis set so well;
    The Rules for Lovers Hours are like a Spell
    To charm a Mistress with: The God of Love
    Is highly pleas’d; and smiling, does approve
    Of this rare Master piece: His Am’rous Game
    Will more improve: This will support his Fame.
    May your luxuriant Fancy ever flow
    Like a Spring tide; no Bounds, or Limits know.
    May you, in Story, for your Wit, live high:
    And summon’d hence, to blest Eternity,
    Aged with _Nestor’s_ Years, resign to Fate;
    May your fam’d Works receive an endless Date.

                                                  _Rich. Faerrar._


_To the Divine_ ASTREA, _on her_ Môntre.

    Thou Wonder of thy Sex! Thou greatest Good!
    The Ages Glory, if but understood.
    How are the _Britains_ bound to bless the Name
    Of great _Astrea_! Whose Eternal Fame,
    To Foreign Clymes, is most deserv’dly spread;
    Where Thou, in thy great Works, shalt live, tho’ dead.
    And mighty _France_, with Envy shall look on,
    To see her greatest Wit by thee out-done:
    And all their boasted Trophies are in vain,
    Whilst thou, spight of their Salick Law, shall reign.
    Witness _La Môntre_, from their Rubbish rais’d:
    A Piece, for which, thou shalt be ever prais’d.
    The beauteous Work is with such Order laid,                        }
    And all the Movement so divinely made,                             }
    As cannot of dull Criticks be afraid.                              }
    Such Nature in the Truths of Love thou’st shew’d,
    As the All-loving _Ovid_ never cou’d.
    Thy Rules so soft, so modest, and so right,
    The list’ning Youths will follow with Delight:
    To thy blest Name will all their Homage pay,
    Who taught ‘em how to love the noblest Way.

                                                           _G. J._


_To his admired Friend, the most ingenious Author._

    Once more my Muse is blest; her humble Voice
    Does in thy wondrous Works, once more, rejoyce.
    Not the bright Mount, where e’ery sacred Tongue,
    In skilful Choirs, immortal Numbers sung
    Not great _Apollo’s_ own inspiring Beams,
    Nor sweet _Castalia’s_ consecrated Streams,
    To thy learn’d Sisters could so charming be.
    As are thy Songs, and thou thy self, to me.
    Æthereal Air, soft Springs, and verdant Fields;
    Cool Shades, and Sunny Banks, thy Presence yields.
    Never were Soul and Body better joyn’d;
    A Mansion, worthy so divine a Mind!
    No wonder e’ery Swain adores thy Name,
    And e’ery Tongue proclaims thy Deathless Fame;
    For who can such resistless Power controul,
    Where Wit and Beauty both invade the Soul?
    Beauty, that still does her fresh Conquests find;
    And _Sacred Wit_, that ever charms the Mind:
    Through all its Forms, that lovely _Proteus_ chase;
    And e’ery Shape has its Peculiar Grace.
    Hail, _Thou Heav’n-Born_! Thou most transcendent _Good_!
    If Mortals their chief Blessings understood!
    Thou that, while Kingdoms, Thrones, and Pow’rs decay,
    Hast, with Eternity, one constant Stay:
    Liv’st, and will live, like the great God of _Love_;
    For ever young, although as old as _Jove_.
    While we, alas! in dark Oblivion lye,
    Thou ne’er wilt let thy lov’d _Astrea_ dye.
    No, my good Friend, Thy Works will mount the Skies,
    And see their Author’s learned Ashes rise.

      Much to the Fame of thy fair Sex of Old,
    By skilful Writers, has been greatly told:
    But all the boasted Titles they have gain’d
    By others Labours, weakly are sustain’d;
    While thou look’st down, and scorn’st so mean a Praise:
    Thy own just Hands do thy own Trophies raise.

      Rich is the Soil, and vast thy Native Store;
    Yet Thou (Wit’s Great _Columbus_) seek’st out more.
    Through distant Regions spread’st thy Towring Wings,
    And Foreign Treasure to thy Country brings.
    This Work let no Censorious Tongue despise,
    And judge thee wealthy with unlawful Prize,
    We owe to thee, our best Refiner, more
    Than him, who first dig’d up the rugged Ore.

    Tho’ this vast Frame were from a _Chaos_ rais’d,
    The great Creator should not less be prais’d:
    By its bright Form, his Pow’rs as much display’d,
    As if the World had been from Nothing made.
    And if we may compare great Things with Small,
    Thou therefore canst not by just Censure fall;
    While the rude Heap, which lay before unform’d,
    To Life and Sense, is by thy Spirit warm’d.

                                                   _Geo. Jenkins._


La Monstre.

The LOVER’S WATCH: or, the ART of making LOVE.


The ARGUMENT.

    ‘Tis in the most happy and august Court of the best and greatest
    Monarch of the World, that _Damon_, a young Nobleman, whom we will
    render under that Name, languishes for a Maid of Quality, who will
    give us leave to call her _Iris_.

    Their Births are equally illustrious; they are both rich, and both
    young; their Beauty such as I dare not too nicely particularize,
    lest I should discover (which I am not permitted to do) who these
    charming Lovers are. Let it suffice, that _Iris_ is the most fair
    and accomplisht Person that ever adorn’d a Court; and that _Damon_
    is only worthy of the Glory of her Favour; for he has all that
    can render him lovely in the fair Eyes of the amiable _Iris_. Nor
    is he Master of those superficial Beauties alone, that please at
    first sight; he can charm the Soul with a thousand Arts of Wit and
    Gallantry. And, in a word, I may say, without flattering either,
    that there is no one Beauty, no one Grace, no Perfection of Mind
    and Body, that wants to compleat a Victory on both sides.

    The agreement of Age, Fortunes, Quality and Humours in the two fair
    Lovers, made the impatient _Damon_ hope, that no thing would oppose
    his Passion; and if he saw himself every hour languishing for the
    adorable Maid, he did not however despair: And if _Iris_ sigh’d, it
    was not for fear of being one day more happy.

    In the midst of the Tranquillity of these two Lovers, _Iris_ was
    obliged to go into the Country for some Months, whither ‘twas
    impossible for _Damon_ to wait on her, he being oblig’d to attend
    the King his Master; and being the most amorous of his Sex,
    suffer’d with extreme Impatience the Absence of his Mistress.
    Nevertheless, he fail’d not to send to her every day, and gave
    up all his melancholy Hours to Thinking, Sighing, and Writing to
    her the softest Letters that Love could inspire. So that _Iris_
    even blessed that Absence that gave her so tender and convincing
    Proofs of his Passion; and found this dear way of Conversing, even
    recompensed all her Sighs for his Absence.

    After a little Intercourse of this kind, _Damon_ bethought himself
    to ask _Iris_ a _Discretion_ which he had won of her before she
    left the Town; and in a _Billetdoux_ to that purpose, prest her
    very earnestly for it. _Iris_ being infinitely pleas’d with his
    Importunity, suffer’d him to ask it often; and he never fail’d of
    doing so.

    But as I do not here design to relate the Adventures of these two
    amiable Persons, nor to give you all the _Billet-doux_ that past
    between them; you shall here find nothing but the _Watch_ this
    charming Maid sent her impatient Lover.


_IRIS_ to _DAMON_.

It must be confest, _Damon_, that you are the most importuning Man in
the World. Your Billets have a hundred times demanded a _Discretion_,
which you won of me; and tell me, you will not wait my Return to be
paid. You are either a very faithless Creditor, or believe me very
unjust, that you dun with such impatience. But to let you see that
I am a Maid of Honour, and value my Word, I will acquit my self of
this Obligation I have to you, and send you a _Watch_ of my fashion;
perhaps you never saw any so good. It is not one of those that have
always something to be mended in it: but one that is without fault,
very just and good, and will remain so as long as you continue to love
me: But _Damon_, know, the very Minute you cease to do so, the String
will break, and it will go no more. ‘Tis only useful in my Absence, and
when I return ‘twill change its Motion: and though I have set it but
for the Spring-time, ‘twill serve you the whole Year round: and ‘twill
be necessary only that you alter the Business of the Hours (which my
_Cupid_, in the middle of my _Watch_, points you out) according to
the length of the Days and Nights. Nor is the Dart of that little God
directed to those Hours, so much to inform you how they pass, as how
you ought to pass them; how you ought to employ those of your Absence
from _Iris_. ‘Tis there you shall find the whole Business of a Lover,
from his Mistress; for I have design’d it a Rule to all your Actions.
The Consideration of the Work-man ought to make you set a Value upon
the Work: And though it be not an accomplisht and perfect piece; yet,
_Damon_, you ought to be grateful and esteem it, since I have made it
for you alone. But however I may boast of the Design, I know, as well
as I believe you love me, that you will not suffer me to have the Glory
of it wholly, but will say in your Heart,

    _That_ Love, _the great Instructor of the Mind,_
      _That forms anew, and fashions every Soul,_
    _Refines the gross Defects of human Kind;_
      _Humbles the proud and vain, inspires the dull;_
    _Gives Cowards noble Heat in Fight,_
    _And teaches feeble Women how to write:_
    _That doth the Universe Command,_
    _Does from my_ Iris’ _Heart direct her Hand._

I give you the Liberty to say this to your Heart, if you please: And
that you may know with what Justice you do so, I will confess in my
turn.

                            The Confession.

      _That_ Love’s _my Conduct where I go,_
      _And_ Love _instructs me all I do._
      _Prudence no longer is my Guide,_
      _Nor take I Counsel of my Pride._
      _In vain does Honour now invade,_
        _In vain does Reason take my part,_
      _If against_ Love _it do persuade,_
        _If it rebel against my Heart._
      _If the soft Ev’ning do invite,_
        _And I incline to take the Air,_
    _The Birds, the Spring, the Flow’rs no more delight;_
        _’.is_ Love _makes all the Pleasure there:_
        _Love, which about me still I bear;_
    _I’m charm’d with what I thither bring,_
    _And add a Softness to the Spring._
    _If for Devotion I design,_
    Love _meets me, even at the Shrine;_
    _In all my Worships claims a part,_
    _And robs even Heaven of my Heart:_
    _All Day does counsel aud controul,_
    _And all the Night employs my Soul._
    _No wonder then if all you think be true,_
    _That_ Love’s _concern’d in all I do for you._

And, _Damon_, you, know that _Love_ is no ill Master; and I must say,
with a Blush, that he has found me no unapt Scholar; and he instructs
too agreeably not to succeed in all he undertakes.

    _Who can resist his soft Commands?_
    _When he resolves, what God withstands?_

But I ought to explain to you my _Watch_: The naked _Love_ which you
will find in the middle of it, with his Wings clipp’d, to shew you he
is fixed and constant, and will not fly away, points you out with his
Arrow the four and twenty Hours that compose the Day and the Night:
Over every Hour you will find written what you ought to do, during its
Course; and every Half-hour is marked with a Sigh, since the quality of
a Lover is, to sigh day and night: Sighs are the Children of Lovers,
that are born every Hour. And that my _Watch_ may always be just,
_Love_ himself ought to conduct it; and your Heart should keep time
with the Movement:

    _My Present’s delicate and new,_
      _If by your Heart the Motion’s set;_
    _According as that’s false or true,_
      _You’ll find my_ Watch _will answer it._

Every Hour is tedious to a Lover separated from his Mistress: and to
shew you how good I am, I will have my _Watch_ instruct you, to pass
some of them without Inquietude; that the force of your Imagination
may sometimes charm the Trouble you have for my Absence:

    _Perhaps I am mistaken here,_
      _My Heart may too much Credit give:_
    _But,_ Damon, _you can charm my Fear,_
      _And soon my Error undeceive._

But I will not disturb my Repose at this time with a Jealousy, which I
hope is altogether frivolous and vain; but begin to instruct you in the
Mysteries of my _Watch_. Cast then your Eyes upon the eighth Hour in
the Morning, which is the Hour I would have you begin to wake: you will
find there written,


EIGHT o’.LOCK.

                       _Agreeable Reverie._

Do not rise yet; you may find Thoughts agreeable enough, when you
awake, to entertain you longer in Bed. And ‘tis in that Hour you ought
to recollect all the Dreams you had in the Night. If you had dream’d
any thing to my advantage, confirm your self in that thought; but if to
my disadvantage, renounce it, and disown the injurious Dream. ‘Tis in
this Hour also that I give you leave to reflect on all that I have ever
said and done, that has been most obliging to you, and that gives you
the most tender Sentiments.

                           The Reflections.

    _Remember,_ Damon, _while your Mind_
      _Reflects on things that charm and please,_
    _You give me Proofs that you are kind,_
      _And set my doubting Soul at ease:_
    _For when your Heart receives with Joy_
      _The thoughts of Favours which I give,_
    _My Smiles in vain I not employ,_
      _And on the Square we love and live._
    _Think then on all I ever did,_
      _That e’er was charming, e’er was dear;_
    _Let nothing from that Soul be hid,_
      _Whose Griefs and Joys I feel and share._
    _All that your Love and Faith have sought,_                        }
    _All that your Vows and Sighs have bought,_                        }
    _Now render present to your Thought._                              }

And for what’s to come, I give you leave, _Damon_, to flatter your
self, and to expect, I shall still pursue those Methods, whose
Remembrance charms so well: But, if it be possible, conceive these
kind Thoughts between sleeping and waking, that all my too forward
Complaisance, my Goodness, and my Tenderness, which I confess to have
for you, may pass for Half Dreams: for ‘tis most certain,

    _That tho’ the Favours of the Fair_
    _Are ever to the Lover dear;_
    _Yet, lest he should reproach that easy Flame,_
    _That buys its Satisfaction with its Shame;_
    _She ought but rarely to confess_
    _How much she finds of Tenderness;_
    _Nicely to guard the yielding part,_
    _And hide the hard-kept Secret in her Heart._

For, let me tell you, _Damon_, tho’ the Passion of a Woman of Honour
be ever so innocent, and the Lover never so discreet and honest; her
Heart feels I know not what of Reproach within, at the reflection of
any Favours she has allow’d him. For my part, I never call to mind
the least soft or kind Word I have spoken to _Damon_, without finding
at the same instant my Face cover’d over with Blushes, and my Heart
with sensible Pain. I sigh at the Remembrance of every Touch I have
stolen from his Hand, and have upbraided my Soul, which confesses so
much guilty Love, as that secret Desire of touching him made appear.
I am angry at the Discovery, though I am pleas’d at the same time
with the Satisfaction I take in doing so; and ever disorder’d at the
Remembrance of such Arguments of too much Love. And these unquiet
Sentiments alone are sufficient to persuade me, that our Sex cannot be
reserv’d too much. And I have often, on these occasions, said to my
self,

                             The Reserve.

    _Tho’. Damon _every Virtue have,_
      _With all that pleases in his Form,_
    _That can adorn the Just and Brave,_
      _That can the coldest Bosom warm;_
    _Tho’ Wit and Honour there abound,_
      _Yet the Pursuer’s ne’er pursu’d,_
    _And when my Weakness he has found,_
      _His Love will sink to Gratitude:_
    _While on the asking part he lives,_
    _’.is she th’ Obliger is who gives._

    _And he that at one Throw the Stake has won_
    _Gives over play, since all the Stock is gone._
    _And what dull Gamester ventures certain Store_
    _With Losers who can set no more?_


NINE o’.LOCK.

                   _Design to please no body._

I should continue to accuse you of that Vice I have often done, that
of Laziness, if you remain’d past this Hour in bed: ‘tis time for you
to rise; my _Watch_ tells you ‘tis nine o’clock. Remember that I am
absent, therefore do not take too much pains in dressing your self, and
setting your Person off.

                             The Question.

      _Tell me! What can he design,_
    _Who in his Mistress’ absence will be fine?_
      _Why does he cock, and comb, and dress?_
      _Why is his Cravat String in Print?_
      _What does th’ Embroider’d Coat confess?_
    _Why to the Glass this long Address,_
      _If there be nothing in’t?_
    _If no new Conquest is design’d,_
    _If no new Beauty fill his Mind?_
    _Let Fools and Fops, whose Talents lie_
      _In being neat, in being spruce,_
      _Be drest in Vain, and Tawdery;_
      _With Men of Sense, ‘tis out of use:_
    _The only Folly that Distinction sets_
    _Between the noisy fluttering Fools and Wits._
    _Remember,_ Iris _is away;_
      _And sighing to your Valet cry,_
    _Spare your Perfumes and Care, to-day_
    _I have no business to be gay,_
      _Since_ Iris _is not by._
    _I’ll be all negligent in Dress,_
      _And scarce set off for Complaisance;_
    _Put me on nothing that may please,_
    _But only such as may give no Offence._

Say to your self, as you are dressing, ‘Would it please Heaven, that I
might see _Iris_ to-day! But oh! ‘tis impossible: Therefore all that I
shall see will be but indifferent Objects, since ‘tis _Iris_ only that
I wish to see.’ And sighing, whisper to your self:

                               The Sigh.

    _Ah! charming Object of my wishing Thought!_
      _Ah! soft Idea of a distant Bliss!_
    _That only art in Dreams and Fancy brought,_
      _To give short Intervals of Happiness._
    _But when I waking find thou absent art,_
      _And with thee, all that I adore,_
    _What Pains, what Anguish fills my Heart!_
      _What Sadness seizes me all o’er!_
    _All Entertainments I neglect,_
      _Since_ Iris _is no longer there:_
    _Beauty scarce claims my bare Respect,_
      _Since in the Throng I find not her._
    _Ah then! how vain it were to dress, and show;_
    _Since all I wish to please, is absent now!_

’.is with these Thoughts, _Damon_, that your Mind ought to be employ’d,
during your time of Dressing. And you are too knowing in Love, to be
ignorant,

    _That when a Lover ceases to be blest_
      _With the dear Object he desires,_
    _Ah! how indifferent are the rest!_
      _How soon their Conversation tires!_
    _Tho’ they a thousand Arts to please invent,_
    _Their Charms are dull, their Wit impertinent._


TEN o’.LOCK.

                      _Reading of Letters._

My _Cupid_ points you now to the Hour in which you ought to retire
into your Cabinet, having already past an Hour in Dressing: and for a
Lover, who is sure not to appear before his Mistress, even that Hour is
too much to be so employ’d. But I will think, you thought of nothing
less than Dressing while you were about it. Lose then no more Minutes,
but open your Scrutore, and read over some of those Billets you have
received from me. Oh! what Pleasures a Lover feels about his Heart, in
reading those from a Mistress he entirely loves!

                               The Joy.

    _Who, but a Lover, can express_
    _The Joys, the Pants, the Tenderness,_
    _That the soft amorous Soul invades,_
    _While the dear_ Billetdoux _he reads:_
    _Raptures Divine the Heart o’erflow,_
    _Which he that loves not cannot know._
    _A thousand Tremblings, thousand Fears,_
    _The short-breath’d Sighs, the joyful Tears!_
    _The Transport, where the Love’s confest;_
    _The Change, where Coldness is exprest;_
    _The diff’ring Flames the Lover burns,_
    _As those are shy, or kind, by turns._

However you find’em, _Damon_, construe ‘em all to my advantage:
Possibly, some of them have an Air of Coldness, something different
from that Softness they are usually too amply fill’d with; but where
you find they have, believe there, that the Sense of Honour, and my
Sex’s Modesty, guided my Hand a little against the Inclinations of my
Heart; and that it was as a kind of an Atonement, I believed I ought
to make, for something I feared I had said too kind, and too obliging
before. But where-ever you find that Stop, that Check in my Career of
Love, you will be sure to find something that follows it to favour
you, and deny that unwilling Imposition upon my Heart; which, lest you
should mistake, Love shews himself in Smiles again, and flatters more
agreeably, disdaining the Tyranny of Honour and rigid Custom, that
Imposition on our Sex; and will, in spite of me, let you see he reigns
absolutely in my Soul.

The reading my _Billetdoux_ may detain you an Hour: I have had so much
Goodness to write you enow to entertain you for so long at least, and
sometimes reproach my self for it; but, contrary to all my Scruples,
I find my self disposed to give you those frequent Marks of my
Tenderness. If yours be so great as you express it, you ought to kiss
my Letters a thousand times; you ought to read them with Attention, and
weigh every Word, and value every Line. A Lover may receive a thousand
endearing Words from a Mistress, more easily than a Billet. One says a
great many kind things of course to a Lover, which one is not willing
to write, or to give testify’d under one’s Hand, signed and sealed. But
when once a Lover has brought his Mistress to that degree of Love, he
ought to assure himself, she loves not at the common rate.

                            Love’s Witness.

    _Slight unpremeditated Words are borne_
      _By every common Wind into the Air;_
    _Carelessly utter’d, die as soon as born,_
      _And in one instant give both Hope and Fear:_
    _Breathing all Contraries with the same Wind,_
    _According to the Caprice of the Mind._

    _But_ Billetdoux _are constant Witnesses,_
      _Substantial Records to Eternity;_
    _Just Evidences, who the Truth confess,_
      _On which the Lover safely may rely;_
    _They’re serious Thoughts, digested and resolv’d;_
    _And last, when Words are into Clouds devolv’d._

I will not doubt, but you give credit to all that is kind in
my Letters; and I will believe, you find a Satisfaction in the
Entertainment they give you, and that the Hour of reading ‘em is not
disagreeable to you. I could wish, your Pleasure might be extreme, even
to the degree of suffering the Thought of my Absence not to diminish
any part of it. And I could wish too, at the end of your Reading, you
would sigh with Pleasure, and say to your self--

                            The Transport.

      _O_ Iris! _While you thus can charm,_
    _While at this Distance you can wound and warm;_
    _My absent Torments I will bless and bear,_
    _That give me such dear Proofs how kind you are._
    _Present, the valu’d Store was only seen,_
    _Now I am rifling the bright Mass within._

      _Every dear, past, and happy Day,_
    _When languishing at_ Iris’ _Feet I lay;_
    _When all my Prayers and all my Tears could move_
    _No more than her Permission, I should love:_
      _Vain with my Glorious Destiny,_
    _I thought, beyond, scarce any Heaven cou’d be._

      _But, charming Maid, now I am taught,_
    _That Absence has a thousand Joys to give,_
    _On which the Lover present never thought,_
      _That recompense the Hours we grieve._
    _Rather by Absence let me be undone,_
    _Than forfeit all the Pleasures that has won._

With this little Rapture, I wish you wou’d finish the reading my
Letters, shut your Scrutore, and quit your Cabinet; for my Love leads
to eleven o’clock.


ELEVEN o’.LOCK.

                      _The Hour to write in._

If my _Watch_ did not inform you ‘tis now time to write, I believe,
_Damon_, your Heart wou’d, and tell you also that I should take it
kindly, if you would employ a whole Hour that way; and that you should
never lose an Occasion of writing to me, since you are assured of the
Welcome I give your Letters. Perhaps you will say, an Hour is too
much, and that ‘tis not the mode to write long Letters. I grant you,
_Damon_, when we write those indifferent ones of Gallantry in course,
or necessary Compliment; the handsome comprizing of which in the fewest
Words, renders ‘em the most agreeable: But in Love we have a thousand
foolish things to say, that of themselves bear no great Sound, but have
a mighty Sense in Love; for there is a peculiar Eloquence natural alone
to a Lover, and to be understood by no other Creature: To those, Words
have a thousand Graces and Sweetnesses; which, to the Unconcerned,
appear Meanness, and easy Sense, at the best. But, _Damon_, you and I
are none of those ill Judges of the Beauties of Love; we can penetrate
beyond the Vulgar, and perceive the fine Soul in every Line, thro’ all
the humble Dress of Phrase; when possibly they who think they discern
it best in florid Language, do not see it at all. _Love_ was not born
or bred in Courts, but Cottages; and, nurs’d in Groves and Shades,
smiles on the Plains, and wantons in the Streams; all unador’d and
harmless. Therefore, _Damon_, do not consult your Wit in this Affair,
but _Love_ alone; speak all that he and Nature taught you, and let the
fine Things you learn in Schools alone: Make use of those Flowers you
have gather’d there, when you converst with States-men and the Gown.
Let _Iris_ possess your Heart in all its simple Innocence, that’s the
best Eloquence to her that loves: and that is my Instruction to a Lover
that would succeed in his Amours; for I have a Heart very difficult to
please, and this is the nearest way to it.

                           Advice to Lovers.

    Lovers, _if you wou’d gain a Heart,_
      _Of_ Damon _learn to win the Prize;_
    _He’ll shew you all its tend’rest part,_
      _And where its greatest Danger lies;_
    _The Magazine of its Disdain,_
    _Where Honour, feebly guarded, does remain._

    _If present, do but little say;_
      _Enough the silent Lover speaks:_
    _But wait, and sigh, and gaze all day;_
      _Such Rhet’rick more than Language takes._
    _For Words the dullest way do move;_
    _And utter’d more to shew your Wit than Love._

    _Let your Eyes tell her of your Heart;_
      _Its Story is, for Words, too delicate._
    _Souls thus exchange, and thus impart,_
      _And all their Secrets can relate._
    _A Tear, a broken Sigh, she’ll understand;_
    _Or the soft trembling Pressings of the Hand._

    _Or if your Pain must be in Words exprest,_
      _Let ‘em fall gently, unassur’d and slow;_
    _And where they fail, your Looks may tell the rest:_
      _Thus_ Damon _spoke, and I was conquer’d so._
    _The witty Talker has mistook his Art;_
    _The modest Lover only charms the Heart._

    _Thus, while all day you gazing sit,_
      _And fear to speak, and fear your Fate,_
    _You more Advantages by Silence get,_
    _Than the gay forward Youth with all his Prate._
    _Let him be silent here; but when away,_
    _Whatever Love can dictate, let him say._

    _There let the bashful Soul unveil,_
      _And give a loose to Love and Truth:_
    _Let him improve the amorous Tale,_
      _With all the Force of Words, and Fire of Youth:_
    _There all, and any thing let him express;_
    _Too long he cannot write, too much confess._

O _Damon_! How well have you made me understand this soft Pleasure! You
know my Tenderness too well, not to be sensible how I am charmed with
your agreeable long Letters.

                            The Invention.

      _Ah! he who first found out the way_
      _Souls to each other to convey,_
      _Without dull Speaking, sure must be_
      _Something above Humanity._
    _Let the fond World in vain dispute,_
    _And the first Sacred Mystery impute_
    _Of Letters to the learned Brood,_
    _And of the Glory cheat a God:_
    _’.was_ Love _alone that first the Art essay’d,_                   }
    _And_ Psyche _was the first fair yielding Maid,_                   }
    _That was by the dear_ Billetdoux _betray’d._                      }

It is an Art too ingenious to have been found out by Man, and too
necessary to Lovers, not to have been invented by the God of Love
himself. But, _Damon_, I do not pretend to exact from you those Letters
of Gallantry, which, I have told you, are filled with nothing but fine
Thoughts, and writ with all the Arts of Wit and Subtilty: I would
have yours still all tender unaffected Love, Words unchosen, Thoughts
unstudied, and Love unfeign’d. I had rather find more Softness than Wit
in your Passion; more of Nature than of Art; more of the Lover than the
Poet.

Nor would I have you write any of those little short Letters, that are
read over in a Minute; in Love, long Letters bring a long Pleasure: Do
not trouble your self to make ‘em fine, or write a great deal of Wit
and Sense in a few Lines; that is the Notion of a witty Billet, in any
Affair but that of Love. And have a care rather to avoid these Graces
to a Mistress; and assure your self, dear _Damon_, that what pleases
the Soul pleases the Eye, and the Largeness or Bulk of your Letter
shall never offend me; and that I only am displeased when I find them
small. A Letter is ever the best and most powerful Agent to a Mistress,
it almost always persuades, ‘tis always renewing little Impressions,
that possibly otherwise Absence would deface. Make use then, _Damon_,
of your Time while it is given you, and thank me that I permit you
to write to me: Perhaps I shall not always continue in the Humour of
suffering you to do so; and it may so happen, by some turn of Chance
and Fortune, that you may be deprived, at the same time, both of my
Presence, and of the Means of sending to me. I will believe that such
an Accident would be a great Misfortune to you, for I have often heard
you say, that, ‘To make the most happy Lover suffer Martyrdom, one need
only forbid him Seeing, Speaking and Writing to the Object he loves.’
Take all the Advantages then you can, you cannot give me too often
Marks too powerful of your Passion: Write therefore during this Hour,
every Day. I give you leave to believe, that while you do so, you are
serving me the most obligingly and agreeably you can, while absent;
and that you are giving me a Remedy against all Grief, Uneasiness,
Melancholy, and Despair; nay, if you exceed your Hour, you need not
be asham’d. The Time you employ in this kind Devoir, is the Time that
I shall be grateful for, and no doubt will recompense it. You ought
not however to neglect Heaven for me; I will give you time for your
Devotion, for my _Watch_ tells you ‘tis time to go to the Temple.


TWELVE o’.LOCK.

                      _Indispensible Duty._

There are certain Duties which one ought never to neglect: That of
adoring the Gods is of this nature; and which we ought to pay, from
the bottom of our Hearts: And that, _Damon_, is the only time I will
dispense with your not thinking on me. But I would not have you go to
one of those Temples, where the celebrated Beauties, and those that
make a profession of Gallantry, go; and who come thither only to see,
and be seen; and whither they repair, more to shew their Beauty and
Dress, than to honour the Gods. If you will take my advice, and oblige
my wish, you shall go to those that are least frequented, and you shall
appear there like a Man that has a perfect Veneration for all things
Sacred.

                           The Instruction.

    Damon, _if your Heart and Flame,_
    _You wish, should always be the same,_
    _Do not give it leave to rove,_
      _Nor expose it to new Harms:_
    _Ere you think on’t, you may love,_
      _If you gaze on Beauty’s Charms:_
    _If with me you wou’d not part,_
    _Turn your Eyes into your Heart._

    _If you find a new Desire_
    _In your easy Soul take fire,_
    _From the tempting Ruin fly;_
      _Think it faithless, think it base:_
    _Fancy soon will fade and die,_
      _If you wisely cease to gaze._
    _Lovers should have Honour too,_
    _Or they pay but half Love’s due._

    _Do not to the Temple go,_
    _With design to gaze or show:_
    _Whate’er Thoughts you have abroad,_
      _Tho’ you can deceive elsewhere,_
    _There’s no feigning with your God;_
      _Souls should be all perfect there._
    _The Heart that’s to the Altar brought,_
    _Only Heaven should fill its Thought._

    _Do not your sober Thoughts perplex,_
    _By gazing on the Ogling Sex:_
    _Or if Beauty call your Eyes,_
      _Do not on the Object dwell;_
    _Guard your Heart from the Surprize,_
      _By thinking_ Iris _doth excell._
    _Above all Earthly Things I’d be,_                                 }
    Damon, _most belov’d by thee;_                                     }
    _And only Heaven must rival me._                                   }


ONE o’.LOCK.

                      _Forc’d Entertainment._

I Perceive it will be very difficult for you to quit the Temple,
without being surrounded with Compliments from People of Ceremony,
Friends, and Newsmongers, and several of those sorts of Persons, who
afflict and busy themselves, and rejoice at a hundred things they have
no Interest in; Coquets and Politicians, who make it the Business
of their whole Lives, to gather all the News of the Town; adding
or diminishing according to the Stock of their Wit and Invention,
and spreading it all abroad to the believing Fools and Gossips; and
perplexing every body with a hundred ridiculous Novels, which they
pass off for Wit and Entertainment; or else some of those Recounters
of Adventures, that are always telling of Intrigues, and that make
a Secret to a hundred People of a thousand foolish things they have
heard: Like a certain pert and impertinent Lady of the Town, whose
Youth and Beauty being past, sets up for Wit, to uphold a feeble Empire
over idle Hearts; and whose Character is this:

                              The Coquet.

    Melinda, _who had never been_
    _Esteem’d a Beauty at fifteen,_
    _Always amorous was, and kind:_
      _To every Swain she lent an Ear;_
    _Free as Air, but false as Wind;_
      _Yet none complain’d, she was severe._
    _She eas’d more than she made complain;_
    _Was always singing, pert, and vain._

    _Where-e’er the Throng was, she was seen,_
    _And swept the Youths along the Green;_
    _With equal Grace she flatter’d all;_
      _And fondly proud of all Address,_
    _Her Smiles invite, her Eyes do call,_
      _And her vain Heart her Looks confess._
    _She rallies this, to that she bow’d,_
    _Was talking ever, laughing loud._

    _On every side she makes advance,_
    _And every where a Confidence;_
    _She tells for Secrets all she knows,_
      _And all to know she does pretend:_
    _Beauty in Maids she treats as Foes:_
      _But every handsome Youth as Friend._
    _Scandal still passes off for Truth;_
    _And Noise and Nonsense, Wit and Youth._

    Coquet _all o’er, and every part,_
    _Yet wanting Beauty, even of Art;_
    _Herds with the ugly, and the old;_
      _And plays the Critick on the rest:_
    _Of Men, the bashful, and the bold,_
      _Either, and all, by turns, likes best:_
    _Even now, tho’ Youth be langisht, she_
    _Sets up for Love and Gallantry._

This sort of Creature, _Damon_, is very dangerous; not that I fear
you will squander away a Heart upon her, but your Hours; for in
spight of you, she’ll detain you with a thousand Impertinencies, and
eternal Tattle. She passes for a judging Wit; and there is nothing so
troublesome as such a Pretender. She, perhaps, may get some knowledge
of our Correspondence; and then, no doubt, will improve it to my
Disadvantage. Possibly she may rail at me; that is her fashion by
the way of friendly Speaking; and an aukward Commendation, the most
effectual way of Defaming and Traducing. Perhaps she tells you, in a
cold Tone, that you are a happy Man to be belov’d by me: That _Iris_
indeed is handsome, and she wonders she has no more Lovers; but the
Men are not of her mind; if they were, you should have more Rivals.
She commends my Face, but that I have blue Eyes, and ‘tis pity my
Complexion is no better: My Shape but too much inclining to fat.
Cries--She would charm infinitely with her Wit, but that she knows too
well she is Mistress of it. And concludes,--But all together she is
well enough.--Thus she runs on without giving you leave to edge in a
word in my defence; and ever and anon crying up her own Conduct and
Management: Tells you how she is opprest with Lovers, and fatigu’d
with Addresses; and recommending her self, at every turn, with a
perceivable Cunning: And all the while is jilting you of your good
Opinion; which she would buy at the price of any body’s Repose, or
her own Fame, tho’ but for the Vanity of adding to the number of
her Lovers. When she sees a new Spark, the first thing she does, she
enquires into his Estate; if she find it such as may (if the Coxcomb
be well manag’d) supply her Vanity, she makes advances to him, and
applies her self to those little Arts she usually makes use of to gain
her Fools; and according to his Humour dresses and affects her own.
But, _Damon_, since I point to no particular Person in this Character,
I will not name who you shall avoid; but all of this sort I conjure
you, wheresoever you find ‘em. But if unlucky Chance throw you in their
way, hear all they say, without credit or regard, as far as Decency
will suffer you; hear ‘em without approving their Foppery; and hear ‘em
without giving ‘em cause to censure you. But ‘tis so much Time lost to
listen to all the Novels this sort of People will perplex you with;
whose Business is to be idle, and who even tire themselves with their
own Impertinencies. And be assur’d after all there is nothing they can
tell you that is worth your knowing. And _Damon_, a perfect Lover never
asks any News but of the Maid he loves.

                             The Enquiry.

      Damon, _if your Love be true_
        _To the Heart that you possess,_
    _Tell me what have you to do_
        _Where you have no Tenderness?_
    _Her Affairs who cares to learn,_
    _For whom he has not some Concern?_

        _If a Lover fain would know_
        _If the Object lov’d be true,_
        _Let her but industrious be_
        _To watch his Curiosity;_
    _Tho’ ne’er so cold his Questions seem,_
    _They come from warmer Thoughts within._

      _When I hear a Swain enquire_
        _What gay_ Melinda _does to live,_
    _I conclude there is some Fire_
      _In a Heart inquisitive;_
    _Or ‘tis, at least, the Bill that’s set_
    _To shew_, The Heart is to be let.


TWO o’.LOCK.

                          _Dinner-Time._

Leave all those fond Entertainments, or you will disoblige me, and
make Dinner wait for you; for my _Cupid_ tells you ‘tis that Hour.
_Love_ does not pretend to make you lose that; nor is it my Province to
order you your Diet. Here I give you a perfect Liberty to do what you
please; and possibly, ‘tis the only Hour in the whole four and twenty
that I will absolutely resign you, or dispense with your even so much
as thinking on me. ‘Tis true, in seating your self at Table, I would
not have you placed over-against a very beautiful Object; for in such
a one there are a thousand little Graces in Speaking, Looking, and
Laughing that fail not to charm, if one gives way to the Eyes, to gaze
and wander that way; in which, perhaps, in spight of you, you will find
a Pleasure: And while you do so, tho’ without design or concern, you
give the fair Charmer a sort of Vanity, in believing you have placed
your self there, only for the advantage of looking on her; and she
assumes a hundred little Graces and Affectations which are not natural
to her, to compleat a Conquest, which she believes so well begun
already. She softens her Eyes, and sweetens her Mouth; and in fine,
puts on another Air than when she had no Design, and when you did not,
by your continual looking on her, rouze her Vanity, and encrease her
easy Opinion of her own Charms. Perhaps she knows I have some Interest
in your Heart, and prides her self, at least, with believing she has
attracted the Eyes of my Lover, if not his Heart; and thinks it easy to
vanquish the whole, if she pleases; and triumphs over me in her secret
Imaginations. Remember, _Damon_, that while you act thus in the Company
and Conversation of other Beauties, every Look or Word you give in
favour of ‘em, is an Indignity to my Reputation; and which you cannot
suffer if you love me truly, and with Honour: and assure your self,
so much Vanity as you inspire in her, so much Fame you rob me of; for
whatever Praises you give another Beauty, so much you take away from
mine. Therefore, if you dine in Company, do as others do: Be generally
civil, not applying your self by Words or Looks to any particular
Person: Be as gay as you please: Talk and laugh with all, for this is
not the Hour for Chagrin.

                            The Permission.

      _My_ Damon, _tho’ I stint your Love,_
        _I will not stint your Appetite;_
      _That I would have you still improve,_
        _By every new and fresh Delight._
    _Feast till_ Apollo _hides his Head,_
    _Or drink the Am’rous God to_ Thetis’ _Bed._

      _Be like your self: All witty, gay!_
        _And o’er the Bottle bless the Board;_
      _The list’ning Round will, all the Day,_
        _Be charm’d, and pleas’d with every Word._
    _Tho’. Venus’ _Son inspire your Wit,_
    _’.is the_ Silenian _God best utters it._

      _Here talk of every thing but me,_
        _Since ev’ry thing you say with Grace:_
      _If not dispos’d your Humour be,_
        _And you’d this Hour in silence pass;_
    _Since something must the Subject prove,_
    _Of_ Damon’s _Thoughts, let it be Me and Love._

      _But,_ Damon, _this enfranchised Hour,_
        _No Bounds, or Laws, will I impose;_
      _But leave it wholly in your pow’r,_
        _What Humour to refuse or chuse;_
    I Rules prescribe _but to your Flame;_
    _For I, your Mistress, not Physician, am._


THREE o’.LOCK.

                       _Visits to Friends._

Damon, my _Watch_ is juster than you imagine; it would not have you
live retired and solitary, but permits you to go and make Visits. I am
not one of those that believe Love and Friendship cannot find a place
in one and the same Heart: And that Man would be very unhappy, who, as
soon as he had a Mistress, should be obliged to renounce the Society
of his Friends. I must confess, I would not that you should have so
much Concern for them, as you have for me; for I have heard a sort of
a Proverb that says, _He cannot be very fervent in Love, who is not
a little cold in Friendship._ You are not ignorant, that when _Love_
establishes himself in a Heart, he reigns a Tyrant there, and will not
suffer even Friendship, if it pretend to share his Empire there.

                                Cupid.

    Love _is a God, whose charming Sway_
    _Both Heaven, and Earth, and Seas obey;_
    _A Power that will not mingled be_
    _With any dull Equality._
    _Since first from Heaven, which gave him Birth,_
    _He rul’d the Empire of the Earth;_
    _Jealous of Sov’reign Pow’r he rules,_
    _And will be absolute in Souls._

I should be very angry if you had any of those Friendships which one
ought to desire in a Mistress only; for many times it happens that you
have Sentiments a little too tender for those amiable Persons; and many
times Love and Friendship are so confounded together, that one cannot
easily discern one from the other. I have seen a Man flatter himself
with an Opinion, that he had but an Esteem for a Woman, when by some
turn of Fortune in her Life, as marrying, or receiving the Addresses of
Men, he has found by Spite and Jealousies within, that that was Love,
which he before took for Complaisance or Friendship. Therefore have a
care, for such Amities are dangerous: Not but that a Lover may have
fair and generous Female Friends, whom he ought to visit; and perhaps I
should esteem you less, if I did not believe you were valued by such,
if I were perfectly assured they were Friends and not Lovers. But have
a care you hide not a Mistress under this Veil, or that you gain not a
Lover by this Pretence: For you may begin with Friendship, and end with
Love; and I should be equally afflicted should you give it or receive
it. And though you charge our Sex with all the Vanity, yet I often find
Nature to have given you as large a Portion of that common Crime, which
you would shuffle off, as asham’d to own; and are as fond and vain of
the Imagination of a Conquest, as any _Coquet_ of us all: tho’ at the
same time you despise the Victim, you think it adds a Trophy to your
Fame. And I have seen a Man dress, and trick, and adjust his Looks and
Mein, to make a Visit to a Woman he lov’d not, nor ever could love, as
for those he made to his Mistress; and only for the Vanity of making a
Conquest upon a Heart, even unworthy of the little Pains he has taken
about it. And what is this but buying Vanity at the Expense of Sense
and Ease; and with Fatigue to purchase the Name of a conceited Fop,
besides that of a dishonest Man? For he who takes pains to make himself
beloved, only to please his curious Humour, tho’ he should say nothing
that tends to it, more than by his Looks, his Sighs, and now and then
breaking into Praises and Commendations of the Object; by the care he
takes, to appear well drest before her, and in good order; he lyes in
his Looks, he deceives with his Mein and Fashion, and cheats with every
Motion, and every Grace he puts on: He cozens when he sings or dances;
he dissembles when he sighs; and every thing he does, that wilfully
gains upon her, is Malice prepense, Baseness, and Art below a Man of
Sense or Virtue: and yet these Arts, these Cozenages, are the Common
Practices of the Town. What’s this but that damnable Vice, of which
they so reproach our Sex; that of jilting for Hearts? And ‘tis in vain
that my Lover, after such foul Play, shall think to appease me, with
saying, _He did it to try how easy he could conquer, and of how great
force his Charms were: And why should I be angry if all the Town loved
him, since he loved none but_ Iris? Oh foolish Pleasure! How little
Sense goes to the making of such a Happiness! And how little Love must
he have for one particular Person, who would wish to inspire it into
all the World, and yet himself pretend to be insensible! But this,
_Damon_, is rather what is but too much practiced by your Sex, than any
Guilt I charge on you: tho’ Vanity be an Ingredient that Nature very
seldom omits in the Composition of either Sex; and you may be allowed
a Tincture of it at least. And, perhaps, I am not wholly exempt from
this Leaven in my Nature, but accuse myself sometimes of finding a
secret Joy of being ador’d, tho’ I even hate my Worshipper. But if any
such Pleasure touch my Heart, I find it at the same time blushing in my
Cheeks with a guilty Shame, which soon checks the petty Triumphs; and
I have a Virtue at soberer Thoughts, that I find surmounts my Weakness
and Indiscretion; and I hope _Damon_ finds the same: For, should he
have any of those Attachments, I should have no pity for him.

                             The Example.

    Damon, _if you’d have me true,_
      _Be you my Precedent and Guide:_
    _Example sooner we pursue,_
      _Than the dull Dictates of our Pride._
    _Precepts of Virtue are too weak an Aim:_
    _’.is Demonstration that can best reclaim._

    _Shew me the Path you’d have me go;_
      _With such a Guide I cannot stray:_
    _What you approve, whate’er you do,_
      _It is but just I bend that way._
    _If true, my Honour favours your Design;_
    _If false, Revenge is the result of mine._

    _A Lover true, a Maid sincere,_
      _Are to be priz’d as things divine:_
    _’.is Justice makes the Blessing dear,_
      _Justice of Love without Design._
    _And she that reigns not in a Heart alone,_
    _Is never safe, or easy, on her Throne._


FOUR o’.LOCK.

                      _General Conversation._

In this Visiting-Hour, many People will happen to meet at one and the
same Time together, in a Place: And as you make not Visits to Friends,
to be silent, you ought to enter into Conversation with ‘em; but those
Conversations ought to be general, and of general things: for there
is no necessity of making your Friend the Confident of your Amours.
’.would infinitely displease me, to hear you have reveal’d to them all
that I have repos’d in you; tho’ Secrets never so trivial, yet since
utter’d between Lovers, they deserve to be priz’d at a higher rate: For
what can shew a Heart more indifferent and indiscreet, than to declare
in any fashion, or with Mirth, or Joy, the tender things a Mistress
says to a Lover, and which possibly, related at second hand, bear not
the same Sense, because they have not the same Sound and Air they had
originally, when they came from the soft Heart of her, who sigh’d ‘em
first to her lavish Lover? Perhaps they are told again with Mirth, or
Joy, unbecoming their Character and Business; and then they lose their
Graces: (for Love is the most solemn thing in nature, and the most
unsuiting with Gaiety.) Perhaps the soft Expressions suit not so well
the harsher Voice of the masculine Lover, whose Accents were not form’d
for so much Tenderness; at least, not of that sort: for Words that have
the same Meaning, are alter’d from their Sense by the least tone or
accent of the Voice; and those proper and fitted to my Soul, are not,
possibly, so to yours, though both have the same Efficacy upon us;
yours upon my Heart, as mine upon yours: and both will be misunderstood
by the unjudging World. Beside this, there is a Holiness in Love that’s
true, that ought not to be profan’d: And as the Poet truly says, at the
latter end of an Ode, of which I will recite the whole;

                            The Invitation.

      Aminta, _fear not to confess_
    _The charming Secret of thy Tenderness:_
      _That which a Lover can’t conceal,_
      _That which, to me, thou shouldst reveal;_
    _And is but what thy lovely Eyes express._
      _Come, whisper to my panting Heart,_
    _That heaves and meets thy Voice half-way;_
      _That guesses what thou wouldst impart,_
    _And languishes for what thou hast to say._
    _Confirm my trembling Doubt, and make me know,_
    _Whence all these Blessings, and these Sighings flow._

      _Why dost thou scruple to unfold_
    _A Mystery that does my Life concern?_
      _If thou ne’er speakst, it will be told;_
      _For Lovers all things can discern._
    _From overy Look, from every bashful Grace,_
    _That still succeed each other in thy Face,_
    _I shall the dear transporting Secret learn:_
      _But ‘tis a Pleasure not to be exprest,_                         }
      _To hear it by the Voice confest,_                               }
      _When soft Sighs breath it on my panting Breast._                }
      _All calm and silent is the Grove,_
    _Whose shading Boughs resist the Day;_
      _Here thou mayst blush, and talk of Love,_
    _While only Winds, unheeding, stay,_
    _That will not bear the Sound away:_
      _While I with solemn awful Joy,_
      _All my attentive Faculties employ;_
    _List’ning to every valu’d Word;_
    _And in my Soul the secret Treasure hoard:_
      _There like some Mystery Divine,_
      _The wond’rous Knowledge I’ll enshrine._
    _Love can his Joys no longer call his own,_
    _Than the dear Secret’s kept unknown._

There is nothing more true than those two last Lines: and that Love
ceases to be a Pleasure, when it ceases to be a Secret, and one you
ought to keep sacred: For the World, which never makes a right Judgment
of things, will misinterpret Love, as they do Religion; every one
judging it, according to the Notion he has of it, or the Talent of
his Sense. _Love_ (as a great Duke said) _is like Apparitions; every
one talks of them, but few have seen ‘em_: Every body thinks himself
capable of understanding Love, and that he is a Master in the Art
of it; when there is nothing so nice, or difficult, to be rightly
comprehended; and indeed cannot be, but to a Soul very delicate. Nor
will he make himself known to the Vulgar: There must be an uncommon
Fineness in the Mind that contains him; the rest he only visits in as
many Disguises as there are Dispositions and Natures, where he makes
but a short stay, and is gone. He can fit himself to all Hearts, being
the greatest Flatterer in the World: And he possesses every one with a
Confidence, that they are in the number of his Elect; and they think
they know him perfectly, when nothing but the Spirits refined possess
him in his Excellency. From this difference of Love, in different
Souls, proceed those odd fantastick Maxims, which so many hold of
so different kinds: And this makes the most innocent Pleasures pass
oftentimes for Crimes, with the unjudging Croud, who call themselves
Lovers: And you will have your Passion censur’d by as many as you shall
discover it to, and as many several ways. I advise you therefore,
_Damon_, to make no Confidents of your Amours; and believe, that
Silence has, with me, the most powerful Charm.

’.is also in these Conversations, that those indiscreetly civil Persons
often are, who think to oblige a good Man, by letting him know he is
belov’d by some one or other; and making him understand how many good
Qualities he is Master of, to render him agreeable to the Fair Sex, if
he would but advance where Love and good Fortune call; and that a too
constant Lover loses a great part of his Time, which might be manag’d
to more advantage, since Youth hath so short a Race to run. This, and a
thousand the like indecent Complaisances, give him a Vanity that suits
not with that Discretion, which has hitherto acquir’d him so good a
Reputation. I would not have you, _Damon_, act on these occasions, as
many of the easy Sparks have done before you, who receive such Weakness
and Flattery for Truth; and passing it off with a Smile, suffer ‘em to
advance in Folly, till they have gain’d a Credit with ‘em, and they
believe all they hear; telling ‘em they do so, by consenting Gestures,
Silence, or open Approbation. For my part, I should not condemn a Lover
that should answer such a sort of civil Brokers for Love, somewhat
briskly; and by giving ‘em to understand they are already engag’d, or
directing ‘em to Fools, that will possibly hearken to ‘em, and credit
such Stuff, shame ‘em out of a Folly so infamous and disingenuous. In
such a Case only I am willing you should own your Passion; not that you
need tell the Object which has charm’d you: And you may say, you are
already a Lover, without saying you are belov’d. For so long as you
appear to have a Heart unengag’d, you are expos’d to all the little
Arts and and Addresses of this sort of obliging Procurers of Love, and
give way to the hope they have of making you their Proselyte. For your
own Reputation then, and my Ease and Honour, shun such Conversations;
for they are neither creditable to you, nor pleasing to me: And believe
me, _Damon_, a true Lover has no Curiosity, but what concerns his
Mistress.


FIVE o’.LOCK.

                       _Dangerous Visits._

I foresee, or fear, that these busy impertinent Friends will oblige
you to visit some Ladies of their Acquaintance, or yours; my _Watch_
does not forbid you. Yet I must tell you, I apprehend Danger in such
Visits; and I fear, you will have need of all your Care and Precaution,
in these Encounters. That you may give me no cause to suspect you,
perhaps you will argue, that Civility obliges you to it. If I were
assur’d there would no other Design be carried on, I should believe it
were to advance an amorous Prudence too far, to forbid you. Only keep
yourself upon your guard; for the Business of most part of the Fair
Sex, is, to seek only the Conquest of Hearts: All their Civilities
are but so many Interests; and they do nothing without Design. And
in such Conversations there is always a _Je ne scay quoy_, that is
fear’d, especially when Beauty is accompanied with Youth and Gaiety;
and which they assume upon all occasions that may serve their turn.
And I confess, ‘tis not an easy matter to be just in these Hours and
Conversations: The most certain way of being so, is to imagine I read
all your Thoughts, observe all your Looks, and hear all your Words.

                             The Caution.

    _My_ Damon, _if your Heart be kind,_
      _Do not too long with Beauty stay;_
    _For there are certain Moments when the Mind_
      _Is hurry’d by the Force of Charms away._
    _In Fate a Minute critical there lies,_
    _That waits on Love, and takes you by Surprize._

      _A Lover pleas’d with Constancy,_
      _Lives still as if the Maid he lov’d were by:_
        _As if his Actions were in view,_
        _As if his Steps she did pursue;_
        _Or that his very Soul she knew._
    _Take heed; for though I am not present there,_
    _My Love, my Genius waits you every where._

I am very much pleas’d with the Remedy, you say, you make use of to
defend your self from the Attacks that Beauty gives your Heart; which
in one of your Billets, you said was this, or to this purpose:

                       The Charm for Constancy.

    Iris, _to keep my Soul entire and true,_
    _It thinks, each Moment of the Day, on you._
      _And when a charming Face I see,_
        _That does all other Eyes incline,_
      _It has no Influence on me:_
        _I think it ev’n deform’d to thine._
    _My Eyes, my Soul, and Sense, regardless move_
    _To all, but the dear Object of my Love._

But, _Damon_, I know all Lovers are naturally Flatterers, tho’ they
do not think so themselves; because every one makes a Sense of
Beauty according to his own Fancy. But perhaps you will say in your
own defence, That ‘tis not Flattery to say an unbeautiful Woman is
beautiful, if he that says so believes she is so. I should be content
to acquit you of the first, provided you allow me the last: And if I
appear charming in _Damon’s_ eyes, I am not fond of the Approbation of
any other. ‘Tis enough the World thinks me not altogether disagreeable,
to justify his Choice; but let your good Opinion give what Increase
it pleases to my Beauty, tho’ your Approbation give me a Pleasure, it
shall not a Vanity; and I am contented that _Damon_ should think me a
Beauty, without my believing I am one. ‘Tis not to draw new Assurances,
and new Vows from you, that I speak this; though Tales of Love are
the only ones we desire to hear often told, and which never tire the
Hearers if addrest to themselves. But ‘tis not to this end I now seem
to doubt what you say to my advantage: No, my Heart knows no Disguise,
nor can dissemble one Thought of it to _Damon_; ‘tis all sincere, and
honest as his Wish: ‘Tis therefore it tells you, it does not credit
every thing you say; tho’ I believe you say abundance of Truths in a
great part of my Character. But when you advance to that, which my own
Sense, my Judgment, or my Glass cannot persuade me to believe, you must
give me leave either to believe you think me vain enough to credit you,
or pleas’d that your Sentiments and mine are differing in this point.
But I doubt I may rather reply in some Verses, a Friend of yours and
mine sent to a Person she thought had but indifferent Sentiments for
her; yet, who nevertheless flatter’d her, because he imagin’d she had
a very great Esteem for him. She is a Woman that, you know, naturally
hates Flattery: On the other side she was extremely dissatisfy’d,
and uneasy at his Opinion of his being more in her favour than she
desir’d he should believe. So that one Night having left her full of
Pride and Anger, she next Morning sent him these Verses, instead of a
_Billetdoux_.

                             The Defiance.

    _By Heaven ‘tis false, I am not vain;_
      _And rather would the Subject be_
    _Of your Indifference, or Disdain,_
      _Than Wit or Raillery._
    _Take back the trifling Praise you give,_
      _And pass it on some easier Fool,_
    _Who may the injuring Wit believe,_
      _That turns her into ridicule._

    _Tell her, she’s witty, fair and gay,_
      _With all the Charms that can subdue:_
    _Perhaps she’ll credit what you say;_
      _But curse me if I do._

    _If your Diversion you design,_
      _On my Good-nature you have prest:_
    _Or if you do intend it mine,_
      _You have mistook the Jest._

    Philander, _fly that guilty Art:_
      _Your charming facile Wit will find,_
    _It cannot play on any Heart,_
      _That is sincere and kind._

    _For Wit with Softness to reside,_
      _Good-nature is with Pity stor’d;_
    _But Flattery’s the result of Pride,_
      _And fawns to be ador’d._

    _Nay, even when you smile and bow,_
      _’.is to be render’d more compleat:_
    _Your Wit, with ev’ry Grace you shew,_
      _Is but a popular Cheat._

    _Laugh on, and call me Coxcomb--do;_
      _And, your Opinion to improve,_
    _Think, all you think of me is true;_
      _And to confirm it, swear I love._

    _Then, while you wreck my Soul with Pain,_
      _And of a cruel Conquest boast,_
    _’.is you,_ Philander, _that are vain,_
    _And witty at my cost._

Possibly, the angry _Aminta_, when she writ these Verses, was more
offended, that he believed himself belov’d, than that he flatter’d;
tho’ she wou’d seem to make that a great part of the Quarrel, and Cause
of her Resentment: For we are often in an humour to seem more modest in
that point, than naturally we are; being too apt to have a favourable
Opinion of our selves: And ‘tis rather the Effects of a Fear that we
are flatter’d, than our own ill Opinion of the Beauty flatter’d; and
that the Praiser thinks not so well of it, as we do our selves, or at
least we wish he should. Not but there are Grains of Allowance for the
Temper of him that speaks: One Man’s Humour is to talk much; and he may
be permitted to enlarge upon the Praise he gives the Person he pretends
to, without being accus’d of much Guilt. Another hates to be wordy;
from such an one, I have known one soft Expression, one tender Thing,
go as far as whole Days everlasting Protestations urged with Vows,
and mighty Eloquence. And both the one and the other, indeed, must be
allow’d in good manners, to stretch the Compliment beyond the bounds of
nice Truth: and we must not wonder to hear a Man call a Woman a Beauty,
when she is not ugly; or another a great Wit, if she have but common
Sense above the Vulgar; well bred, when well drest; and good-natur’d,
when civil. And as I should be very ridiculous, if I took all you said
for absolute Truth; so I should be very unjust, not to allow you very
sincere in almost all you said besides; and those things, the most
material to Love, Honour and Friendship. And for the rest (_Damon_)
be it true or false, this believe, you speak with such a Grace, that
I cannot chuse but credit you; and find an infinite Pleasure in that
Faith, because I love you: And if I cannot find the Cheat, I am
contented you should deceive me on, because you do it so agreeably.


SIX o’.LOCK.

                      _Walk without Design._

You yet have time to walk; and my _Watch_ foresaw you cou’d not refuse
your Friends. You must to the _Park_, or to the _Mall_; for the Season
is fair and inviting, and all the young Beauties love those Places too
well, not to be there. ‘Tis there that a thousand Intrigues are carry’d
on, and as many more design’d: ‘Tis there that every one is set out for
Conquest; and who aim at nothing less than Hearts. Guard yours well, my
_Damon_; and be not always admiring what you see. Do not, in passing
by, sigh them silent Praises. Suffer not so much as a guilty Wish to
approach your Thoughts, nor a heedful Glance to steal from your fine
Eyes: Those are Regards you ought only to have for her you love. But
oh! above all, have a care of what you say: You are not reproachable,
if you should remain silent all the time of your Walk; nor would those
that know you believe it the Effects of Dulness, but Melancholy. And if
any of your Friends ask you, Why you are so? I will give you leave to
sigh, and say--

                           The Mal-Content.

      _Ah! wonder not if I appear_
      _Regardless of the Pleasures here;_
      _Or that my Thoughts are thus confin’d_
      _To the just Limits of my Mind._
      _My Eyes take no delight to rove_
    _O’er all the smiling Charmers of the Grove,_
      _Since she is absent whom they love._

      _Ask me not, Why the Flow’ry Spring,_
      _Or the gay little Birds that sing,_
      _Or the young Streams no more delight,_
      _Or Shades and Arbours can’t invite?_
      _Why the soft Murmurs of the Wind,_
      _Within the thick-grown Groves confin’d,_
      _No more my Soul transport, or cheer;_
    _Since all that’s charming_--Iris, _is not here;_
      _Nothing seems glorious, nothing fair._

      _Then suffer me to wander thus,_
      _With down-cast Eyes, and Arms across:_
      _Let Beauty unregarded go;_
      _The Trees and Flowers unheeded grow._
      _Let purling Streams neglected glide;_
      _With all the Spring’s adorning Pride._
      _’.is_ Iris _only Soul can give_
    _To the dull Shades, and Plains, and make ‘em thrive;_
    _Nature and my last Joys retrieve._

I do not, for all this, wholly confine your Eyes: you may look
indifferently on all, but with a particular regard on none. You may
praise all the Beauties in general, but no single one too much. I will
not exact from you neither an intire Silence: There are a thousand
Civilities you ought to pay to all your Friends and Acquaintance; and
while I caution you of Actions, that may get you the Reputation of a
Lover of some of the Fair that haunt those Places, I would not have
you, by an unnecessary and uncomplaisant Sullenness, gain that of a
Person too negligent or morose. I would have you remiss in no one
_Punctilio_ of good Manners. I would have you very just, and pay all
you owe; but in these Affairs be not over generous, and give away too
much. In fine, you may look, speak and walk; but (_Damon_) do it all
without design: And while you do so, remember that _Iris_ sent you this
Advice.

                             The Warning.

    _Take heed, my_ Damon, _in the Grove,_
    _Where Beauties with design do walk;_
    _Take heed, my_ Damon, _how you look and talk,_
      _For there are Ambuscades of Love._
      _The very Winds that softly blow,_
    _Will help betray your easy Heart;_
      _And all the Flowers that blushing grow,_
    _The Shades about, and Rivulets below,_
      _Will take the Victor’s part._

    _Remember,_ Damon, _all my Safety lies_
      _In the just Conduct of your Eyes._
      _The Heart, by Nature good and brave,_
      _Is to those treacherous Guards a Slave._
    _If they let in the fair destructive Foe,_
    _Scarce Honour can defend her noble Seat:_
      _Ev’n she will be corrupted too,_
        _Or driv’n to a Retreat._
    _The Soul is but the Cully to the Sight,_
    _And must be pleas’d in what that takes delight._

Therefore examine your self well; and conduct your Eyes, during this
Walk, like a Lover that seeks nothing: And do not stay too long in
these Places.


SEVEN o’.LOCK.

                       _Voluntary Retreat._

’.is time to be weary, ‘tis Night: Take leave of your Friends and
retire home. ‘Tis in this Retreat that you ought to recollect in your
Thoughts all the Actions of the Day, and all those things that you
ought to give me an account of, in your Letter: You cannot hide the
least Secret from me, without Treason against sacred Love. For all
the World agrees that Confidence is one of the greatest Proofs of the
Passion of Love; and that Lover who refuses his Confidence to the
Person he loves, is to be suspected to love but very indifferently, and
to think very poorly of the Sense and Generosity of his Mistress. But
that you may acquit your self like a Man, and a Lover of Honour, and
leave me no doubt upon my Soul; think of all you have done this day,
that I may have all the Story of it in your next Letter to me: but deal
faithfully, and neither add nor diminish in your Relation; the Truth
and Sincerity of your Confession will atone even for little Faults that
you shall commit against me, in some of those things you shall tell me.
For if you have fail’d in any Point or Circumstance of Love, I had much
rather hear it from you than another: for ‘tis a sort of Repentance
to accuse your self; and would be a Crime unpardonable, if you suffer
me to hear it from any other: And be assur’d, while you confess it, I
shall be indulgent enough to forgive you. The noblest Quality of Man
is Sincerity; and (_Damon_) one ought to have as much of it in Love,
as in any other Business of one’s Life, notwithstanding the most part
of Men make no account of it there; but will believe there ought to be
Double-dealing, and an Art practised in Love as well as in War. But,
Oh! beware of that Notion.

                              Sincerity.

    _Sincerity! thou greatest Good!_
      _Thou Virtue which so many boast!_
    _And art so nicely understood!_
      _And often in the searching lost!_
    _For when we do approach thee near,_
      _The fine Idea fram’d of thee,_
    _Appears not now so charming fair_
      _As the more useful Flattery._
    _Thou hast no Glist’ring to invite;_
    _Nor tak’st the Lover at first sight._

    _The modest Virtue shuns the Croud,_
      _And lives, like Vestals, in a Cell;_
    _In Cities ‘twill not be allow’d,_
      _Nor takes delight in Courts to dwell;_
    _’.is Nonsense with the Man of Wit;_
      _And ev’n a Scandal to the Great:_
    _For all the Young, and Fair, unfit;_
      _And scorn’d by wiser Fops of State._
    _A Virtue, yet was never known_
    _To the false Trader, or the falser Gown._

    _And_ (Damon) _tho’ thy noble Blood_
      _Be most illustrious, and refin’d;_
    _Tho’ ev’ry Grace and ev’ry Good_
      _Adorn thy Person and thy Mind:_
    _Yet, if this Virtue shine not there,_
      _This God-like Virtue, which alone,_
    _Wert thou less witty, brave, or fair,_
      _Wou’d for all these, less priz’d, atone;_
    _My tender Folly I’d controul,_
    _And scorn the Conquest of thy Soul._


EIGHT o’.LOCK.

                       _Impatient Demands_.

After you have sufficiently recollected your self of all the past
Actions of the Day, call your Page into your Cabinet, or him whom you
trusted with your last Letter to me; where you ought to enquire of him
a thousand things, and all of me. Ask impatiently, and be angry if he
answers not your Curiosity soon enough: Think that he has a dreaming
in his Voice, in these moments more than at other times; and reproach
him with Dulness: For ‘tis most certain that when one loves tenderly,
we would know in a minute, what cannot be related in an hour. Ask
him, How I did? How I receiv’d his Letter? And if he examined the Air
of my Face, when I took it? If I blush’d or looked pale? If my Hand
trembled, or I spoke to him with short interrupting Sighs? If I asked
him any Questions about you, while I was opening the Seal? Or if I
could not well speak, and was silent? If I read it attentively, and
with Joy? And all this, before you open the Answer I have sent you by
him: which, because you are impatient to read, you, with the more haste
and earnestness, demand all you expect from him; and that you may the
better know what Humour I was in, when I writ that to you: For, Oh! a
Lover has a thousand little Fears, and Dreads, he knows not why. In
fine, make him recount to you all that past, while he was with me; and
then you ought to read that which I have sent, that you may inform your
self of all that passes in my Heart: for you may assure your self, all
that I say to you that way proceeds from thence.

                            The Assurance.

      _How shall a Lover come to know,_
    _Whether he’s belov’d or no?_
    _What dear things must she impart,_
    _To assure him of her Heart?_
    _Is it when her Blushes rise;_
    _And she languish in her Eyes;_
    _Tremble when he does approach;_
    _Look pale, and faint at ev’ry Touch?_

      _Is it, when a thousand ways_
    _She does his Wit and Beauty praise;_
    _Or she venture to explain,_
    _In less moving Words, a Pain;_
    _Tho’ so indiscreet she grows,_
    _To confirm it with her Vows?_

      _These some short-liv’d Passion moves,_
    _While the Object’s by, she loves;_
    _While the gay and sudden Fire_
    _Kindles by some fond Desire:_
    _And a Coldness will ensue,_
    _When the Lover’s out of view._
    _Then she reflects with Scandal o’er_
    _The easy Scene that past before:_
    _Then, with Blushes, would recal_
    _The unconsid’ring Criminal;_
    _In which a thousand Faults she’ll find,_
    _And chide the Errors of her Mind._
    _Such fickle weight is found in Words,_
    _As no substantial Faith affords:_
    _Deceiv’d and baffl’d all may be,_
    _Who trust that frail Security._

      _But a well-digested Flame,_
    _That will always be the same;_
    _And that does from Merit grow,_
    _Establish’d by our Reason too;_
    _By a better way will prove,_
    _’.is th’ unerring Fire of Love._
    _Lasting Records it will give:_
    _And, that all she says may live;_
    _Sacred and authentick stand,_
    _Her Heart confirms it by her Hand._
    _If this, a Maid, well born, allow;_
    Damon, _believe her just and true._


NINE o’.LOCK.

                     _Melancholy Reflections._

You will not have much trouble to explain what my _Watch_ designs here.
There can be no Thought more afflicting, than that of the Absence of
a Mistress; and which the Sighings of the Heart will soon make you
find. Ten thousand Fears oppress him; he is jealous of every body, and
envies those Eyes and Ears that are charmed by being near the Object
ador’d. He grows impatient, and makes a thousand Resolutions, and as
soon abandons them all. He gives himself wholly up to the Torment of
Incertainty; and by degrees, from one cruel Thought to another, winds
himself up to insupportable Chagrin. Take this Hour then, to think
on your Misfortunes, which cannot be small to a Soul that is wholly
sensible of Love. And every one knows, that a Lover, deprived of the
Object of his Heart, is deprived of all the World, and inconsolable:
For tho’ one wishes without ceasing for the dear Charmer one loves,
and tho’ you speak of her every minute; and tho’ you are writing to
her every day, and tho’ you are infinitely pleas’d with the dear and
tender Answers; yet, to speak sincerely, it must be confessed, that the
Felicity of a true Lover is to be always near his Mistress. And you may
tell me, O _Damon_! what you please; and say that Absence inspires the
Flame, which perpetual Presence would satiate: I love too well to be
of that mind, and when I am, I shall believe my Passion is declining.
I know not whether it advances your Love; but surely it must ruin your
Repose: And it is impossible to be, at once, an absent Lover, and
happy too. For my part, I can meet with nothing that can please in the
absence of _Damon_; but on the contrary I see all things with disgust.
I will flatter my self, that ‘tis so with you; and that the least Evils
appear great Misfortunes; and that all those who speak to you of any
thing but of what you love, increase your Pain, by a new remembrance
of her Absence. I will believe that these are your Sentiments, when
you are assur’d not to see me in some weeks; and if your Heart do not
betray your Words, all those days will be tedious to you. I would not,
however, have your Melancholy too extreme; and to lessen it, you may
persuade your self, that I partake it with you: for, I remember, in
your last you told me, you would wish we should be both griev’d at the
same time, and both at the same time pleas’d; and I believe I love too
well not to obey you.

                             Love secur’d.

      _Love, of all Joys, the sweetest is,_
      _The most substantial Happiness;_
    _The softest Blessing Life can crave,_
    _The noblest Passion Souls can have._
    _Yet, if no Interruption were,_
      _No Difficulties came between,_
    _’.wou’d not be render’d half so dear:_
    _The Sky is gayest when small Clouds are seen._
    _The sweetest Flower, the blushing Rose,_
    _Amidst the Thorns securest grows._
    _If Love were one continu’d Joy,_
    _How soon the Happiness would cloy!_
    _The wiser God did this foresee;_
      _And to preserve the Bliss entire,_
    _Mix’d it with Doubt and Jealousy,_
      _Those necessary Fuels to the Fire;_
    _Sustain’d the fleeting Pleasures with new Fears;_
    _With little Quarrels, Sighs and Tears;_
    _With Absence, that tormenting Smart,_
         _That makes a Minute seem a Day,_
      _A Day a Year to the impatient Heart,_
         _That languishes in the Delay,_
      _But cannot sigh the tender Pain away;_
    _That still returns, and with a greater Force,_
    _Thro’ ev’ry Vein it takes its grateful Course._
         _But whatsoe’er the Lover does sustain,_
      _Tho’ he still sigh, complain, and fear;_
         _It cannot be a mortal Pain,_
      _When Two do the Affliction bear._


TEN o’.LOCK.

                          _Reflections._

After the afflicting Thoughts of my Absence, make some Reflections on
your Happiness. Think it a Blessing to be permitted to love me; think
it so, because I permit it to you alone, and never could be drawn to
allow it any other. The first thing you ought to consider, is, that
at length I have suffer’d my self to be overcome, to quit that Nicety
that is natural to me, and receive your Addresses; nay, thought ‘em
agreeable: and that I have at last confess’d, the Present of your Heart
is very dear to me. ‘Tis true, I did not accept of it the first time
it was offer’d me, nor before you had told me a thousand times, that
you could not escape expiring, if I did not give you leave to sigh for
me, and gaze upon me; and that there was an absolute necessity for me,
either to give you leave to love, or die. And all those Rigours my
Severity has made you suffer, ought now to be recounted to your Memory,
as Subjects of Pleasure; and you ought to esteem and judge of the Price
of my Affections, by the Difficulties you found in being able to touch
my Heart: Not but you have Charms that can conquer at first sight; and
you ought not to have valu’d me less, if I had been more easily gain’d:
But ‘tis enough to please you, to think and know I am gain’d; no matter
when and how. When, after a thousand Cares and Inquietudes, that which
we wish for succeeds to our Desires, the remembrance of those Pains and
Pleasures we encounter’d in arriving at it, gives us a new Joy.

Remember also, _Damon_, that I have preferred you before all those that
have been thought worthy of my Esteem; and that I have shut my Eyes to
all their pleading Merits, and could survey none but yours.

Consider then, that you had not only the Happiness to please me, but
that you only found out the way of doing it, and I had the Goodness at
last to tell you so, contrary to all the Delicacy and Niceness of my
Soul, contrary to my Prudence, and all those Scruples, you know, are
natural to my Humour.

My Tenderness proceeded further, and I gave you innocent Marks of my
new-born Passion, on all occasions that presented themselves: For,
after that from my Eyes and Tongue you knew the Sentiments of my
Heart, I confirm’d that Truth to you by my Letters. Confess, _Damon_,
that if you make these Reflections, you will not pass this Hour very
disagreeably.

                            Beginning Love.

    _As free as wanton Winds I liv’d,_
      _That unconcern’d do play:_
    _No broken Faith, no Fate I griev’d;_
      _No Fortune gave me Joy._
    _A dull Content crown’d all my Hours,_
      _My Heart no Sighs opprest;_
    _I call’d in vain on no deaf Pow’rs,_
      _To ease a tortur’d Breast._

    _The sighing Swains regardless pin’d,_
      _And strove in vain to please:_
    _With pain I civilly was kind,_
      _But could afford no Ease._
    _Tho’ Wit and Beauty did abound,_
      _The Charm was wanting still,_
    _That could inspire the tender Wound,_
      _Or bend my careless Will._

    _Till in my Heart a kindling Flame_
      _Your softer Sighs had blown;_
    _Which I, with striving, Love and Shame,_
      _Too sensibly did own._
    _Whate’er the God before cou’d plead;_
      _Whate’er the Youth’s Desert;_
    _The feeble Siege in vain was laid_
      _Against my stubborn Heart._

    _At first my Sighs and Blushes spoke,_
      _Just when your Sighs would rise;_
    _And when you gaz’d, I wish’d to look,_
      _But durst not meet your Eyes._
    _I trembled when my Hand you press’d,_
      _Nor cou’d my Guilt controul;_
    _But Love prevail’d, and I confess’d_
      _The Secrets of my Soul._

    _And when upon the giving part,_
      _My Present to avow,_
    _By all the ways confirm’d my Heart,_
      _That Honour wou’d allow;_
    _Too mean was all that I could say,_
      _Too poorly understood:_
    _I gave my Soul the noblest way,_
      _My Letters made it good._

You may believe I did not easily, nor suddenly, bring my Heart to this
Condescension; but I lov’d, and all things in _Damon_ were capable of
making me resolve so to do. I could not think it a Crime, where every
Grace, and every Virtue justified my Choice: And when once one is
assured of this, we find not much difficulty in owning that Passion
which will so well commend one’s Judgment; and there is no Obstacle
that Love does not surmount. I confess’d my Weakness a thousand ways,
before I told it you; and I remember all those things with Pleasure,
but yet I remember ‘em also with Shame.


ELEVEN o’.LOCK.

                             _Supper._

I Will believe, _Damon_, that you have been so well entertained during
this Hour, and have found so much Sweetness in these Thoughts, that if
one did not tell you that Supper waits, you would lose your self in
Reflections so pleasing, many more Minutes. But you must go where you
are expected; perhaps, among the fair, the young, the gay; but do not
abandon your Heart to too much Joy, tho’ you have so much reason to
be contented: but the greatest Pleasures are always imperfect, if the
Object belov’d do not partake of it. For this reason be chearful and
merry with reserve: Do not talk too much, I know you do not love it;
and if you do it, ‘twill be the effect of too much Complaisance, or
with some design of pleasing too well; for you know your own charming
Power, and how agreeable your Wit and Conversation are to all the
World. Remember, I am covetous of every Word you speak, that is not
address’d to me, and envy the happy list’ner, if I am not by. And I
may reply to you as _Aminta_ did to _Philander_, when he charged her
of loving a Talker: and because, perhaps, you have not heard it, I
will, to divert you, send it to you; and at the same time assure you,
_Damon_, that your more noble Quality, of speaking little, has reduc’d
me to a perfect Abhorrence of those wordy Sparks, that value themselves
upon their ready and much talking upon every trivial Subject, and who
have so good an Opinion of their Talent that way, they will let no
body edge in a word, or a reply; but will make all the Conversation
themselves, that they may pass for very entertaining Persons, and pure
Company. But the Verses--

                           The Reformation.

    Philander, _since you’ll have it so,_
      _I grant I was impertinent;_
    _And, till this Moment, did not know,_
      _Thro’ all my Life what ‘twas I meant._
    _Your kind Opinion was the flattering Glass,_
    _In which my Mind found how deform’d it was._

    _In your clear Sense, which knows no Art,_
      _I saw the Errors of my Soul:_
    _And all the Foibless of my Heart_
      _With one Reflection you controul._
    _Kind as a God, and gently you chastise:_
    _By what you hate, you teach me to be wise._

    _Impertinence, my Sex’s shame,_
      _That has so long my Life pursu’d,_
    _You with such Modesty reclaim,_
      _As all the Women has subdu’d._
    _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,_
    _That prides himself upon his Prate,_
      _And is, of Words, that Nonsense, vain:_
    _When in your few appears such Excellence,_
    _As have reproach’d, and charm’d me into Sense._

    _For ever may I list’ning 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 damn’d;_
    _I’m into nobler Sense than Talking sham’d._

I believe you are so good a Lover, as to be of my Opinion; and that you
will neither force your self against Nature, nor find much occasion to
lavish out those excellent things that must proceed from you, whenever
you speak. If all Women were like me, I should have more reason to
fear your Silence than your Talk: for you have a thousand ways to
charm without speaking, and those which to me shew a great deal more
Concern. But, _Damon_, you know the greatest part of my Sex judge
the fine Gentleman by the Volubility of his Tongue, by his Dexterity
in Repartee, and cry--_Oh! he never wants fine things to say: He’s
eternally talking the most surprizing things._ But, _Damon_, you are
well assur’d, I hope, that _Iris_ is none of these _Coquets_: at least,
if she had any spark of it once in her Nature, she is by the excellency
of your contrary Temper taught to know, and scorn the folly: And take
heed your Conduct never give me cause to suspect you have deceiv’d me
in your Temper.


TWELVE o’.LOCK.

                         _Complaisance._

Nevertheless, _Damon_, Civility requires a little Complaisance after
Supper; and I am assur’d, you can never want that, tho’ I confess,
you are not accus’d of too general a Complaisance, and do not often
make use of it to those Persons you have an Indifference for: tho’ one
is not the less esteemable for having more of this than one ought:
and tho’ an excess of it be a Fault, ‘tis a very excusable one. Have
therefore some for those with whom you are: You may laugh with ‘em,
drink with ‘em, dance or sing with ‘em; yet think of me. You may
discourse of a thousand indifferent things with ‘em; and at the same
time still think of me. If the Subject be any beautiful Lady, whom they
praise, either for her Person, Wit, or Virtue, you may apply it to me:
And if you dare not say it aloud, at least, let your Heart answer in
this language:

    _Yes, the fair Object, whom you praise,_
    _Can give us Love a thousand ways;_
    _Her Wit and Beauty charming are;_
    _But still my_ Iris _is more fair._

No body ever spoke before me of a faithful Lover, but still I sigh’d,
and thought of _Damon_: And ever when they tell me Tales of Love, any
soft pleasing Intercourses of an Amour; Oh! with what Pleasures do I
listen! and with Pleasure answer ‘em, either with my Eyes, or Tongue--

    _That Lover may his_ Sylvia _warm,_
    _But cannot, like my_ Damon, _charm._

If I have not all those excellent Qualities you meet with in those
beautiful People, I am however very glad that Love prepossesses your
Heart to my advantage: And I need not tell you, _Damon_, that a true
Lover ought to persuade himself, that all other Objects ought to give
place to her, for whom his Heart sighs--But see, my _Cupid_ tells
you ‘tis One o’.lock, and that you ought not to be longer from your
Apartment; where, while you are undressing, I will give you leave to
say to your self--

                              The Regret.

    _Alas! and must the Sun decline,_
      _Before it have inform’d my Eyes_
    _Of all that’s glorious, all that’s fine,_
      _Of all I sigh for, all I prize?_
    _How joyful were those happy Days,_
    _When_ Iris _spread her charming Rays,_
    _Did my unwearied Heart inspire_
    _With never-ceasing awful Fire,_
    _And e’ery Minute gave me new Desire!_
    _But now, alas! all dead and pale,_
      _Like Flow’rs that wither in the Shade:_
    _Where no kind Sun-beams can prevail,_
      _To raise its cold and fading Head,_
      _I sink into my useless Bed._
    _I grasp the senseless Pillow as I lie;_
    _A thousand times, in vain, I sighing cry,_
    _Ah! wou’d to Heaven my_ Iris _were as nigh._


ONE o’.LOCK.

                     _Impossibility to Sleep._

You have been up long enough; and _Cupid_, who takes care of your
Health, tells you, ‘tis time for you to go to bed. Perhaps you may not
sleep as soon as you are laid, and possibly you may pass an Hour in
Bed, before you shut your Eyes. In this impossibility of sleeping, I
think it very proper for you to imagine what I am doing where I am.
Let your Fancy take a little Journey then, invisible, to observe my
Actions and my Conduct. You will find me sitting alone in my Cabinet
(for I am one that do not love to go to bed early) and will find me
very uneasy and pensive, pleas’d with none of those things that so
well entertain others. I shun all Conversation, as far as Civility
will allow, and find no Satisfaction like being alone, where my
Soul may, without interruption, converse with _Damon_. I sigh, and
sometimes you will see my Cheeks wet with Tears, that insensibly
glide down at a thousand Thoughts that present themselves soft and
afflicting. I partake of all your Inquietude. On other things I
think with indifference, if ever my Thoughts do stray from the more
agreeable Object. I find, however, a little Sweetness in this Thought,
that, during my Absence, your Heart thinks of me, when mine sighs
for you. Perhaps I am mistaken, and that at the same time that you
are the Entertainment of all my Thoughts, I am no more in yours; and
perhaps you are thinking of those things that immortalize the Young
and Brave, either by those Glories the Muses flatter you with, or
that of _Bellona_, and the God of War; and serving now a Monarch,
whose glorious Acts in Arms has out-gone all the feign’d and real
Heroes of any Age, who has, himself, out-done whatever History can
produce of great and brave, and set so illustrious an Example to the
Under-World, that it is not impossible, as much a Lover as you are,
but you are thinking now how to render your self worthy the Glory of
such a God-like Master, by projecting a thousand things of Gallantry
and Danger. And tho’, I confess, such Thoughts are proper for your
Youth, your Quality, and the Place you have the honour to hold under
our Sovereign, yet let me tell you, _Damon_, you will not be without
Inquietude, if you think of either being a delicate Poet, or a brave
Warrior; for _Love_ will still interrupt your Glory, however you may
think to divert him either by writing or fighting. And you ought to
remember these Verses:

                            Love and Glory.

    _Beneath the kind protecting Laurel’s shade,_
    _For sighing Lovers, and for Warriors made,_
    _The soft_ Adonis, _and rough_ Mars _were laid._

    _Both were design’d to take their Rest;_
    _But_ Love _the gentle Boy opprest,_
    _And false Alarms shook the stern Heroe’s Breast._

    _This thinks to soften all his Toils of War,_
    _In the dear Arms of the obliging Fair;_
    _And that, by Hunting, to divert his Care._

    _All Day, o’er Hills and Plains, wild Beasts he chas’d,_
    _Swift as the flying Winds, his eager haste;_
    _In vain, the God of Love pursues as fast._

    _But oh! no Sports, no Toils, divertive prove,_
    _The Evening still returns him to the Grove,_
    _To sigh and languish for the Queen of Love:_

    _Where Elegies and Sonnets he does frame,_
    _And to the list’ning Echoes sighs her Name,_
    _And on the Trees carves Records of his Flame._

    _The Warrior in the dusty Camp all day_
    _With rattling Drums and Trumpets, does essay_
    _To fright the tender flatt’ring God away._

    _But still, alas, in vain: whate’er Delight,_
    _What Cares he takes the wanton Boy to fright,_
    Love _still revenges it at night._

    _’.is then he haunts the Royal Tent,_
    _The sleeping Hours in Sighs are spent,_
    _And all his Resolutions does prevent._

    _In all his Pains,_ Love _mixt his Smart;_
    _In every Wound he feels a Dart;_
    _And the soft God is trembling in his Heart._

    _Then he retires to shady Groves,_
    _And there, in vain, he seeks Repose,_
    _And strives to fly from what he cannot lose._

    _While thus he lay,_ Bellona _came,_
    _And with a gen’rous fierce Disdain,_
    _Upbraids him with his feeble Flame._

    _Arise, the World’s great Terror, and their Care;_
    _Behold the glitt’ring Host from far,_
    _That waits the Conduct of the God of War._

    _Beneath these glorious Laurels, which were made_
    _To crown the noble Victor’s Head,_
    _Why thus supinely art thou laid?_

    _Why on that Face, where awful Terror grew,_
    _Thy Sun-parch’d Cheeks why do I view_
    _The shining Tracks of falling Tears bedew?_

    _What God has wrought these universal Harms?_
    _What fatal Nymph, what fatal Charms,_
    _Has made the Heroe deaf to War’s Alarms?_

    _Now let the conqu’ring Ensigns up be furl’d:_
    _Learn to be gay, be soft, and curl’d;_
    _And idle, lose the Empire of the World._

    _In fond effeminate Delights go on;_
    _Lose all the Glories you have won:_
    _Bravely resolve to love, and be undone._

    _’.is thus the martial Virgin pleads;_
    _Thus she the am’rous God persuades_
    _To fly from_ Venus, _and the flow’ry Meads._

You see here that Poets and Warriors are oftentimes in affliction, even
under the Shades of their protecting Laurels; and let the Nymphs and
Virgins sing what they please to their memory, under the Myrtles, and
on flowery Beds, they are much better Days than in the Campagne. Nor
do the Crowns of Glory surpass those of Love: The first is but an empty
Name, which is won, kept and lost with Hazard; but Love more nobly
employs a brave Soul, and all his Pleasures are solid and lasting; and
when one has a worthy Object of one’s Flame, Glory accompanies Love
too. But go to sleep, the Hour is come; and ‘tis now that your Soul
ought to be entertain’d in Dreams.


TWO o’.LOCK.

                     _Conversation in Dreams._

I doubt not but you will think it very bold and arbitrary, that my
_Watch_ should pretend to rule even your sleeping Hours, and that
my _Cupid_ should govern your very Dreams; which are but Thoughts
disordered, in which Reason has no part; Chimera’s of the Imagination,
and no more. But tho’ my _Watch_ does not pretend to Counsel
unreasonably, yet you must allow it here, if not to pass the Bounds, at
least to advance to the utmost Limits of it. I am assur’d, that after
having thought so much of me in the Day, you will think of me also in
the Night. And the first Dream my _Watch_ permits you to make, is to
think you are in Conversation with me.

Imagine, _Damon_, that you are talking to me of your Passion, with all
the Transport of a Lover, and that I hear you with Satisfaction; that
all my Looks and Blushes, while you are speaking, give you new Hopes
and Assurances; that you are not indifferent to me; and that I give you
a thousand Testimonies of my Tenderness, all innocent and obliging.

While you are saying all that Love can dictate, all that Wit and good
Manners can invent, and all that I wish to hear from _Damon_, believe
in this Dream, all flattering and dear, that after having shewed me the
Ardour of your Flame, I confess to you the Bottom of my Heart, and all
the loving Secrets there; that I give you Sigh for Sigh, Tenderness
for Tenderness, Heart for Heart, and Pleasure for Pleasure. And I would
have your Sense of this Dream so perfect, and your Joy so entire, that
if it happen you should awake with the Satisfaction of this Dream, you
should find your Heart still panting with the soft Pleasure of the dear
deceiving Transport, and you should be ready to cry out,

    _Ah! how sweet it is to dream,_
    _When charming_ Iris _is the Theme!_

For such, I wish, my _Damon_, your sleeping and your waking Thoughts
should render me to your Heart.


THREE o’.LOCK.

                _Capricious Suffering in Dreams._

It is but just to mix a little Chagrin with these Pleasures, a little
Bitter with your Sweet; you may be cloy’d with too long an Imagination
of my Favours: and I will have your Fancy in Dreams represent me to it,
as the most capricious Maid in the World. I know, here you will accuse
my _Watch_, and blame me with unnecessary Cruelty, as you will call it:
but Lovers have their little Ends, their little Advantages, to pursue
by Methods wholly unaccountable to all, but that Heart which contrives
’.m: And, as good a Lover as I believe you, you will not enter into my
Design at first sight; and tho’, on reasonable Thoughts, you will be
satisfied with this Conduct of mine, at its first Approach you will be
ready to cry out--

                             The Request.

    _Oh_ Iris! _let my sleeping Hours be fraught_
    _With Joys, which you deny my waking Thought._
    _Is’t not enough you absent are?_
      _Is’t not enough I sigh all day,_
    _And lanquish out my Life in Care,_
      _To e’ery Passion made a Prey?_
    _I burn with Love, and soft Desire;_
      _I rave with Jealousy and Fear:_
    _All Day, for Ease, my Soul I tire;_
      _In vain I search it ev’ry where:_
    _It dwells not with the Witty or the Fair._

    _It is not in the Camp or Court,_
    _In Business, Musick, or in Sport;_
    _The Plays, the Park, and Mall afford_
    _No more than the dull Basset-board._
    _The Beauties in the Drawing-room,_
    _With all their Sweetness, all their Bloom,_
    _No more my faithful Eyes invite,_
      _Nor rob my_ Iris _of a Sigh or Glance,_
    _Unless soft Thoughts of her incite_
      _A Smile, or trivial Complaisance._
    _Then since my Days so anxious prove,_
      _Ah, cruel Tyrant! give_
    _A little Loose to Joys in Love,_
    _And let your_ Damon _live._

    _Let him in Dreams be happy made,_
      _And let his Sleep some Bliss provide:_
    _The nicest Maid may yield in Night’s dark shade,_
      _What she so long by Day-light had deny’d._
    _There let me think you present are,_
    _And court my Pillow for my Fair._
    _There let me find you kind, and that you give_
    _All that a Man of Honour dares receive._
    _And may my Eyes eternal Watches keep,_
    _Rather than want that Pleasure when I sleep._

Some such Complaint as this I know you will make; but, _Damon_, if the
little Quarrels of Lovers render the reconciling Moments so infinitely
charming, you must needs allow, that these little Chagrin in capricious
Dreams must awaken you to more Joy to find ‘em but Dreams, than if
you had met with no Disorder there. ‘Tis for this reason that I would
have you suffer a little Pain for a coming Pleasure; nor, indeed is
it possible for you to escape the Dreams my _Cupid_ points you out.
You shall dream that I have a thousand _Foibles_, something of the
lightness of my Sex; that my Soul is employ’d in a thousand Vanities;
that (proud and fond of Lovers) I make advances for the Glory of a
Slave, without any other Interest or Design than that of being ador’d.
I will give you leave to think my Heart fickle, and that, far from
resigning it to any one, I lend it only for a Day, or an Hour, and take
it back at pleasure; that I am a very _Coquet_, even to Impertinence.

All this I give you leave to think, and to offend me: but ‘tis in sleep
only that I permit it; for I would never pardon you the least Offence
of this nature, if in any other Kind than in a Dream. Nor is it enough
Affliction to you, to imagine me thus idly vain; but you are to pass
on to a hundred more capricious Humours: as that I exact of you a
hundred unjust Things; that I pretend you should break off with all
your Friends, and for the future have none at all; that I will myself
do those Things, which I violently condemn in you; and that I will have
for others, as well as you, that tender Friendship that resembles Love,
or rather that Love which People call Friendship; and that I will not,
after all, have you dare complain on me.

In fine, be as ingenious as you please to torment your self; and
believe, that I am become unjust, ungrateful, and insensible: But were
I so indeed, O _Damon_! consider your awaking Heart, and tell me, would
your Love stand the proof of all these Faults in me? But know, that I
would have you believe I have none of these Weaknesses, tho’ I am not
wholly without Faults, but those will be excusable to a Lover; and this
Notion I have of a perfect one:

    _Whate’er fantastick Humours rule the Fair,_
    _She’s still the Lover’s Dotage, and his Care._


FOUR o’.LOCK.

                      _Jealousy in Dreams_.

Do not think, _Damon_, to wake yet; for I design you shall yet suffer a
little more: Jealousy must now possess you, that Tyrant over the Heart,
that compels your very Reason, and seduces all your Good-Nature. And
in this Dream you must believe That in sleeping, which you could not
do me the injustice to do when awake. And here you must explain all my
Actions to the utmost disadvantage: Nay, I will wish, that the Force
of this Jealousy may be so extreme, that it may make you languish in
Grief, and be overcome with Anger.

You shall now imagine, that one of your Rivals is with me, interrupting
all you say, or hindering all you would say; that I have no Attention
to what you say aloud to me, but that I incline mine Ear to hearken
to all that he whispers to me. You shall repine, that he pursues me
every where, and is eternally at your heels if you approach me; that
I caress him with Sweetness in my Eyes, and that Vanity in my Heart,
that possesses the Humours of almost all the Fair; that is, to believe
it greatly for my Glory to have abundance of Rivals for my Lovers. I
know you love me too well not to be extreamely uneasy in the Company of
a Rival, and to have one perpetually near me; for let him be belov’d
or not by the Mistress, it must be confess’d, a Rival is a very
troublesome Person. But, to afflict you to the utmost, I will have you
imagine that my Eyes approve of all his Thoughts; that they flatter him
with Hopes; and that I have taken away my Heart from you, to make a
Present of it to this more lucky Man. You shall suffer, while possess’d
with this Dream, all that a cruel Jealousy can make a tender Soul
suffer.

                             The Torment.

    _O Jealousy! thou Passion most ingrate!_
    _Tormenting as Despair, envious as Hate!_
    _Spightful as Witchcraft, which th’ Invoker harms;_
    _Worse than the Wretch that suffers by its Charms._
    _Thou subtil Poison in the Fancy bred,_                            }
    _Diffus’d thro’ every Vein, the Heart and Head,_                   }
    _And over all, like wild Contagion spread._                        }
    _Thou, whose sole Property is to destroy,_
    _Thou Opposite to Good, Antipathy to Joy;_
    _Whose Attributes are cruel Rage and Fire,_
    _Reason debauch’d, false Sense, and mad Desire._

In fine, it is a Passion that ruffles all the Senses, and disorders
the whole Frame of Nature. It makes one hear and see what was never
spoke, and what never was in view. ‘Tis the Bane of Health and Beauty,
an unmannerly Intruder; and an Evil of Life worse than Death. She is
a very cruel Tyrant in the Heart; she possesses and pierces it with
infinite Unquiets; and we may lay it down as a certain Maxim--

    _She that wou’d rack a Lover’s Heart_
      _To the extent of Cruelty,_
    _Must his Tranquillity subvert_
      _To the most tort’ring Jealousy._

I speak too sensibly of this Passion, not to have lov’d well enough to
have been touch’d with it: And you shall be this unhappy Lover _Damon_,
during this Dream, in which nothing shall present it self to your
tumultuous Thoughts, that shall not bring its Pain. You shall here pass
and repass a hundred Designs, that shall confound one another. In fine,
_Damon_, Anger, Hatred, and Revenge, shall surround your Heart.

    _There they shall all together reign_
    _With mighty Force, with mighty Pain;_
    _In spight of Reason, in contempt of Love:_
    _Sometimes by turns, sometimes united move._


FIVE o’.LOCK.

                      _Quarrels in Dreams._

I perceive you are not able to suffer all this Injustice, nor can I
permit it any longer: and tho’ you commit no Crime yourself, yet you
believe in this Dream, that I complain of the Injuries you do my Fame;
and that I am extreamely angry with a Jealousy so prejudicial to my
Honour. Upon this belief you accuse me of Weakness; you resolve to
see me no more, and are making a thousand feeble Vows against Love.
You esteem me as a false one, and resolve to cease loving the vain
_Coquet_, and will say to me, as a certain Friend of yours said to his
false Mistress:

                            The Inconstant.

      _Tho’., Silvia, _you are very fair,_
        _Yet disagreeable to me;_
      _And since you so inconstant are,_
        _Your Beauty’s damn’d with Levity._
    _Your Wit, your most offensive Arms,_
    _For want of Judgment, wants its Charms._

      _To every Lover that is new,_
        _All new and charming you surprize;_
      _But when your fickle Mind they view,_
        _They shun the danger of your Eyes._
    _Should you a Miracle of Beauty show,_
    _Yet you’re inconstant, and will still be so._

’.is thus you will think of me: And in fine, _Damon_, during this
Dream, we are in perpetual State of War.

    _Thus both resolve to break their Chain,_
    _And think to do’t without much Pain,_
    _But Oh! alas! we strive in vain._

    _For Lovers, of themselves, can nothing do;_
    _There must be the Consent of two:_
    _You give it me, and I must give it you._

And if we shall never be free, till we acquit one another, this Tye
between you and I, _Damon_, is likely to last as long as we live;
therefore in vain you endeavour, but can never attain your End; and in
conclusion you will say, in thinking of me:

    _Oh! how at ease my Heart would live,_
    _Could I renounce this Fugitive;_
    _This dear, but false, attracting Maid,_
    _That has her Vows and Faith betray’d!_
    _Reason would have it so, but Love_
    _Dares not the dang’rous Tryal prove._

Do not be angry then, for this afflicting Hour is drawing to an end,
and you ought not to despair of coming into my absolute Favour again,

    _Then do not let your murm’ring Heart,_
    _Against my Int’rest, take your part._
    _The Feud was rais’d by Dreams, all false and vain,_
    _And the next Sleep shall reconcile again._


SIX o’.LOCK.

                    _Accommodation in Dreams._

Tho’ the angry Lovers force themselves, all they can, to chase away the
troublesom Tenderness of the Heart, in the height of their Quarrels,
Love sees all their Sufferings, pities and redresses ‘em: And when
we begin to cool, and a soft Repentance follows the Chagrin of the
Love-Quarrel, ‘tis then that Love takes the advantage of both Hearts,
and renews the charming Friendship more forcibly than ever, puts a
stop to all our Feuds, and renders the peace-making Minutes the most
dear and tender part of our Life. How pleasing ‘tis to see your Rage
dissolve! How sweet, how soft is every Word that pleads for pardon at
my Feet! ‘Tis there that you tell me, your very Sufferings are over
paid, when I but assure you from my Eyes, that I will forget your
Crime: And your Imagination shall here present me the most sensible of
your past Pain, that you can wish; and that all my Anger being vanisht,
I give you a thousand Marks of my Faith and Gratitude; and lastly, to
crown all, that we again make new Vows to one another of inviolable
Peace:

    _After these Debates of Love,_
    _Lovers thousand Pleasures prove,_
    _Which they ever think to taste,_
    _Tho’ oftentimes they do not last._

Enjoy then all the Pleasures that a Heart that is very amorous, and
very tender, can enjoy. Think no more on those Inquietudes that you
have suffer’d; bless _Love_ for his Favours, and thank me for my
Graces: and resolve to endure any thing, rather than enter upon any new
Quarrels. And however dear the reconciling Moments are, there proceeds
a great deal of Evil from these little frequent Quarrels; and I think
the best Counsel we can follow, is to avoid ‘em as near as we can:
And if we cannot, but that, in spite of Love and good Understanding,
they should break out, we ought to make as speedy a Peace as possible;
for ‘tis not good to grate the Heart too long, lest it grow harden’d
insensibly, and lose its native Temper. A few Quarrels there must be
in Love: Love cannot support it self without ‘em: and, besides the Joy
of an Accommodation, Love becomes by it more strongly united, and more
charming. Therefore let the Lover receive this as a certain Receipt
against declining Love:

                           Love reconcil’d.

    _He that would have the Passion be_
      _Entire between the am’rous Pair,_
    _Let not the little Feuds of Jealousy_
      _Be carry’d on to a Despair:_
    _That palls the Pleasure he would raise;_
    _The Fire that he would blow, allays._

    _When Understandings false arise,_
      _When misinterpreted your Thought,_
    _If false Conjectures of your Smiles and Eyes_
      _Be up to baneful Quarrels wrought;_
    _Let Love the kind Occasion take,_
    _And straight Accommodations make._

    _The sullen Lover, long unkind,_
      _Ill-natur’d, hard to reconcile,_
    _Loses the Heart he had inclin’d;_
      _Love cannot undergo long Toil;_
    _He’s soft and sweet, not born to bear_
    _The rough Fatigues of painful War._


SEVEN o’.LOCK.

                         _Divers Dreams._

Behold, _Damon_, the last Hour of your Sleep, and of my _Watch_. She
leaves you at Liberty now, and you may chuse your Dreams: Trust ‘em
to your Imaginations, give a Loose to Fancy, and let it rove at will,
provided, _Damon_, it be always guided by a respectful _Love_. For
thus far I pretend to give bounds to your Imagination, and will not
have it pass beyond ‘em: Take heed, in sleeping, you give no ear to a
flatt’ring _Cupid_, that will favour your slumb’ring Minutes with Lyes
too pleasing and vain: You are discreet enough when you are awake; will
you not be so in Dreams?

_Damon_, awake; my _Watch’s_ Course is done: after this, you cannot be
ignorant of what you ought to do during my Absence. I did not believe
it necessary to caution you about Balls and Comedies; you know, a
Lover depriv’d of his Mistress, goes seldom there. But if you cannot
handsomely avoid these Diversions, I am not so unjust a Mistress, to
be angry with you for it; go, if Civility, or other Duties oblige you:
I will only forbid you, in consideration of me, not to be too much
satisfy’d with those Pleasures; but see ‘em so, as the World may have
reason to say, you do not seek them, you do not make a Business or
Pleasure of them; and that ‘tis Complaisance, and not Inclination, that
carries you thither. Seem rather negligent than concern’d at any thing
there; and let every part of you say, Iris _is not here_--

I say nothing to you neither of your Duty elsewhere; I am satisfy’d you
know it too well; and have too great a Veneration for your glorious
Master, to neglect any part of that for even Love it self. And I very
well know how much you love to be eternally near his illustrious
Person; and that you scarce prefer your Mistress before him, in point
of Love: In all things else, I give him leave to take place of _Iris_
in the noble Heart of _Damon_.

I am satisfy’d you pass your time well now at _Windsor_, for you adore
that Place; and ‘tis not, indeed, without great reason: for ‘tis most
certainly now render’d the most glorious Palace in the Christian World.
And had our late Gracious Sovereign, of blessed Memory, had no other
Miracles and Wonders of his Life and Reign to have immortaliz’d his
Fame (of which there shall remain a thousand to Posterity) this noble
Structure alone, this Building (almost Divine) would have eterniz’d
the great Name of Glorious _Charles_ II. till the World moulder again
to its old Confusion, its first _Chaos_. And the Paintings of the
famous _Varrio_, and noble Carvings of the unimitable _Gibbon_, shall
never die, but remain to tell succeeding Ages, that all Arts and
Learning were not confin’d to antient _Rome_ and _Greece_, but that
_England_ too could boast its mightiest Share. Nor is the Inside of
this magnificent Structure, immortaliz’d with so many eternal Images of
the illustrious _Charles_ and _Katharine_, more to be admired than the
wondrous Prospects without. The stupendous Heighth, on which the famous
Pile is built, renders the Fields, and flowery Meads below, the Woods,
the Thickets, and the winding Streams, the most delightful Object that
ever Nature produc’d. Beyond all these, and far below, in an inviting
Vale, the venerable College, an old, but noble Building, raises it
self, in the midst of all the Beauties of Nature, high-grown Trees,
fruitful Plains, purling Rivulets, and spacious Gardens, adorn’d with
all Variety of Sweets that can delight the Senses.

At farther distance yet, on an Ascent almost as high as that to the
Royal Structure, you may behold the famous and noble _Clifdon_ rise,
a Palace erected by the illustrious Duke of _Buckingham_, who will
leave this wondrous Piece of Architecture, to inform the future World
of the Greatness and Delicacy of his Mind; it being for its Situation,
its Prospects, and its marvellous Contrivances, one of the finest
_Villa’s_ of the World; at least, were it finish’d as begun; and would
sufficiently declare the magnifick Soul of the Hero that caus’d it to
be built, and contriv’d all its Fineness. And this makes up not the
least part of the beautiful Prospect from the Palace Royal, while on
the other side lies spread a fruitful and delightful Park and Forest
well stor’d with Deer, and all that makes the Prospect charming; fine
Walks, Groves, distant Valleys, Downs and Hills, and all that Nature
could invent, to furnish out a quiet soft Retreat for the most fair and
most charming of Queens, and the most Heroick, Good, and Just of Kings:
And these Groves alone are fit and worthy to divert such earthly Gods.

Nor can Heaven, Nature, or human Art contrive an Addition to this
earthly Paradise, unless those great Inventors of the Age, Sir _Samuel
Morland_, or Sir _Robert Gorden_, cou’d by the power of Engines, convey
the Water so into the Park and Castle, as to furnish it with delightful
Fountains, both useful and beautiful. These are only wanting, to render
the Place all Perfection, and without Exception.

This, _Damon_, is a long Digression from the Business of my Heart;
but, you know I am so in love with that charming Court, that when
you gave me an occasion, by your being there now, but to name the
Place, I could not forbear transgressing a little, in favour of its
wondrous Beauty; and the rather, because I would, in recounting it,
give you to understand how many fine Objects there are, besides the
Ladies that adorn it, to employ your vacant Moments in; and I hope you
will, without my Instructions, pass a great part of your idle time in
surveying these Prospects, and give that Admiration you should pay to
living Beauty, to those more venerable Monuments of everlasting Fame.

Neither need I, _Damon_, assign you your waiting Times: your Honour,
Duty, Love, and Obedience, will instruct you when to be near the Person
of the King; and, I believe, you will omit no part of that Devoir. You
ought to establish your Fortune and your Glory: for I am not of the
mind of those critical Lovers, who believe it a very hard matter to
reconcile Love and Interest, to adore a Mistress, and serve a Master at
the same Time. And I have heard those, who on this Subject, say, _Let
a Man be never so careful in these double Duties, ‘tis ten to one but
he loses his Fortune or his Mistress_. These are Errors that I condemn:
And I know that Love and Ambition are not incompatible, but that a
brave Man may preserve all his Duties to his Sovereign, and his Passion
and his Respect for his Mistress. And this is my Notion of it.

                          Love and Ambition.

    _The nobler Lover, who would prove_
      _Uncommon in Address,_
    _Let him Ambition join with Love;_
      _With Glory, Tenderness:_
    _But let the Virtues so be mixt,_
      _That when to Love he goes,_
    _Ambition may not come betwixt,_
      _Nor Love his Power oppose._

    _The vacant Hours from softer Sport,_
    _Let him give up to Int’rest and the Court._

    _’.is Honour shall his Bus’ness be,_
      _And Love his noblest Play:_
    _Those two should never disagree,_
      _For both make either gay._
    _Love without Honour were too mean_
      _For any gallant Heart;_
    _And Honour singly, but a Dream,_
      _Where Love must have no Part._
    _A Flame like this you cannot fear,_
    _Where Glory claims an equal Share._

Such a Passion, _Damon_, can never make you quit any Part of your Duty
to your Prince. And the Monarch you serve is so gallant a Master, that
the Inclination you have to his Person obliges you to serve him, as
much as your Duty; for _Damon’s_ loyal Soul loves the Man, and adores
the Monarch: for he is certainly all that compels both, by a charming
Force and Goodness, from all Mankind.

                               The KING.

      _Darling of_ Mars! Bellona’s _Care!_
      _The second Deity of War!_
      _Delight of Heaven, and Joy of Earth!_
      _Born for great and wondrous things,_
        _Destin’d at his auspicious Birth_
    _T’ out-do the num’rous Race of long-past Kings._
      _Best Representative of Heaven,_
    _To whom its chiefest Attributes are given!_
      _Great, Pious, Stedfast, Just, and Brave!_
      _To Vengeance slow, but swift to save!_
      _Dispensing Mercy all abroad!_
      _Soft and forgiving as a God!_

    _Thou saving Angel who preserv’st the Land_
    _From the just Rage of the avenging Hand;_
    _Stopt the dire Plague, that o’er the Earth was hurl’d,_
      _And sheathing thy Almighty Sword,_
    _Calm’d the wild Fears of a distracted World,_
    _(As Heaven first made it) with a sacred Word!_

But I will stop the low Flight of my humble Muse, who when she is
upon the wing, on this glorious Subject, knows no Bounds. And all the
World has agreed to say so much of the Virtues and Wonders of this
great Monarch, that they have left me nothing new to say; tho’ indeed
he every Day gives us new Themes of his growing Greatness, and we see
nothing that equals him in our Age. Oh! how happy are we to obey his
Laws; for he is the greatest of Kings, and the best of Men!

You will be very unjust, _Damon_, if you do not confess I have
acquitted my self like a Maid of Honour, of all the Obligations I owe
you, upon the account of the _Discretion_ I lost to you. If it be not
valuable enough, I am generous enough to make it good: And since I am
so willing to be just, you ought to esteem me, and to make it your
chiefest Care to preserve me yours; for I believe I shall deserve it,
and wish you should believe so too. Remember me, write to me, and
observe punctually all the Motions of my _Watch_: The more you regard
it, the better you will like it; and whatever you think of it at first
sight, ‘tis no ill Present. The Invention is soft and gallant; and
_Germany_, so celebrated for rare _Watches_, can produce nothing to
equal this.

    Damon, _my_ Watch _is just and new;_                               }
    _And all a Lover ought to do,_                                     }
    _My_ Cupid _faithfully will shew._                                 }
    _And ev’ry Hour he renders there,_
    _Except_ l’heure du Bergere.


The CASE for the WATCH.


DAMON _to_ IRIS.

Expect not, Oh charming _Iris_! that I should chuse Words to thank
you in; (Words, that least Part of Love, and least the Business of
the Lover) but will say all, and every thing that a tender Heart can
dictate, to make an Acknowledgment for so dear and precious a Present
as this of your charming _Watch_: while all I can say will but too
dully express my Sense of Gratitude, my Joy, and the Pleasure I receive
in the mighty Favour. I confess the Present too rich, too gay, and too
magnificent for my Expectation: and tho’ my Love and Faith deserve
it, yet my humbler Hope never durst carry me to a Wish of so great a
Bliss, so great an Acknowledgment from the Maid I adore. The Materials
are glorious, the Work delicate, and the Movement just, and even gives
Rules to my Heart, who shall observe very exactly all that the _Cupid_
remarks to me; even to the Minutes, which I will point with Sighs, tho’
I am obliged to ‘em there but every half Hour.

You tell me, fair _Iris_, that I ought to preserve it tenderly, and yet
you have sent it me without a Case. But that I may obey you justly,
and keep it dear to me, as long as I live, I will give it a Case of
my Fashion: It shall be delicate, and suitable to the fine Present;
of such Materials too. But because I would have it perfect, I will
consult your admirable Wit and Invention in an Affair of so curious a
Consequence.


_The_ FIGURE _of the_ CASE.

I design to give it the Figure of the Heart. Does not your _Watch_,
_Iris_, rule the Heart? It was your Heart that contrived it, and ‘twas
your Heart you consulted in all the Management of it; and ‘twas your
Heart that brought it to so fine a Conclusion. The Heart never acts
without Reason, and all the Heart projects, it performs with Pleasure.

Your _Watch_, my lovely Maid, has explain’d to me a World of rich
Secrets of Love: And where should Thoughts so sacred be stored, but in
the Heart, where all the Secrets of the Soul are treasur’d up, and of
which only _Love_ alone can take a view? ‘Tis thence he takes his Sighs
and Tears, and all his little Flatteries and Arts to please; all his
fine Thoughts, and all his mighty Raptures; nothing is so proper as the
Heart to preserve it, nothing so worthy as the Heart to contain it:
and it concerns my Interest too much, not to be infinitely careful of
so dear a Treasure: And believe me, charming _Iris_, I will never part
with it.

                              The Votary.

      _Fair Goddess of my just Desire,_
      _Inspirer of my softest Fire!_
      _Since you, from out the num’rous Throng_
      _That to your Altars do belong,_
    _To me the Sacred Myst’ry have reveal’d,_
    _From all my Rival-Worshippers conceal’d;_
      _And toucht my Soul with heav’nly Fire,_
      _Refin’d it from its grosser Sense,_
    _And wrought it to a higher Excellence;_
      _It can no more return to Earth,_
      _Like things that thence receive their Birth;_
      _But still aspiring, upward move,_
    _And teach the World new Flights of Love;_
      _New Arts of Secrecy shall learn,_
    _And render Youth discreet in Love’s Concern._

    _In his soft Heart, to hide the charming things_
      _A Mistress whispers to his Ear;_
      _And e’ery tender Sigh she brings,_
      _Mix with his Soul, and hide it there._
    _To bear himself so well in Company,_
      _That if his Mistress present be,_
      _It may be thought by all the Fair,_
      _Each in his Heart does claim a Share,_
      _And all are more belov’d than she._
    _But when with the dear Maid apart,_
      _Then at her Feet the Lover lies;_
    _Opens his Soul, shews all his Heart,_
      _While Joy is dancing in his Eyes._
    _Then all that Honour may, or take, or give,_
      _They both distribute, both receive._
    _A Looker-on wou’d spoil a Lover’s Joy;_
    _For Love’s a Game where only two can play._
      _And ‘tis the hardest of Love’s Mysteries,_
    _To feign Love where it is not, hide it where it is._

After having told you, my lovely _Iris_, that I design to put your
_Watch_ into a Heart, I ought to shew you the Ornaments of the Case.
I do intend to have ‘em crown’d Cyphers: I do not mean those Crowns
of Vanity, which are put indifferently on all sorts of Cyphers; no, I
must have such as may distinguish mine from the rest, and may be true
Emblems of what I would represent. My four Cyphers therefore shall be
crown’d with these four Wreaths, of Olive, Laurel, Myrtle, and Roses:
and the Letters that begin the Names of _Iris_ and _Damon_ shall
compose the Cyphers; tho’ I must intermix some other Letters that bear
another Sense, and have another Signification.


_The First_ CYPHER.

The first Cypher is compos’d of an _I_ and a _D_, which are join’d by
an _L_ and an _E_; which signifies _Love Extreme_. And ‘tis but just,
Oh adorable _Iris_! that Love should be mixt with our Cyphers, and that
Love alone should be the Union of ‘em.

    _Love ought alone the Mystick Knot to tie;_
      _Love, that great Master of all Arts:_
    _And this dear_ Cypher _is to let you see,_
      _Love unites Names as well as Hearts._

Without this charming Union, our Souls could not communicate those
invisible Sweetnesses, which compleat the Felicity of Lovers, and
which the most tender and passionate Expressions are too feeble to
make us comprehend. But, my adorable _Iris_, I am contented with the
vast Pleasure I feel in loving well, without the care of expressing it
well; if you will imagine my Pleasure, without expressing it: For I
confess, ‘twould be no Joy to me to adore you, if you did not perfectly
believe I did adore you. Nay, tho’ you lov’d me, if you had no Faith
in me, I should languish, and love in as much Pain, as if you scorn’d;
and at the same time believ’d I dy’d for you: For surely, _Iris_, ‘tis
a greater Pleasure to please than to be pleas’d; and the glorious
Power of Giving is infinitely a greater Satisfaction, than that of
Receiving: there is so Great and God-like a Quality in it. I would have
your Belief therefore equal to my Passion, extreme; as indeed all Love
should be, or it cannot bear that Divine Name: it can pass but for an
indifferent Affection. And these Cyphers ought to make the World find
all the noble Force of delicate Passion: for, Oh my _Iris_! what would
Love signify, if we did not love fervently? Sisters and Brothers love;
Friends and Relations have Affections: but where the Souls are join’d,
which are fill’d with eternal soft Wishes, Oh! there is some Excess of
Pleasure, which cannot be express’d!

Your Looks, your dear obliging Words, and your charming Letters, have
sufficiently persuaded me of your Tenderness; and you might surely see
the Excess of my Passion by my Cares, my Sighs, and entire Resignation
to your Will. I never think of _Iris_, but my Heart feels double
Flames, and pants and heaves with double Sighs; and whose Force makes
its Ardours known, by a thousand Transports: And they are very much
to blame, to give the Name of Love to feeble easy Passions. Such
transitory tranquil Inclinations are at best but Well-wishers to Love;
and a Heart that has such Heats as those, ought not to put it self
into the Rank of those nobler Victims that are offer’d at the Shrine
of Love. But our Souls, _Iris_, burn with a more glorious Flame, that
lights and conducts us beyond a Possibility of losing one another.
’.is this that flatters all my Hopes; ‘tis this alone makes me believe
my self worthy of _Iris_: And let her judge of its Violence, by the
Greatness of its Splendour.

Does not a Passion of this nature, so true, so ardent, deserve to be
crown’d? And will you wonder to see, over this Cypher, a Wreath of
Myrtles, those Boughs so sacred to the Queen of Love, and so worshipp’d
by Lovers? ‘Tis with these soft Wreaths, that those are crown’d, who
understand how to love well and faithfully.

    _The Smiles, the Graces, and the Sports,_
    _That in the Secret Groves maintain their Courts,_
      _Are with these Myrtles crown’d:_
    _Thither the Nymphs their Garlands bring;_
    _Their Beauties and their Praises sing,_
      _While Echoes do the Songs resound._

    Love, _tho’ a God, with Myrtle Wreaths_
      _Does his soft Temples bind;_
    _More valu’d are those consecrated Leaves,_
    _Than the bright Wealth in Eastern Rocks confin’d:_
    _And Crowns of Glory less Ambition move,_
    _Than those more sacred Diadems of Love._


_The Second_ CYPHER,

Is crown’d with Olives; and I add to the two Letters of our Names an
_R_ and an _L_, for _Reciprocal Love_. Every time that I have given
you, O lovely _Iris_, Testimonies of my Passion, I have been so blest,
as to receive some from your Bounty; and you have been pleased to
flatter me with a Belief, that I was not indifferent to you. I dare
therefore say, that being honour’d with the Glory of your Tenderness
and Care, I ought, as a Trophy of my illustrious Conquest, to adorn
the _Watch_ with a Cypher that is so advantageous to me. Ought I not
to esteem my self the most fortunate and happy of Mankind, to have
exchanged my Heart with so charming and admirable a Person as _Iris_?
Ah! how sweet, how precious is the Change; and how vast a Glory arrives
to me from it! Oh! you must not wonder if my Soul abandon it self to
a thousand Extasies! In the Merchandize of Hearts, Oh, how dear it is
to receive as much as one gives; and barter Heart for Heart! Oh! I
would not receive mine again, for all the Crowns the Universe contains!
Nor ought you, my Adorable, make any Vows or Wishes, ever to retrieve
yours; or shew the least Repentance for the Blessing you have given me.
The Exchange we made, was confirm’d by a noble Faith; and you ought to
believe, you have bestow’d it well, since you are paid for it a Heart
that is so conformable to yours, so true, so just, and so full of
Adoration: And nothing can be the just Recompence of Love, but Love:
and to enjoy the true Felicity of it, our Hearts ought to keep an equal
Motion; and, like the Scales of Justice, always hang even.

’.is the Property of Reciprocal Love, to make the Heart feel the
Delicacy of Love, and to give the Lover all the Ease and Softness he
can reasonably hope. Such a Love renders all things advantageous and
prosperous: Such a Love triumphs over all other Pleasures. And I put a
Crown of Olives over the Cypher of _Reciprocal Love_, to make known,
that two Hearts, where Love is justly equal, enjoy a Peace that nothing
can disturb.

    _Olives are never fading seen;_
    _But always flourishing, and green._
      _The Emblem ‘tis of Love and Peace;_                             }
      _For Love that’s true, will never cease:_                        }
      _And Peace does Pleasure still increase._                        }
    _Joy to the World, the Peace of Kings imparts;_
    _And Peace in Love distributes it to Hearts._


_The Third_ CYPHER.

The _C_ and the _L_, which are join’d to the Letters of our Names in
this Cypher crown’d with Laurel, explains a _Constant Love_. It will
not, my fair _Iris_, suffice, that my Love is extreme, my Passion
violent, and my Wishes fervent, or that our Loves are reciprocal; but
it ought also to be constant: for in Love, the Imagination is oftner
carried to those things that may arrive, and which we wish for, than
to things that Time has robbed us of. And in those agreeable Thoughts
of Joys to come, the Heart takes more delight to wander, than in all
those that are past; tho’ the Remembrance of ‘em be very dear, and
very charming. We should be both unjust, if we were not persuaded we
are possest with a Virtue, the Use of which is so admirable as that of
Constancy. Our Loves are not of that sort that can finish, or have an
end; but such a Passion, so perfect, and so constant, that it will be
a Precedent for future Ages, to love perfectly; and when they would
express an extreme Passion, they will say, _They lov’d, as_ Damon _did
the charming_ Iris. And he that knows the Glory of constant Love, will
despise those fading Passions, those little Amusements, that serve
for a Day. What Pleasure or Dependance can one have in a Love of that
sort? What Concern? What Raptures can such an Amour produce in a Soul?
And what Satisfaction can one promise one’s self in playing with a
false Gamester; who tho’ you are aware of him, in spite of all your
Precaution, puts the false Dice upon you, and wins all?

    _Those Eyes that can no better Conquest make,_
      _Let ‘em ne’er look abroad:_
    _Such, but the empty Name of Lovers take,_
      _And so profane the God._

    _Better they never should pretend,_
    _Than, ere begun, to make an end._

    _Of that fond Flame what shall we say,_
    _That’s born and languisht in a Day?_
    _Such short-liv’d Blessings cannot bring_
    _The Pleasure of an Envying._
    _Who is’t will celebrate that Flame,_
    _That’s damn’d to such a scanty Fame?_
    _While constant Love the Nymphs and Swains_                        }
    _Still sacred make, in lasting Strains_                            }
    _And chearful Lays throughout the Plains._                         }

    _A constant Love knows no Decay:_                                  }
    _But still advancing ev’ry Day,_                                   }
    _Will last as long as Life can stay,_                              }
    _With ev’ry Look and Smile improves,_                              }
    _With the same Ardour always moves,_                               }
    _With such as_ Damon _charming_ Iris _loves!_                      }

Constant Love finds it self impossible to be shaken; it resists the
Attacks of Envy, and a thousand Accidents that endeavour to change it:
Nothing can disoblige it but a known Falseness, or Contempt: Nothing
can remove it; tho’ for a short moment it may lie sullen and resenting,
it recovers, and returns with greater Force and Joy. I therefore, with
very good reason, crown this _Cypher_ of _Constant Love_ with a Wreath
of _Laurel_; since such Love always triumphs over Time and Fortune,
tho’ it be not her Property to besiege: for she cannot overcome, but
in defending her self; but the Victories she gains are never the less
glorious.

    _For far less Conquest we have known_
    _The Victor wear the Laurel Crown._
    _The Triumph with more Pride let him receive;_
    _While those of Love, at least, more Pleasures give._


_The Fourth_ CYPHER.

Perhaps, my lovely Maid, you will not find out what I mean by the _S_
and the _L_, in this last Cypher, that is crown’d with Roses. I will
therefore tell you, I mean _Secret Love_. There are very few People
who know the Nature of that Pleasure, which so divine a Love creates:
And let me say what I will of it, they must feel it themselves, who
would rightly understand it, and all its ravishing Sweets. But this
there is a great deal of Reason to believe, that the Secrecy in Love
doubles the Pleasures of it. And I am so absolutely persuaded of this,
that I believe all those Favours that are not kept secret, are dull and
pall’d, very insipid and tasteless Pleasures: And let the Favours be
never so innocent that a Lover receives from a Mistress, she ought to
value ‘em, set a price upon ‘em, and make the Lover pay dear; while he
receives ‘em with Difficulty, and sometimes with Hazard. A Lover that
is not secret, but suffers every one to count his Sighs, has at most
but a feeble Passion, such as produces sudden and transitory Desires,
which die as soon as born: A true Love has not this Character; for
whensoever ‘tis made publick, it ceases to be a Pleasure, and is only
the Result of Vanity. Not that I expect our Loves should always remain
a Secret: No, I should never, at that rate, arrive to a Blessing,
which, above all the Glories of the Earth, I aspire to; but even then
there are a thousand Joys, a thousand Pleasures that I shall be as
careful to conceal from the foolish World, as if the whole Preservation
of that Pleasure depended on my Silence; as indeed it does in a great
measure.

To this Cypher I put a Crown of Roses, which are not Flowers of a very
lasting Date. And ‘tis to let you see, that ‘tis impossible Love can
be long hid. We see every Day, with what fine Dissimulation and Pains,
People conceal a thousand Hates and Malices, Disgusts, Disobligations,
and Resentments, without being able to conceal the least part of their
Love: but Reputation has an Odour as well as Roses; and a Lover ought
to esteem that as the dearest and tenderest thing: not only that of
his own, which is, indeed, the least part; but that of his Mistress,
more valuable to him than Life. He ought to endeavour to give People
no occasion to make false Judgments of his Actions, or to give their
Censures; which most certainly are never in the Favour of the Fair
Person: for likely, those false Censurers are of the busy Female Sex,
the _Coquets_ of that number; whose little Spites and Railleries,
join’d to that fancy’d Wit they boast of, sets ‘em at odds with all
the Beautiful and Innocent. And how very little of that kind serves
to give the World a Faith, when a thousand Virtues, told of the same
Persons, by more credible Witnesses and Judges, shall pass unregarded!
so willing and inclin’d is all the World to credit the Ill, and condemn
the Good! And yet, Oh! what pity ‘tis we are compell’d to live in Pain,
to oblige this foolish scandalous World! And tho’ we know each other’s
Virtue and Honour, we are oblig’d to observe that Caution (to humour
the talking Town) which takes away so great a part of the Pleasure of
Life! ‘Tis therefore that among those Roses, you will find some Thorns;
by which you may imagine, that in Love, Precaution is necessary to its
Secrecy: And we must restrain our selves, upon a thousand occasions,
with so much Care, that, Oh _Iris_! ‘tis impossible to be discreet,
without Pain; but ‘tis a Pain that creates a thousand Pleasures.

    _Where should a Lover hide his Joys,_
    _Free from Malice, free from Noise;_
      _Where no Envy can intrude;_
        _Where no busy Rival’s Spy,_
      _Made, by Disappointment, rude,_
        _May inform his Jealousy?_
    _The Heart will the best Refuge prove;_
    _Which Nature meant the Cabinet of Love._
    _What would a Lover not endure,_
    _His Mistress’ Fame and Honour to secure?_
    Iris, _the Care we take to be discreet,_
    _Is the dear Toil that makes the Pleasure sweet:_
    _The Thorn that does the Wealth inclose,_
    _That with less saucy Freedom we may touch the Rose._


_The_ CLASP _of the_ WATCH.

Ah, charming _Iris_! Ah, my lovely Maid! ‘tis now, in a more peculiar
manner, that I require your Aid in the finishing of my Design, and
compleating the whole Piece to the utmost Perfection; and without your
Aid it cannot be perform’d. It is about the Clasp of the _Watch_; a
Material, in all appearance, the most trivial of any part of it. But
that it may be safe for ever, I design it the Image, or Figure of two
Hands; that fair one of the adorable _Iris_, join’d to mine; with this
Motto, _Inviolable Faith_: For in this _Case_, this Heart ought to be
shut up by this eternal Clasp. Oh! there is nothing so necessary as
this! Nothing can secure Love, but Faith.

That Virtue ought to be a Guard to all the Heart thinks, and all the
Mouth utters: Nor can _Love_ say he triumphs without it. And when that
remains not in the Heart, all the rest deserves no Regard. Oh! I have
not lov’d so ill to leave one Doubt upon your Soul. Why then, will you
want that Faith, Oh unkind Charmer, that my Passion and my Services so
justly merit?

    _When two Hearts entirely love,_
    _And in one Sphere of Honour move,_
    _Each maintains the other’s Fire,_
    _With a Faith that is entire._
    _For, what heedless Youth bestows,_
    _On a faithless Maid, his Vows?_
    _Faith without Love, bears Virtue’s Price;_
    _But Love without her Mixture, is a Vice._
      _Love, like Religion, still should be,_
        _In the Foundation, firm and true;_
      _In Points of Faith should still agree,_
        _Tho’ Innovations vain and new,_
    _Love’s little Quarrels, may arise;_
    _In Fundamentals still they’re just and wise._

    _Then, charming Maid, be sure of this;_
      _Allow me Faith, as well as Love:_
    _Since that alone affords no Bliss,_
      _Unless your Faith your Love improve._
    _Either resolve to let me die_
    _By fairer Play, your Cruelty;_
    _Than not your Love with Faith impart,_
    _And with your Vows to give your Heart._
    _In mad Despair I’d rather fall,_
    _Than lose my glorious Hopes of conquering all._

So certain it is, that Love without Faith, is of no value.

In fine, my adorable _Iris_, this Case shall be, as near as I can,
like those delicate ones of _Filligrin_ Work, which do not hinder the
Sight from taking a View of all within: You may therefore see, thro’
this Heart, all your _Watch_. Nor is my Desire of preserving this
inestimable Piece more, than to make it the whole Rule of my Life and
Actions. And my chiefest Design in these Cyphers, is to comprehend in
them the principal Virtues that are most necessary to Love. Do not we
know that Reciprocal Love is Justice? Constant Love, Fortitude? Secret
Love, Prudence? Tho’ ‘tis true that extreme Love, that is, Excess of
Love, in one sense, appears not to be Temperance; yet you must know,
my _Iris_, that in Matters of Love, Excess is a Virtue, and that all
other Degrees of Love are worthy Scorn alone. ‘Tis this alone that can
make good the glorious Title: ‘Tis this alone that can bear the Name of
Love; and this alone that renders the Lovers truly happy, in spight
of all the Storms of Fate, and Shocks of Fortune. This is an Antidote
against all other Griefs: This bears up the Soul in all Calamity; and
is the very Heaven of Life, the last Refuge of all worldly Pain and
Care, and may well bear the Title of _Divine_.

                        The Art of Loving well.

    _That Love may all Perfection be,_
    _Sweet, charming to the last degree,_
    _The Heart, where the bright Flame does dwell,_
    _In Faith and Softness should excel:_
    _Excess of Love should fill each Vein,_
    _And all its sacred Rites maintain._

    _The tend’rest Thoughts Heav’n can inspire,_
    _Should be the Fuel to its Fire:_
    _And that, like Incense, burn as pure;_
    _Or that in Urns should still endure,_
    _No fond Desire should fill the Soul,_
    _But such as Honour may controul._

    _Jealousy I will allow:_
    _Not the amorous Winds that blow,_
    _Should wanton in my_ Iris’ _Hair,_
    _Or ravish Kisses from my Fair._
    _Not the Flowers that grow beneath,_
    _Should borrow Sweetness of her Breath._

    _If her Bird she do caress,_
    _How I grudge its Happiness,_
    _When upon her snowy Hand_
    _The Wanton does triumphing stand!_
    _Or upon her Breast she skips,_
    _And lays her Beak to_ Iris’ _Lips!_
    _Fainting at my ravished Joy,_
    _I could the Innocent destroy._
    _If I can no Bliss afford_
    _To a little harmless Bird,_
    _Tell me, Oh thou dear-lov’d Maid!_
    _What Reason could my Rage persuade,_
    _If a Rival should invade?_

    _If thy charming Eyes should dart_
    _Looks that sally from the Heart;_
    _If you sent a Smile, or Glance,_
    _To another tho’ by Chance;_
    _Still thou giv’st what’s not thy own,_
    _They belong to me alone._

    _All Submission I would pay:_
    _Man was born the Fair t’ obey._
    _Your very Look I’d understand,_
    _And thence receive your least Command:_
    _Never your Justice will dispute;_
    _But like a Lover execute._

    _I would no Usurper be,_
    _But in claiming sacred Thee._
    _I would have all, and every part;_
    _No Thought would hide within thy Heart._
    _Mine a Cabinet was made,_
    _Where_ Iris’ _Secrets should be laid._

    _In the rest, without controul,_
    _She should triumph o’er the Soul!_
    _Prostrate at her Feet I’d lie,_
    _Despising Power and Liberty;_
    _Glorying more by Love to fall,_
    _Than rule the universal Ball._

    _Hear me, O you saucy Youth!_
    _And from my Maxims learn this Truth:_
    _Would you great and powerful prove?_
    _Be an humble Slave to Love._
    _’.is nobler far a Joy to give,_
    _Than any Blessing to receive._


The _LADY’S_ LOOKING-GLASS,

to Dress her self by:

or, The Art of Charming.


_Sent from_ DAMON _to_ IRIS.

How long, Oh charming _Iris_! shall I speak in vain of your adorable
Beauty? You have been just, and believe I love you with a Passion
perfectly tender and extreme, and yet you will not allow your Charms
to be infinite. You must either accuse my Flames to be unreasonable,
and that my Eyes and Heart are false Judges of Wit and Beauty; or allow
that you are the most perfect of your Sex. But instead of that, you
always accuse me of Flattery, when I speak of your infinite Merit; and
when I refer you to your Glass, you tell me, that flatters as well as
_Damon_: tho’ one would imagine, that should be a good Witness for the
Truth of what I say, and undeceive you of the Opinion of my Injustice.
Look--and confirm your self that nothing can equal your Perfections.
All the World says it, and you must doubt it no longer. Oh _Iris_! will
you dispute against the whole World?

But since you have so long distrusted your own Glass, I have here
presented you with one, which I know is very true; and having been
made for you only, can serve only you. All other Glasses present all
Objects, but this reflects only _Iris_: Whenever you consult it, it
will convince you; and tell you how much Right I have done you, when I
told you, you were the fairest Person that ever Nature made. When other
Beauties look into it, it will speak to all the Fair Ones: but let ‘em
do what they will, ‘twill say nothing to their advantage.

    Iris, _to spare what you call Flattery,_
    _Consult your Glass each Hour of the Day:_
    _’.will tell you where your Charms and Beauties lie,_
      _And where your little wanton Graces play:_
    _Where Love does revel in your Face and Eyes;_
    _What Look invites your Slaves, and what denies._

    _Where all the_ Loves _adorn you with such Care,_
      _Where dress your Smiles, where arm your lovely Eyes;_
    _Where deck the flowing Tresses of your Hair:_
      _How cause your snowy Breasts to fall and rise._
    _How this severe Glance makes a Lover die;_
    _How that, more soft, gives Immortality._

    _Where you shall see what ‘tis enslaves the Soul;_
      _Where e’ery Feature, e’ery Look combines:_
    _When the adorning Air, o’er all the whole,_
      _To so much Wit, and so nice Virtue joins._
    _Where the_ Belle Taille_, and Motion still afford_
    _Graces to be eternally adored._

But I will be silent now, and let your Glass speak.


IRIS’s _LOOKING-GLASS_.

_Damon_ (Oh charming _Iris_!) has given me to you, that you may
sometimes give your self the Trouble, and me the Honour of consulting
me in the great and weighty Affairs of Beauty. I am, my adorable
Mistress! a faithful Glass; and you ought to believe all I say to you.


_The SHAPE of_ IRIS.

I must begin with your Shape, and tell you without Flattery, ‘tis the
finest in the World, and gives Love and Admiration to all that see you.
Pray observe how free and easy it is, without Constraint, Stiffness, or
Affectation; those mistaken Graces of the Fantastick, and the Formal,
who give themselves pain to shew their Will to please, and whose
Dressing makes the greatest part of its Fineness, when they are more
oblig’d to the Taylor than to Nature; who add or diminish, as occasion
serves, to form a Grace, where Heaven never gave it: And while they
remain on this Wreck of Pride, they are eternally uneasy, without
pleasing any body. _Iris_, I have seen a Woman of your Acquaintance,
who, having a greater Opinion of her own Person than any body else, has
screw’d her Body into so fine a Form (as she calls it) that she dares
no more stir a Hand, lift up an Arm, or turn her Head aside, than if,
for the Sin of such a Disorder, she were to be turn’d into a Pillar of
Salt; the less stiff and fix’d Statue of the two. Nay, she dares not
speak or smile, lest she should put her Face out of that Order she had
set it in her Glass, when she last look’d on her self: And is all over
such a _Lady Nice_ (excepting in her Conversation) that ever made a
ridiculous Figure. And there are many Ladies more, but too much tainted
with that nauseous Formality, that old-fashion’d Vice: But _Iris_, the
charming, the all-perfect _Iris_, has nothing in her whole Form that is
not free, natural, and easy; and whose every Motion cannot but please
extremely; and which has not given _Damon_ a thousand Rivals.

    Damon, _the young, the am’rous, and the true,_
    _Who sighs incessantly for you;_
    _Whose whole Delight, now you are gone,_
    _Is to retire to Shades alone,_
    _And to the Echoes make his moan._
    _By purling Streams the wishing Youth is laid,_
    _Still sighing_ Iris! _lovely charming Maid!_
    _See, in thy Absence, how thy Lover dies!_
    _While to his Sighs the Echo still replies._

    _Then with the Stream he holds Discourse:_
    _O thou that bend’st thy liquid Force_
    _To lovely_ Thames! _upon whose Shore_
    _The Maid resides whom I adore!_
    _My Tears of Love upon thy Surface bear:_
    _And if upon thy Banks thou seest my Fair:_
    _In all thy softest Murmurs sing,_
    From _Damon_ I this Present bring;
    My e’ery Curl contains a Tear!
    _Then at her Feet thy Tribute pay:_
    _But haste, O happy Stream! away;_
    _Lest charm’d too much, thou shouldst for ever stay._
    _And thou, Oh gentle, murm’ring Breeze!_
    _That plays in Air, and wantons with the Trees;_
    _On thy young Wings, where gilded Sun-beams play,_
    _To_ Iris _my soft Sighs convey,_
    _Still as they rise, each Minute of the Day:_
    _But whisper gently in her Ear;_
    _Let not the ruder Winds thy Message bear,_
    _Nor ruffle one dear Curl of her bright Hair._
    _Oh! touch her Cheeks with sacred Reverence,_
      _And stay not gazing on her lovely Eyes!_
    _But if thou bear’st her rosy Breath from thence,_
    _’.is Incense of that Excellence,_
      _That as thou mount’st, ‘twill perfume all the Skies._


IRIS_’. COMPLEXION_.

Say what you will, I am confident, if you will confess your Heart,
you are, every time you view your self in me, surpris’d at the Beauty
of your Complexion; and will secretly own, you never saw any thing so
fair. I am not the first Glass, by a thousand, that has assur’d you of
this. If you will not believe me, ask _Damon_; he tells it you every
Day, but that Truth from him offends you: and because he loves too
much, you think his Judgment too little; and since this is so perfect,
that must be defective. But ‘tis most certain your Complexion is
infinitely fine, your Skin soft and smooth as polisht Wax, or Ivory,
extreamely white and clear; tho’ if any body speaks but of your Beauty,
an agreeable Blush casts it self all over your Face, and gives you a
thousand new Graces.

    _And then two Flowers newly born._
      _Shine in your Heav’nly Face;_
    _The Rose that blushes in the Morn,_
      _Usurps the Lilly’s place:_
    _Sometimes the Lilly does prevail._
    _And makes the gen’rous Crimson pale._


IRIS_’. HAIR_.

Oh, the beautiful Hair of _Iris_! it seems as if Nature had crown’d you
with a great quantity of lovely fair brown Hair, to make us know that
you were born to rule, and to repair the Faults of Fortune that has not
given you a Diadem: And do not bewail the Want of that (so much your
Merit’s due) since Heaven has so gloriously recompensed you with what
gains more admiring Slaves.

    _Heav’n for Sovereignty has made your Form:_
    _And you were more than for dull Empire born;_
    _O’er Hearts your Kingdom shall extend,_
    _Your vast Dominion know no End._
    _Thither the_ Loves _and_ Graces _shall resort;_
    _To_ Iris _make their Homage, and their Court._
    _No envious Star, no common Fate,_                                 }
    _Did on my_ Iris’ _Birth-day wait;_                                }
    _But all was happy, all was delicate._                             }
    _Here Fortune would inconstant be in vain:_
    Iris, _and_ Love _eternally shall reign._

_Love_ does not make less use of your Hair for new Conquests, than of
all the rest of your Beauties that adorn you. If he takes our Hearts
with your fine Eyes, it ties ‘em fast with your Hair; and of it weaves
a Chain, not easily broken. It is not of those sorts of Hair, whose
Harshness discovers Ill-Nature; nor of those, whose Softness shews
us the Weakness of the Mind; not that either of these Arguments are
without exception: but ‘tis such as bears the Character of a perfect
Mind, and a delicate Wit; and for its Colour, the most faithful,
discreet, and beautiful in the World: such as shews a Complexion and
Constitution, neither so cold to be insensible, nor so hot to have
too much Fire: that is, neither too white, nor too black; but such a
mixture of the two Colours, as makes it the most agreeable in the World.

    _’.is that which leads those captivated Hearts,_
      _That bleeding at your Feet do lie;_
    _’.is that the Obstinate converts,_
      _That dare the Power of Love deny:_
    _’.is that which_ Damon _so admires;_
    Damon, _who often tells you so._
    _If from your Eyes_ Love _takes his Fires,_
      _’.is with your Hair he strings his Bow:_
    _Which touching but the feather’d Dart,_
    _It never mist the destin’d Heart._


IRIS’.s EYES._

I believe, my fair Mistress, I shall dazzle you with the Lustre of
your own Eyes. They are the finest Blue in World: They have all the
Sweetness that ever charm’d the Heart, with a certain Languishment
that’s irresistible; and never any look’d on ‘em, that did not sigh
after ‘em. Believe me, _Iris_, they carry unavoidable Darts and
Fires; and whoever expose themselves to their Dangers, pay for their
Imprudence.

    _Cold as my solid Chrystal is,_
      _Hard and impenetrable too;_
    _Yet I am sensible of Bliss,_
      _When your charming Eyes I view:_
    _Even by me their Flames are felt;_
    _And at each Glance I fear to melt._

    _Ah, how pleasant are my Days!_
      _How my glorious Fate I bless!_
    _Mortals never knew my Joys,_
      _Nor Monarchs guest my Happiness._
    _Every Look that’s soft and gay,_
    Iris _gives me every Day._

    _Spight of her Virtue and her Pride,_
      _Every Morning I am blest_
    _With what to_ Damon _is deny’d;_
      _To view her when she is undrest._
    _All her Heaven of Beauty’s shown_
    _To triumphing Me----alone._

    _Scarce the prying Beams of Light,_
      _Or th’ impatient God of Day,_
    _Are allow’d so near a Sight,_
      _Or dare profane her with a Ray;_
    _When she has appear’d to me,_
    _Like_ Venus _rising from the Sea._

    _But Oh! I must those Charms conceal,_
      _All too divine for vulgar Eyes:_
    _Should I my secret Joys reveal,_
      _Of sacred Trust I break the Ties;_
    _And_ Damon _would with Envy die,_
    _Who hopes one Day to be as blest as I._

Extravagant with my Joys, I have stray’d beyond my Limits; for I was
telling you of the wond’rous Fineness of your Eyes, which no Mortal
can resist, nor any Heart stand the Force of their Charms, and the
most difficult Conquest they gain, scarce cost ‘em the expence of a
Look. They are modest and tender, chaste and languishing. There you may
take a view of the whole Soul, and see Wit and Good-Nature (those two
inseparable Virtues of the Mind) in an extraordinary measure. In fine,
you see all that fair Eyes can produce, to make themselves ador’d. And
when they are angry, they strike an unresistible Awe upon the Soul;
And those Severities _Damon_ wishes may perpetually accompany them,
during their Absence from him; for ‘tis with such Eyes, he would have
you receive all his Rivals.

    _Keep, lovely Maid, the Softness In your Eyes,_
      _To flatter_ Damon _with another Day:_
    _When at your Feet the ravish’d Lover lies,_
      _Then put on all that’s tender, all that’s gay:_
    _And for the Griefs your Absence makes him prove,_
    _Give him the softest, dearest Looks of Love._

    _His trembling Heart with sweetest Smiles caress,_
      _And in your Eyes soft Wishes let him find;_
    _That your Regret of Absence may confess,_
      _In which no Sense of Pleasure you could find:_
    _And to restore him, let your faithful Eyes_
    _Declare, that all his Rivals you despise._


_The MOUTH of_ IRIS.

I perceive your Modesty would impose Silence on me: But, Oh fair
_Iris_! do not think to present your self before a Glass, if you would
not have it tell you all your Beauties. Content your self that I only
speak of ‘em, _en passant_; for should I speak what I would, I should
dwell all Day upon each Particular, and still say something new. Give
me liberty then to speak of your fine Mouth: You need only open it a
little, and you will see the most delicate Teeth that ever you beheld;
the whitest, and the best set. Your Lips are the finest in the World;
so round, so soft, so plump, so dimpled, and of the loveliest Colour.
And when you smile, Oh! what Imagination can conceive how sweet it is,
that has not seen you smiling? I cannot describe what I so admire; and
’.is in vain to those who have not seen _Iris_.

    _Oh_ Iris! _boast that one peculiar Charm,_
    _That has so many Conquests made;_
    _So innocent, yet capable of Harm;_
     _So just it self, yet has so oft betray’d:_
    _Where a thousand Graces dwell,_
    _And wanton round in ev’ry Smile._

    _A thousand Loves do listen when you speak,_
      _And catch each Accent as it flies:_
    _Rich flowing Wit, whene’er you Silence break,_
      _Flows from your Tongue, and sparkles in your Eyes._
    _Whether you talk, or silent are,_
    _Your Lips immortal Beauties wear._


_The NECK of_ IRIS.

All your Modesty, all your nice Care, cannot hide the ravishing
Beauties of your Neck; we must see it, coy as you are; and see it the
whitest, and finest shaped, that ever was form’d. Oh! why will you
cover it? You know all handsome Things would be seen. And Oh! how often
have you made your Lovers envy your Scarf, or any thing that hides so
fine an Object from their Sight. _Damon_ himself complains of your too
nice Severity. Pray do not hide it so carefully. See how perfectly
turn’d it is! with small blue Veins, wand’ring and ranging here and
there, like little Rivulets, that wanton o’er the flowery Meads! See
how the round white rising Breasts heave with every Breath, as if they
disdain’d to be confin’d to a Covering; and repel the malicious Cloud
that would obscure their Brightness!

    _Fain I would have leave to tell_
    _The Charms that on your Bosom dwell;_
    _Describe it like some flow’ry Field,_
    _That does ten thousand Pleasures yield;_
    _A thousand gliding Springs and Groves;_
    _All Receptacles for Loves:_
    _But Oh! what_ Iris _hides, must be_
    _Ever sacred kept by me._


_The ARMS and HANDS of_ IRIS.

I shall not be put to much trouble to shew you your Hands and Arms,
because you may view them without my Help; and you are very unjust, if
you have not admir’d ‘em a thousand times. The beautiful Colour and
Proportion of your Arm is unimitable, and your Hand is dazzling, fine,
small, and plump; long-pointed Fingers delicately turned; dimpled on
the snowy out-side, but adorned within with Rose, all over the soft
Palm. Oh _Iris_! nothing equals your fair Hand; that Hand, of which
_Love_ so often makes such use to draw his Bow, when he would send the
Arrow home with more Success; and which irresistibly wounds those, who
possibly have not yet seen your Eyes: And when you have been veil’d,
that lovely Hand has gain’d you a thousand Adorers. And I have heard
_Damon_ say, _Without the Aid of more Beauties, that alone had been
sufficient to have made an absolute Conquest, o’er his Soul_. And
he has often vow’d, _It never toucht him but it made his Blood run
with little irregular Motions in his Veins, his Breath beat short and
double, his Blushes rise, and his very Soul dance_.

    _Oh! how the Hand the Lover ought to prize_
      _’.ove any one peculiar Grace,_
    _While he is dying for the Eyes_
      _And doating on the lovely Face!_
    _The Unconsid’ring little knows,_
    _How much he to this Beauty owes._

    _That, when the Lover absent is,_
      _Informs him of his Mistress’ Heart;_
    _’.is that which gives him all his Bliss,_
      _When dear Love-Secrets ‘twill impart,_
    _That plights the Faith the Maid bestows;_
    _And that confirms the tim’rous Vows._

    _’.is that betrays the Tenderness,_
      _Which the too bashful Tongue denies:_
    _’.is that which does the Heart confess,_
      _And spares the Language of the Eyes._
    _’.is that which Treasure gives so vast;_
    _Ev’n Iris ‘twill to Damon give at last._


_The GRACE and AIR of_ IRIS.

’.is I alone, O charming Maid! that can shew you that noble part of
your Beauty: That generous Air that adorns all your lovely Person,
and renders every Motion and Action perfectly adorable. With what a
Grace you walk!--How free, how easy, and how unaffected! See how you
move!--for only here you can see it. _Damon_ has told you a thousand
times, that never any Mortal had so glorious an Air: but he cou’d not
half describe it, nor would you credit even what he said; but with
a careless Smile pass it off for the Flattery of a Lover. But here
behold, and be convinc’d, and know, no part of your Beauty can charm
more than this. O _Iris_! confess, Love has adorn’d you with all his
Art and Care. Your Beauties are the Themes of all the Muses; who tell
you in daily Songs, that the Graces themselves have not more than
_Iris_. And one may truly say, that you alone know how to join the
Ornaments and Dress with Beauty; and you are still adorn’d, as if that
Shape and Air had a peculiar Art to make all Things appear gay and
fine. Oh! how well drest you are! How every Thing becomes you! Never
singular, never gawdy; but always suiting with your Quality.

    _Oh! how that Negligence becomes your Air!_
    _That careless Flowing of your Hair,_
    _That plays about with wanton Grace,_
    _With every Motion of your Face:_
    _Disdaining all that dull Formality,_
    _That dares not move the Lip, or Eye,_
    _But at some fancy’d Grace’s cost;_
    _And think, with it, at least, a Lover lost._
    _But the unlucky Minute to reclaim,_                               }
    _And ease the Coquet of her Pain,_                                 }
    _The Pocket-Glass adjusts the Face again:_                         }
    _Re-sets the Mouth, and languishes the Eyes;_
    _And thinks, the Spark that ogles that way--dies._

    _Of_ _Iris learn, Oh ye mistaken Fair!_
    _To dress your Face, your Smiles, your Air:_
    _Let easy Nature all the Bus’ness do,_
    _She can the softest Graces shew;_
    _Which Art but turns to ridicule,_
    _And where there’s none serves but to shew the Fool._

    _In_ Iris _you all Graces find;_
    _Charms without Art, a Motion unconfin’d;_
    _Without Constraint, she smiles, she looks, she talks;_
    _And without Affectation, moves and walks._
    _Beauties so perfect ne’er were seen:_
    _O ye mistaken Fair! Dress ye by_ Iris’ _Mein._


_The DISCRETION of_ IRIS.

But, O _Iris_! the Beauties of the Body are imperfect, if the Beauties
of the Soul do not advance themselves to an equal Height. But, O
_Iris_! what Mortal is there so damn’d to Malice, that does not, with
Adoration, confess, that you, O charming Maid, have an equal Portion
of all the Braveries and Virtues of the Mind? And who is it, that
confesses your Beauty, that does not at the same time acknowledge and
bow to your Wisdom? The whole World admires both in you; and all with
impatience ask, Which of the two is most surprizing, your Beauty, or
your Discretion? But we dispute in vain on that excellent Subject; for
after all, ‘tis determin’d, that the two Charms are equal. ‘Tis none of
those idle Discretions that consists in Words alone, and ever takes
the Shadow of Reason for the Substance; and that makes use of all the
little Artifices of Subtlety, and florid Talking, to make the Out-side
of the Argument appear fine, and leave the Inside wholly misunderstood;
who runs away with Words, and never thinks of Sense. But you, O lovely
Maid! never make use of these affected Arts; but without being too
brisk or too severe, too silent or too talkative, you inspire in all
your Hearers a Joy, and a Respect. Your Soul is an Enemy to that usual
Vice of your Sex, of using little Arguments against the Fair; or, by a
Word or Jest, making your self and Hearers pleasant at the expence of
the Fame of others.

Your Heart is an Enemy to all Passions, but that of Love. And this is
one of your noble Maxims, _That every one ought to love, in some part
of his Life; and that in a Heart truly brave, Love is without Folly:
That Wisdom is a Friend to Love, and Love to perfect Wisdom._ Since
these Maxims are your own, do not, O charming _Iris_! resist that noble
Passion: and since _Damon_ is the most tender of Lovers, answer his
Passion with a noble Ardour. Your Prudence never fails in the Choice
of your Friends; and in chusing so well your Lover, you will stand an
eternal Precedent to all unreasonable Fair Ones.

      _O thou that dost excel in Wit and Youth!_
      _Be still a Precedent for Love and Truth._
      _Let the dull World say what it will,_
      _A noble Flame’s unblameable._
    _Where a fine Sent’ment and soft Passion rules,_
    _They scorn the Censure of the Fools._

    _Yield,_ Iris, _then; Oh, yield to Love!_
      _Redeem your dying Slave from Pain;_
    _The World your Conduct must approve:_
    _Your Prudence never acts in vain._


_The GOODNESS and COMPLAISANCE of_ IRIS.

Who but your Lovers, fair _Iris_! doubts but you are the most
complaisant Person in the World; and that with so much Sweetness you
oblige all, that you command in yielding: And as you gain the Heart
of both Sexes, with the Affability of your noble Temper; so all are
proud and vain of obliging you. And, _Iris_, you may live assur’d, that
your Empire is eternally established by your Beauty and your Goodness:
Your Power is confirm’d, and you grow in Strength every Minute: Your
Goodness gets you Friends, and your Beauty Lovers.

This Goodness is not one of those, whose Folly renders it easy to every
Desirer; but a pure Effect of the Generosity of your Soul; such as
Prudence alone manages, according to the Merit of the Person to whom
it is extended; and those whom you esteem, receive the sweet Marks of
it, and only your Lovers complain; yet even then you charm. And tho’
sometimes you can be a little disturb’d, yet thro’ your Anger your
Goodness shines; and you are but too much afraid, that that may bear
a false Interpretation: For oftentimes Scandal makes that pass for an
Effect of Love, which is purely that of Complaisance.

Never had any body more Tenderness for their Friends, than _Iris_:
Their Presence gives her Joy, their Absence Trouble; and when
she cannot see them, she finds no Pleasure like speaking of them
obligingly. Friendship reigns in your Heart, and Sincerity on your
Tongue. Your Friendship is so strong, so constant, and so tender, that
it charms, pleases, and satisfies all, that are not your Adorers.
_Damon_ therefore is excusable, if he be not contented with your noble
Friendship alone; for he is the most tender of that Number.

    _No! give me all, th’ impatient Lover cries;_
      _Without your Soul I cannot live:_
    _Dull Friendship cannot mine suffice,_
      _That dies for all you have to give._
    _The Smiles, the Vows, the Heart must all be mine;_
    _I cannot spare one Thought, or Wish of thine._

    _I sigh, I languish all the Day;_
      _Each Minute ushers in my Groans:_
    _To ev’ry God in vain I pray;_
      _In ev’ry Grove repeat my Moans._
    _Still_ Iris’ _Charms are all my Sorrows Themes!_
    _They pain me waking, and they rack in Dreams._

    _Return, fair_ Iris! _Oh, return!_
      _Lest sighing long your Slave destroys._
    _I wish, I rave, I faint, I burn;_
      _Restore me quickly all my Joys:_
    _Your Mercy else will come too late;_
    _Distance in Love more cruel is than Hate._


_The WIT of_ IRIS.

You are deceiv’d in me, fair _Iris_, if you take me for one of those
ordinary Glasses, that represent the Beauty only of the Body; I remark
to you also the Beauties of the Soul: And all about you declares yours
the finest that ever was formed; that you have a Wit that surprizes,
and is always new: ‘Tis none of those that loses its Lustre when one
considers it; the more we examine yours, the more adorable we find it.
You say nothing that is not at once agreeable and solid; ‘tis always
quick and ready, without Impertinence, that little Vanity of the Fair:
who, when they know they have Wit, rarely manage it so, as not to
abound in Talking; and think, that all they say must please, because
luckily they sometimes chance to do so. But _Iris_ never speaks, but
’.is of use; and gives a Pleasure to all that hear her: She has the
perfect Air of penetrating, even the most secret Thoughts. How often
have you known, without being told, all that has past in _Damon’s_
Heart? For all great Wits are Prophets too.

    _Tell me; Oh, tell me! Charming Prophetess;_
    _For you alone can tell my Love’s Success._
      _The Lines in my dejected Face,_
    _I fear, will lead you to no kind Result:_
      _It is your own that you must trace;_
    _Those of your Heart you must consult._
      _’.is there my Fortune I must learn,_
      _And all that_ Damon _does concern._

    _I tell you that I love a Maid,_
      _As bright as Heav’n, of Angel-hue;_
    _The softest Nature ever made,_
      _Whom I with Sighs and Vows pursue._
    _Oh, tell me, charming Prophetess!_
    _Shall I this lovely Maid possess?_

    _A thousand Rivals do obstruct my Way;_
      _A thousand Fears they do create:_
    _They throng about her all the Day,_
      _Whilst I at awful Distance wait._
    _Say, Will the lovely Maid so fickle prove,_
    _To give my Rivals Hope, as well as Love?_

    _She has a thousand Charms of Wit,_
      _With all the Beauty Heav’n e’er gave:_
    _Oh! let her not make use of it,_
      _To flatter me into the Slave._
    _Oh! tell me Truth, to ease my Pain;_
    _Say rather, I shall die by her Disdain._


_The MODESTY of_ IRIS.

I perceive, fair _Iris_, you have a mind to tell me, I have entertain’d
you too long with a Discourse on your self. I know your Modesty makes
this Declaration an Offence, and you suffer me, with Pain, to unveil
those Treasures you would hide. Your Modesty, that so commendable
a Virtue in the Fair, and so peculiar to you, is here a little too
severe. Did I flatter you, you should blush: Did I seek, by praising
you, to shew an Art of speaking finely, you might chide. But, O _Iris_,
I say nothing but such plain Truths, as all the World can witness are
so: And so far I am from Flattery, that I seek no Ornament of Words.
Why do you take such Care to conceal your Virtues? They have too much
Lustre, not to be seen, in spight of all your Modesty: Your Wit, your
Youth, and Reason, oppose themselves against this dull Obstructer of
our Happiness. Abate, O _Iris_, a little of this Virtue, since you
have so many others to defend your self against the Attacks of your
Adorers. You your self have the least Opinion of your own Charms: and
being the only Person in the World, that is not in love with ‘em, you
hate to pass whole Hours before your _Looking-Glass_; and to pass your
Time, like most of the idle Fair, in dressing, and setting off those
Beauties, which need so little Art. You more wise, disdain to give
those Hours to the Fatigue of Dressing, which you know so well how to
employ a thousand ways. The Muses have blest you, above your Sex; and
you know how to gain a Conquest with your Pen, more absolutely than all
the industrious Fair, who trust to Dress and Equipage.

I have a thousand Things to tell you more, but willingly resign my
Place to _Damon_, that faithful Lover; he will speak more ardently than
I: For let a Glass use all its Force, yet, when it speaks its best, it
speaks but coldly.

If my Glass, O charming _Iris_, have the good Fortune (which I could
never entirely boast) to be believ’d, ‘twill serve at least to convince
you I have not been so guilty of Flattery, as I have a thousand Times
been charg’d. Since then my Passion is equal to your Beauty (without
Comparison, or End) believe, O lovely Maid! how I sigh in your Absence;
and be persuaded to lessen my Pain, and restore me to my Joys: for
there is no Torment so great, as the Absence of a Lover from his
Mistress; of which this is the _Idea_.

The Effects of Absence from what we love.

    _Thou one continu’d Sigh! all over Pain!_
    _Eternal Wish! but Wish, alas, in vain!_
    _Thou languishing, impatient Hoper on;_
    _A busy Toiler, and yet still undone!_
    _A breaking Glimpse of distant Day,_
    _Inticing on, and leading more astray!_
    _Thou Joy in Prospect, future Bliss extreme;_
    _Never to be possess’d, but in a Dream!_
    _Thou fab’lous Goddess, which the ravisht Boy_
    _In happy Slumbers proudly did enjoy;_
    _But waking, found an airy Cloud he prest;_
    _His Arms came empty to his panting Breast._
    _Thou Shade, that only haunt’st the Soul by night;_
    _And when thou shouldst inform thou fly’st the Sight:_
    _Thou false_ Idea _of the thinking Brain,_                         }
    _That labours for the charming Form in vain:_                      }
    _Which if by chance it catch, thou’rt lost again._                 }




POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS:

WITH A VOYAGE TO THE

ISLAND OF LOVE.


To the Right Honourable, JAMES, Earl of _Salisbury_, Viscount
_Cramborn_, and Baron of _Islington_.

  My Lord,

Who should one celibrate with Verse and Song, but the Great, the Noble
and the Brave? where dedicate an _Isle of Love_, but to the Gay, the
Soft and Young? and who amongst Men can lay a better claim to these
than Your Lordship? who like the Sun new risen with the early Day,
looks round the World and sees nothing it cannot claim an interest in
(for what cannot Wit, Beauty, Wealth and Honour claim?) The violent
storms of Sedition and Rebellion are hush’d and calm’d; black Treason
is retir’d to its old abode, the dark Abyss of Hell; the mysterious
Riddles of Politick Knaves and Fools, which so long amused and troubled
the World’s repose, are luckily unfolded; and Your Lordship is saluted
at Your first coming forth, Your first setting out for the glorious
and happy Race of Life, by a Nation all glad, gay and smiling; and
you have nothing before you but a ravishing prospect of eternal Joys,
and everlasting inviting Pleasures, and all that Love and Fortune can
bestow on their darling Youth, attend You in the noble pursuit; and
nothing can prevent Your being the most happy of her Favourites, but
a too eager flight, a too swift speed o’er the charming flowry Meads
and Plains that lie in view, between Your setting out and the end
of Your glorious Chase. A long and illustrious race of Nobility has
attended Your great Name, but none I believe ever came into the World
with Your Lordship’s advantages; amongst which, my Lord, ‘tis not the
least that You have the glory to be truly Loyal, and to be adorn’d
with those excellent Principles, which render Nobility so absolutely
worth the Veneration which is paid ‘em; ‘tis those, my Lord, and not
the Title that make it truly great: Grandeur in any other serves but
to point ‘em out more particularly to the World, and shew their Faults
with the greater magnitude, and render ‘em more liable to contempt
and that Reward which justly persues Ingratitude; nor is it, my Lord,
the many unhappy Examples this Age has produc’d that has deterr’d you
from herding with the busie Unfortunates, and bringing Your powerful
aid to their detestable cause, but a noble Honesty in Your Nature, a
Generosity in Your Soul. That even part of Your Education had the good
fortune not to be able to corrupt; no Opinion cou’d bypass You, no
Precedent debauch You; though all the fansied Glories of Power were
promis’d You, though all the Contempt thrown on good and brave Men,
all the subtile Arguments of the old Serpent, were us’d against the
best of Kings and his illustrious Successor, still You were unmov’d;
Your young stout Heart with a Gallantry and Force unusual resisted
and defied the gilded Bait, laugh’d at the industrious Politicks
of the busie Wise, and stubbornly Loyal, contemn’d the Counsels of
the Grave. Go on, my Lord, advance in Noble resolution, grow up in
strength of Loyalty, settle it about Your Soul, root it there like the
first Principles of Religion, which nothing ever throughly defaces,
and which in spight of even Reason the Soul retains, whatever little
Debaucheries the Tongue may commit; You that are great, are born the
Bulwarks of sacred Majesty, its defence against all the storms of Fate,
the Safety of the People in the Supporters of the Throne; and sure none
that ever obey’d the Laws of God and the Dictates of Honour ever paid
those Duties to a Sovereign that more truly merited the Defence and
Adorations of his People than this of ours; and tis a blessing (since
we are oblig’d to render it to the worst of Tyrant Kings) that we have
one who so well justifies that intire Love and Submission we ought to
pay him. You, my Lord, are one whom Thousands of good Men look up to
with wondrous Veneration and Joy, when ‘tis said Your Lordship amongst
Your other Vertues is Loyal too, a true Tory! (a word of Honour now,
the Royal Cause has sanctified it,) and though Your Lordship needs
no encouragement to a good that rewards it self, yet I am confident
You are not onely rank’d in the esteem of the best of Monarchs, but
we shall behold you as one of our Preservers, and all _England_ as
one of its great Patrons, when Ages that shall come shall find Your
noble Name inroll’d amongst the Friends to Monarchy in an Age of so
villainous Corruption: Yes, my Lord, they will find it there and bless
You. ‘Tis this, my Lord, with every other Grace and Noble Vertue that
adorns You, and gives the World such promises of Wonders in You, that
makes me ambitious to be the first in the Croud of Your Admirers, that
shall have the honour to celibrate Your great Name. Be pleased then, my
Lord, to accept this Little Piece, which lazy Minutes begot and hard
Fate has oblig’d me to bring forth into the censuring World, to which
if any thing can reconcile it, ‘twill be the glory it has to bear Your
Noble Name in the front, and to be Patronized by so great and good a
Man: Permit but my Zeal for Your Lordship to attone for the rest of my
Faults, and Your Lordship will extremely oblige,

                      My Lord,
             Your Lordship’s most Humble,
                      and most Obedient Servant,
                                        _A. BEHN._


To Mrs. BEHN, on the publishing her Poems.

  _Madam,_

    Long has Wit’s injur’d Empire been opprest
    By Rhiming Fools, this Nations common Jest,
    And sunk beneath the _weight_ of heavy _stafes_,
    In _Tory Ballads_ and _Whig Epitaphs_;
    The _Ogs_ and _Doegs_ reign’d, nay _Baxter’s_ zeal,
    Has not been wanting too in writing _Ill_;
    Yet still in spight of what the dull can doe,
    ‘Tis here _asserted_ and _adorn’d_ by you.
    This Book come forth, their credit must decay,
    Ill Spirits vanish at th’approach of day:
    And justly we before your envy’d _feet_,
    There where our _Hearts_ are due our _Pens_ submit;
    Ne’er to resume the baffled things again,
    Unless in Songs of _Triumph_ to thy Name;
    Which are out-done by every _Verse_ of thine,                      }
    Where thy own _Fame_ does with more lustre shine,                  }
    Than all that we can give who in thy _Praises_ join.               }
    Fair as the face of Heaven, when no thick _Cloud_
    Or darkning _Storm_ the glorious prospect shroud;
    In all its beauteous parts shines thy bright style,
    And beyond Humane Wit commends thy skill;
    With all the _thought_ and _vigour_ of our Sex
    The moving _softness_ of your own you mix.
    The _Queen_ of Beauty and the _God_ of Wars                        }
    Imbracing lie in thy due temper’d Verse,                           }
    _Venus_ her sweetness and the force of _Mars_.                     }
    Thus thy luxuriant Muse her pleasure takes,
    As _God_ of old in _Eden’s_ blissful walks;
    The Beauties of her new Creation view’d,
    Full of content She sees that it is _good_.
      Come then you inspir’d _Swains_ and join your Verse,
    Though all in vain to add a Fame to hers;
    But then your Song will best _Apollo_ please,
    When it is fraight with this his _Favourite’s_ praise.
    Declare how when her learned Harp she strung,
    Our joyfull _Island_ with the Musick rung;
    Descending _Graces_ left their Heavenly seat,
    To take their place in every Line she writ;
    Where sweetest Charms as in her Person smile,
    Her Face’s Beauty’s copy’d in her style.
    Say how as she did her just skill improve
    In the best Art and in soft Tales of Love.
    Some well sung Passion with success she crown’d,
    The melting Virgins languish’d at the sound.
    And envying Swains durst not the Pipe inspire,
    They’d nothing then to doe but to _admire_.
    _Shepherds_ and _Nymphs_, to _Pan_ direct-your Prayer,             }
    If peradventure he your Vows will hear,                            }
    To make you _sing_, and make you _look_ like her.                  }
    But, _Nymphs_ and _Swains_, your hopes are all in vain,
    For such bright _Eyes_, and such a tunefull _Pen_.
      How many of her Sex spend half their days,
    To catch some _Fool_ by managing a Face?
    But she secure of _charming_ has confin’d
    Her wiser care t’.adorn_ and _dress_ the Mind.
    _Beauty_ may fade, but everlasting _Verse_
    Exempts the better portion from the _Hearse_.
    The matchless _Wit_ and _Fancy_ of the Fair,
    Which moves our _envy_ and our Sons _despair_.
    Long they shall live a _monument_ of her _Fame_,
    And to _Eternity_ extend her _Name_;
    While After-times deservedly approve
    The choicest object of this Ages Love.
    For when they reade, ghessing how far she charm’d,
    With that bright _Body_ with such _Wit_ inform’d;
    They will give _heed_ and _credit_ to our Verse,
    When we the _Wonders_ of her _Face_ rehearse.

                                                      _J. Cooper._

  _Buckden, Nov._ 25.
       1683.


_To_ ASTRÆA, _on her Poems_.

    ‘Tis not enough to reade and to admire,                            }
    Thy sacred Verse does nobler thoughts inspire,                     }
    Striking on every breast Poetick fire:                             }
    The God of Wit attends with chearfull Rays,
    Warming the dullest Statue into praise.
    Hail then, delight of Heaven and pride of Earth,
    Blest by each Muse at thy auspicious birth;
    Soft Love and Majesty have fram’d thy Mind,
    To shew the Beauties of both Sexes join’d:
    Thy Lines may challenge, like young _David’s_ face,
    A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace;
    Thy tender notions in loose numbers flow,
    With a strange power to charm where e’er they go:
    And when in stronger sounds thy voice we hear,
    At all the skilfull points you arm’d appear.
    Which way so’er thou dost thy self express,
    We find thy Beauty out in every dress;
    Such work so gently wrought, so strongly fine,
    Cannot be wrought by hands all Masculine.
    In vain proud Man weak Woman wou’d controul,
    No Man can argue now against a Woman’s Soul.

                                                           _J. C._


_To the excellent Madam_ Behn, _on her Poems_.

    ‘Twas vain for Man the Laurels to persue,
    (E’en from the God of Wit bright _Daphne_ flew)
    Man, Whose course compound damps the Muses fire,
    It does but touch our Earth and soon expire;
    While in the softer kind th’.therial flame,
    Spreads and rejoices as from Heaven it came:
    This _Greece_ in _Sappho_, in _Orinda_ knew
    Our Isle; though they were but low types to you;
    But the faint dawn to your illustrious day,
    To make us patient of your brighter Ray.
      Oft may we see some wretched story told;
    In ductile sense spread thin as leaves of Gold.
    You have ingrost th’inestimable Mine;                              }
    Which in well polisht Numbers you refine,                          }
    While still the solid Mass shines thick in every Line.             }
      Yet neither sex do you surpass alone,                            }
    Both in your Verse are in their glory shown,                       }
    Both _Phæbus_ and _Minerva_ are your own.                          }
    While in the softest dress you Wit dispense,
    With all the Nerves of Reason and of Sense.
    In mingled Beauties we at once may trace
    A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace.
    No wonder ‘tis the _Delphian_ God of old
    Wou’d have his Oracles by Women told.
    But oh! who e’er so sweetly could repeat
    Soft lays of Love, and youths delightfull heat?
    If Love’s Misfortunes be your mournfull Theme,
    No dying Swan on fair _Cayster’s_ stream,
    Expires so sweet, though with his numerous Moan,
    The fading Banks and suffering Mountains groan.
    If you the gentle Passions wou’d inspire,
    With what resistless Charms you breathe desire?
    No Heart so savage, so relentless none,
    As can the sweet Captivity disown:
    Ah, needs must she th’unwary Soul surprise,
    Whose Pen sheds Flames as dangerous as her Eyes.

                                                       _J. Adams._


_To the Authour, on her Voyage to the Island of Love._

    To speak of thee no Muse will I invoke,
    Thou onely canst inspire what shou’d be spoke;
    For all their wealth the Nine have given to thee,
    Thy rich and flowing stream has left them dry:
    _Cupid_ may throw away his useless Darts,
    Thou’st lent him one will massacre more Hearts
    Than all his store, thy Pen disarms us so,
    We yield our selves to the first beauteous Foe;
    The easie softness of thy thoughts surprise,
    And this new way Love steals into our Eyes;
    Thy gliding Verse comes on us unawares,
    No rumbling Metaphors alarm our Ears,
    And puts us in a posture of defence;
    We are undone and never know from whence.
    So to th’ _Assyrian_ Camp the Angel flew,
    And in the silent Night his Millions slew.
    Thou leadst us by the Soul amongst thy Loves,
    And bindst us all in thy inchanting Groves;
    Each languishes for thy _Aminta’s_ Charms,
    Sighs for thy fansied Raptures in her Armes,
    Sees her in all that killing posture laid,
    When _Love_ and fond _Respect_ guarded the sleeping Maid,
    Persues her to the very Bower of Bliss,
    Times all the wrecking joys and thinks ‘em his;
    In the same Trance with the young pair we lie,
    And in their amorous Ecstasies we die.
    You Nymphs, who deaf to Love’s soft lays have been,
    Reade here, and suck the sweet destruction in:
    Smooth is the stream and clear is every thought,
    And yet you cannot see with what you’re caught;
    Or else so very pleasing is the Bait,
    With careless heed you play and leap at it:
    She poisons all the Floud with such an art,
    That the dear Philter trickles to the Heart,
    With such bewitching pleasure that each sup
    Has all the joys of life in every drop.
    I see the Banks with Love-sick Virgins strow’d,
    Their Bosoms heav’d with the young fluttering Gods;
    Oh, how they pant and struggle with their pain!
    Yet cannot wish their former health again:
    Within their Breasts thy warmth and spirit glows,
    And in their Eyes thy streaming softness flows;
    Thy Raptures are transfus’d through every vein,
    And thy blest hour in all their heads does reign;
    The Ice that chills the Soul thou dost remove,
    And meltst it into tenderness and Love;
    The flints about their Hearts dance to thy lays,
    Till the quick motion sets ‘em on a Blaze.
    _Orpheus_ and you the stones do both inspire,
    But onely you out of those flints strike fire,
    Not with a sudden Spark, a short liv’d Blaze,
    Like Womens Passions in our Gilting days;
    But what you fire burns with a constant flame,
    Like what you write, and always is the same.
    Rise, all ye weeping Youth, rise and appear,
    Whom gloomy Fate has damn’d to black Despair;
    Start from the ground and throw your Mourning by,
    Loves great _Sultana_ says you shall not die:
    The dismal dark half year is over past,
    The Sea is op’d, the Sun shines out at last,
    And Trading’s free, the storms are husht as death,
    Or happy Lovers ravisht out of breath;
    And listen to _Astræa’s_ Harmony,
    Such power has elevated Poetry.

                                                           _T. C._


_To the Lovely Witty_ ASTRÆA_, on her Excellent Poems._

    Oh, wonder of thy Sex! Where can we see,
    Beauty and Knowledge join’d except in thee?
    Such pains took Nature with your Heav’nly Face,
    Form’d it for Love, and moulded every Grace;
    I doubted first and fear’d that you had been
    Unfinish’d left like other She’s within:
    I see the folly of that fear, and find
    Your Face is not more beauteous than your Mind:
    Whoe’er beheld you with a Heart unmov’d,
    That sent not sighs, and said within he lov’d?
    I gaz’d and found, a then, unknown delight,
    Life in your looks, and Death to leave the sight.
    What joys, new Worlds of joys has he possest,
    That gain’d the sought-for welcome of your Breast?
      Your Wit wou’d recommend the homeliest Face,
    Your Beauty make the dullest Humour please;
    But where they both thus gloriously are join’d,
    All Men submit, you reign in every Mind.
    What Passions does your Poetry impart?                             }
    It shews th’unfathom’d thing a Woman’s Heart,                      }
    Tells what Love is, his Nature and his Art,                        }
    Displays the several Scenes of Hopes and Fears,
    Love’s Smiles, his Sighs, his Laughing and his Tears.
    Each Lover here may reade his different Fate,
    His Mistress kindness or her scornfull hate.
    Come all whom the blind God has led astray,
    Here the bewildred Youth is shew’d his way:
    Guided by this he may yet love and find
    Ease in his Heart, and reason in his Mind.
    Thus sweetly once the charming _W----lr_ strove
    In Heavenly sounds to gain his hopeless Love:
    All the World list’ned but his scornfull Fair,
    Pride stopt her ears to whom he bent his prayer.
      Much happier you that can’t desire in vain,
    But what you wish as soon as wish’d obtain.


_Upon these and other Excellent Works of the Incomparable_ ASTRÆA.

    Ye bold Magicians in Philosophy,
    That vainly think (next the Almighty three)
    The brightest _Cherubin_ in all the Hierarchy
          Will leave that Glorious Sphere
    And to your wild inchantments will appear;
    To the fond summons of fantastick Charms,
    As Barbarous and inexplicable Terms:
      As those the trembling Sorcerer dreads,
      When he the Magick Circle treads:
      And as he walks the Mystick rounds,
      And mutters the detested sounds,
    The _Stygian_ fiends exalt their wrathfull heads;
    And all ye bearded Drudges of the Schools,
    That sweat in vain to mend predestin’d fools,
    With senseless Jargon and perplexing Rules;
      Behold and with amazement stand,
    Behold a blush with shame and wonder too,
    What Divine Nature can in Woman doe.
    Behold if you can see in all this fertile Land
    Such an Anointed head, such an inspired hand.

                                  II.

    Rest on in peace, ye blessed Spirits, rest,
          With Imperial bliss for ever blest:
    Upon your sacred Urn she scorns to tread,
    Or rob the Learned Monuments of the dead:
    Nor need her Muse a foreign aid implore,
    In her own tunefull breast there’s wonderous store.
    Had she but flourisht in these times of old,
    When Mortals were amongst the Gods inrolld,
    She had not now as Woman been Ador’d,
    But with Diviner sacrifice Implor’d;
          Temples and Altars had preserv’d her name
    And she her self been thought Immortal as her fame.

                                  III.

    Curst be the balefull Tongue that dares abuse
    The rightfull offspring of her God-like Muse:
    And doubly Curst be he that thinks her Pen
    Can be instructed by the best of men.
    The times to come (as surely she will live,
           As many Ages as are past,
    As long as Learning, Sense, or wit survive,
    As long as the first principles of Bodies last.)
    The future Ages may perhaps believe
    One soft and tender Arm cou’d ne’er atchieve
           The wonderous deeds that she has done
    So hard a prize her Conqu’ring Muse has won.
    But we that live in the great Prophetesses days
           Can we enough proclaim her praise,
           We that experience every hour
    The blest effects of her Miraculous power?
    To the sweet Musick of her charming tongue,
    In numerous Crowds the ravisht hearers throng:
    And even a Herd of Beasts as wild as they
           That did the _Thracian_ Lyre obey,
    Forget their Madness and attend her song.
    The tunefull Shepherds on the dangerous rocks
    Forsake their Kinds and leave their bleating Flocks,
           And throw their tender Reeds away,
    As soon as e’er her softer Pipe begins to play.
    No barren subject, no unfertile soil
    Can prove ungratefull to her Muses Toil,
    Warm’d with the Heavenly influence of her Brain,
           Upon the dry and sandy plain,
    On craggy Mountains cover’d o’er with Snow,
    The blooming Rose and fragrant Jes’min grow:
    When in her powerful Poetick hand,
           She waves the mystick wand,
    Streight from the hardest Rocks the sweetest numbers flow.

                                  IV.

    Hail bright _Urania_! _Erato_ hail!
    _Melpomene_, _Polymnia_, _Euterpe_, hail!
    And all ye blessed powers that inspire
    The Heaven-born Soul with intellectual fire;
    Pardon my humble and unhallow’d Muse,
    If she too great a veneration use,
    And prostrate at your best lov’d Darling’s feet
    Your holy Fane with sacred honour greet:
    Her more than _Pythian_ Oracles are so divine,
    You sure not onely virtually are
           Within the glorious Shrine,
    But you your very selves must needs be there.
    The _Delian_ Prophet did at first ordain,
           That even the mighty Nine should reign,
    In distant Empires of different Clime;
     And if in her triumphant Throne,
    She rules those learned Regions alone,
    The fam’d _Pyerides_ are out-done by her omnipotent Rhime.
    In proper Cells her large capacious Brain
    The images of all things does contain,
    As bright almost as were th’.deas laid,
    In the last model e’er the World was made.
    And though her vast conceptions are so strong,
    The powerfull eloquence of her charming tongue
    Does, clear as the resistless beams of day,
    To our enlightned Souls the noble thoughts convey
    Well chosen, well appointed, every word
    Does its full force and natural grace afford;
      And though in her rich treasury,
    Confus’d like Elements great Numbers lie,
    When they their mixture and proportion take,
    What beauteous forms of every kind they make!
    Such was the Language God himself infus’d,
    And such the style our great Forefather us’d,
    From one large stock the various sounds he fram’d,
    And every Species of the vast Creation nam’d.
      While most of our dull Sex have trod
    In beaten paths of one continued Road,
      Her skilfull and well manag’d Muse
    Does all the art and strength of different paces use:
      For though sometimes with slackned force,
      She wisely stops her fleetest course,
      That slow but strong Majestick pace
    Shews her the swiftest steed of all the chosen Race.

                                   V.

    Well has she sung the learned _Daphnis_ praise,
    And crown’d his Temple with immortal Bays;
    And all that reade him must indeed confess,
    Th’effects of such a cause could not be less.
    For ne’er was (at the first bold heat begun)
    So hard and swift a Race of glory run,
    But yet her sweeter Muse did for him more,
    Than he himself or all _Apollo’s_ sons before;
      For shou’d th’ insatiate lust of time
    Root out the memory of his sacred Rhime,
    The polish’d armour in that single Page
      Wou’d all the tyranny and rage
           Of Fire and Sword defie,
    For _Daphnis_ can’t but with _Astræa_ die.
      And who can dark oblivion fear,
    That is co-eval with her mighty Works and Her?
    Ah learned Chymist, ‘tis she onely can
           By her almighty arm,
    Within the pretious salt collect,
           The true essential form,
    And can against the power of death protect
    Not onely Herbs and Trees, but raise the buried Man.

                                  VI.

    Wretched _OEnone’s_ inauspicious fate,
    That she was born so soon, or her blest Muse so late!
    Cou’d the poor Virgin have like her complain’d,
    She soon her perjur’d Lover had regain’d,
      In spight of all the fair Seducers tears,
    In spight of all her Vows and Prayers;
    Such tender accents through his Soul had ran,
    As wou’d have pierc’d the hardest heart of Man.
    At every Line the fugitive had swore
    By all the Gods, by all the Powers divine,
    My dear _OEnone_, I’ll be ever thine,
    And ne’er behold the flattering Grecian more.
    How does it please the learned _Roman’s_ Ghost
    (The sweetest that th’ _Elysian_ Field can boast)
    To see his noble thoughts so well exprest,
    So tenderly in a rough Language drest;
    Had she there liv’d, and he her _Genius_ known,
    So soft, so charming, and so like his own,
    One of his Works had unattempted been,
    And _Ovid_ ne’er in mournfull Verse been seen;
    Then the great _Cæsar_ to the _Scythian_ plain,
    From _Rome’s_ gay Court had banish’d him in vain,
    Her plenteous Muse had all his wants supplied,
    And he had flourish’d in exalted pride:
    No barbarous _Getans_ had deprav’d his tongue,
    For he had onely list’ned to her Song,
    Not as an exile, but proscrib’d by choice,
    Pleas’d with her Form, and ravish’d with her voice.
           His last and dearest part of Life,
           Free from noise and glorious strife,
    He there had spent within her softer Armes,
    And soon forgot the Royal _Julia’s_ charmes.

                                  VII.

    Long may she scourge this mad rebellious Age,                      }
    And stem the torrent of Fanatick rage,                             }
    That once had almost overwhelm’d the Stage.                        }
    O’er all the Land the dire contagion spread,
    And e’en _Apollo’s_ Sons apostate fled:
    But while that spurious race imploy’d their parts                  }
    In studying strategems and subtile arts,                           }
    To alienate their Prince’s Subjects hearts,                        }
    Her Loyal Muse still tun’d her loudest strings,
    To sing the praises of the best of Kings.
    And, O ye sacred and immortal Gods,
    From the blest Mansions of your bright abodes,
    To the first _Chaos_ let us all be hurld,
    E’er such vile wretches should reform the World,
    That in all villany so far excell,                                 }
    If they in sulphurous flames must onely dwell,                     }
    The Cursed Caitiffs hardly merit Hell.                             }
    Were not those vile _Achitophels_ so lov’d,
    (The blind, the senseless and deluded Crowd)
    Did they but half his Royal Vertues know,
    But half the blessings which to him they owe,
    His long forbearance to provoking times,
    And God-like mercy to the worst of crimes:
    Those murmuring _Shimei’s_, even they alone,                       }
    Cou’d they bestow a greater than his own,                          }
    Wou’d from a Cottage raise him to a Throne.                        }

                                 VIII.

    See, ye dull Scriblers of this frantick Age,
    That load the Press, and so o’erwhelm the Stage,
    That e’en the noblest art that e’er was known,
    As great as an _Egyptian_ Plague is grown:
    Behold, ye scrawling Locusts, what ye’ve done,
      What a dire judgment is brought down,
    By your curst Dogrel Rhimes upon the Town;
    On Fools and Rebels hangs an equal Fate,
      And both may now repent too late,
    For the great Charter of your Wit as well as Trade is gone.
    Once more the fam’d _Astræa’s_ come;
      ‘Tis she pronounc’d the fatal doom,
    And has restor’d it to the rightfull Heirs,
    Since Knowledge first in Paradise was theirs.

                                  IX.

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


    _To the excellent_ ASTRÆA.

    We all can well admire, few well can praise
    Where so great merit does the Subject raise:
    To write our Thoughts alike from dulness free,
    On this hand, as on that from flattery;
    He who wou’d handsomly the _Medium_ hit,
    Must have no little of _Astræa’s_ Wit.
    Let others in the noble Task engage,
    Call you the _Phoenix_, wonder of the Age,
    The Glory of your Sex, the Shame of ours,
    Crown you with Garlands of Rhetorick Flowers;
    For me, alas, I nothing can design,                                }
    To render your soft Numbers more divine,                           }
    Than by comparison with these of mine:                             }
    As beauteous paintings are set off by shades,
    And some fair Ladies by their dowdy Maids;
    Yet after all, forgive me if I name
    One Fault where, _Madam_, you are much to blame,
    To wound with Beauty’s fighting on the square,
    But to o’ercome with Wit too is not fair;
    ‘Tis like the poison’d _Indian_ Arrows found,
    For thus you’re sure to kill where once you wound.

                                                            _J.W._


_To Madam_ A. Behn _on the publication of her Poems._

    When the sad news was spread,
    The bright, the fair _Orinda’s_ dead,
    We sigh’d, we mourn’d, we wept, we griev’d,
    And fondly with our selves conceiv’d,
    A loss so great could never be retriev’d.
    The Ruddy Warriour laid his Truncheon by,
    Sheath’d his bright sword, and glorious Arms forgot,
    The sounds of Triumph, braggs of Victory,
    Rais’d in his Breast no emulative thought;
           For pond’ring on the common Lot,
      Where is, said He the Diff’rence in the Grave,
           Betwixt the Coward and the Brave?
      Since She, alas, whose inspir’d Muse should tell
      To unborn Ages how the Hero fell,
    From the Impoverisht Ignorant World is fled,
    T’inhance the mighty mighty Number of the dead.

                                  II.

    The trembling Lover broke his tuneless Lute,
           And said be thou for ever mute:
           Mute as the silent shades of night,
             Whither _Orinda’s_ gone,
    Thy musicks best instructress and thy musicks song;
             She that could make
    Thy inarticulated strings to speak,
           In language soft as young desires,
           In language chaste as _Vestal_ fires;
    But she hath ta’n her Everlasting flight:
             Ah! cruel Death,
           How short’s the date of Learned breath!
           No sooner do’s the blooming Rose,
             Drest fresh and gay,
    In the embroy’dries of her Native May,
        Her odorous sweets expose,
        But with thy fatal knife,
    The fragrant flow’r is crop’t from off the stalk of life.

                                  III.

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

                                  IV.

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

                                   V.

    Hark how the gladded Nymphs rejoyce,
        And with a gracefull voice,
        Commend _Apollo’s_ Choice.
    The gladded Nymphs their Guardian Angel greet,
        And chearfully her name repeat,
        And chearfully admire and praise,
        The Loyal musick of her layes;
          Whilst they securely sit,
        Beneath the banners of her wit,
    And scorn th’ill-manner’d Ignorance of those,
        Whose Stock’s so poor they cannot raise
    To their dull Muse one subsidy of praise,
        Unless they’re dubb’d the Sexes foes,
        These squibbs of sense themselves expose.
          Or if with stolen light
            They shine one night,
        The next their earth-born Lineage shows,
          They perish in their slime,
    And but to name them, wou’d defile _Astræa’s_ Rhime.

                                  IV.

        But you that would be truely wise,
        And vertues fair _Idea_ prize;
          You that would improve
    In harmless Arts of not indecent Love:
    Arts that _Romes_ fam’d Master never taught,
      Or in the Shops of fortune’s bought.
        Would you know what Wit doth mean,
          Pleasant wit yet not obscene,
        The several garbs that Humours wear,
        The dull, the brisk, the jealous, the severe?
      Wou’d you the pattern see
      Of spotless and untainted Loyalty,
        Deck’t in every gracefull word
        That language that afford;
    Tropes and Figures, Raptures and Conceits that ly,
      Disperst in all the pleasant Fields of poesie?
        Reade you then _Astræa’s_ lines,
      ‘Tis in those new discover’d Mines,
    Those golden Quarries that this Ore is found
    With which in Worlds as yet unknown _Astræa_ shall be crown’d.

                                  VII.

    And you th’ Advent’rous sons of fame,
      You that would sleep in honours bed
        With glorious Trophies garnished;
      You that with living labours strive
      Your dying Ashes to survive;
    Pay your Tributes to _Astræa’s_ name,
      Her Works can spare you immortality,
        For sure her Works shall never dye.
    Pyramids must fall and Mausolean Monuments decay,
      Marble Tombs shall crumble into dust,
      Noisie Wonders of a short liv’d day,
      That must in time yield up their Trust;
      And had e’er this been perisht quite
      Ith’ ruines of Eternal night,
        Had no kind Pen like her’s,
    In powerfull numbers powerfull verse,
    Too potent for the gripes of Avaritious fate,
    To these our ages lost declar’d their pristine State.

                                 VIII.

    But time it self, bright Nymph, shall never conquer thee,
      For when the Globe of vast Eternity;
        Turns up the wrong-side of the World,
      And all things are to their first _Chaos_ hurl’d,
        Thy lasting praise in thy own lines inroll’d,
    With _Roman_ and with the _British_ Names shall Equal honour hold.
          And surely none ‘midst the Poetick Quire,
              But justly will admire
              The Trophies of thy wit,
              Sublime and gay as e’er were yet
              In Charming Numbers writ.
          Or _Virgil’s_ Shade or _Ovid’s_ Ghost,
          Of Ages past the pride and boast;
          Or _Cowley_ (first of ours) refuse
    That thou shouldst be Companion of their Muse.
        And if ‘twere lawfull to suppose
      (As where’s the Crime or Incongruity)
          Those awfull Souls concern’d can be
              At any sublunary thing,
          Alas, I fear they’ll grieve to see,
            That whilst I sing,
    And strive to praise, I but disparage thee.

                                                     _By F. N. W._


_To Madam_ Behn, _on her Poems._

    When th’.lmighty Powers th’.niverse had fram’d,
    And Man as King, the lesser World was nam’d.
    The Glorious Consult soon his joys did bless.
    And sent him Woman his chief happiness.
    She by an after-birth Heaven did refine,
    And gave her Beauty with a Soul divine;
    She with delight was Natures chiefest pride,
    Dearer to Man than all the World beside;
    Her soft embraces charm’d his Manly Soul,
    And softer Words his Roughness did controul:
    So thou, great _Sappho_, with thy charming Verse,
    Dost here the Soul of Poetry rehearse;
    From your sweet Lips such pleasant Raptures fell,
    As if the Graces strove which shou’d excell.
    Th’admiring World when first your Lute you strung.
    Became all ravisht with th’ immortal Song;
    So soft and gracefull Love in you is seen,
    As if the Muses had design’d you Queen.
    For thee, thou great _Britannia_ of our Land,
    How does thy Praise our tunefull Feet command?
    With what great influence do thy Verses move?                      }
    How hast thou shewn the various sense of Love?                     }
    Admir’d by us, and blest by all above.                             }
    To you all tribute’s due, and I can raise
    No glory but by speaking in your praise.
    Go on and bless us dayly with your Pen,
    And we shall oft return thee thanks again.

                                                      _H. Watson._


POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.


_The Golden Age._

          _A Paraphrase on a Translation out of French._

                                   I.

    Blest Age! when ev’ry Purling Stream
        Ran undisturb’d and clear,
    When no scorn’d Shepherds on your Banks were seen,
    Tortur’d by Love, by Jealousie, or Fear;
    When an Eternal Spring drest ev’ry Bough,
    And Blossoms fell, by new ones dispossest;
    These their kind Shade affording all below,
    And those a Bed where all below might rest.
    The Groves appear’d all drest with Wreaths of Flowers,
    And from their Leaves dropt Aromatick Showers,
    Whose fragrant Heads in Mystick Twines above,
    Exchang’d their Sweets, and mix’d with thousand Kisses,
        As if the willing Branches strove
        To beautifie and shade the Grove
        Where the young wanton Gods of Love
    Offer their Noblest Sacrifice of Blisses.

                                  II.

    Calm was the Air, no Winds blew fierce and loud,
    The Skie was dark’ned with no sullen Cloud;
    But all the Heav’ns laugh’d with continued Light,
    And scattered round their Rays serenely bright.
        No other Murmurs fill’d the Ear
        But what the Streams and Rivers purl’d,
    When Silver Waves o’er Shining Pebbles curl’d;
      Or when young _Zephirs_ fan’d the Gentle Breez,
      Gath’ring fresh Sweets from Balmy Flow’rs and Trees,
    Then bore ‘em on their Wings to perfume all the Air:
        While to their soft and tender Play,
        The Gray-Plum’d Natives of the Shades
      Unwearied sing till Love invades,
    Then Bill, then sing again, while Love and Musick makes the Day.

                                  III.

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

                                  IV.

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

                                   V.

    Right and Property were words since made,
      When Power taught Mankind to invade:
    When Pride and Avarice became a Trade;
      Carri’d on by discord, noise and wars,
      For which they barter’d wounds and scarrs;
    And to Inhaunce the Merchandize, miscall’d it, Fame,
      And Rapes, Invasions, Tyrannies,
      Was gaining of a Glorious Name:
    Stiling their salvage slaughters, Victories;
      Honour, the Error and the Cheat
      Of the Ill-natur’d Bus’ey Great,
      Nonsense, invented by the Proud,
      Fond Idol of the slavish Crowd,
      Thou wert not known in those blest days
    Thy Poyson was not mixt with our unbounded Joyes;
    Then it was glory to pursue delight,
    And that was lawful all, that Pleasure did invite,
    Then ‘twas the Amorous world injoy’d its Reign;
    And Tyrant Honour strove t’ usurp in Vain.

                                  VI.

    The flowry Meads, the Rivers and the Groves,
    Were fill’d with little Gay-wing’d Loves:
      That ever smil’d and danc’d and Play’d,
    And now the woods, and now the streames invade,
    And where they came all things were gay and glad:
    When in the Myrtle Groves the Lovers sat
      Opprest with a too fervent heat;
    A Thousands Cupids fann’d their wings aloft,
    And through the Boughs the yielded Ayre would waft:
    Whose parting Leaves discovered all below,
    And every God his own soft power admir’d,
    And smil’d and fann’d, and sometimes bent his Bow;
    Where e’er he saw a Shepherd uninspir’d.
    The Nymphs were free, no nice, no coy disdain;
    Deny’d their Joyes, or gave the Lover pain;
    The yielding Maid but kind Resistance makes;
    Trembling and blushing are not marks of shame,
      But the Effect of kindling Flame:
    Which from the sighing burning Swain she takes,
    While she with tears all soft, and down-cast-eyes,
    Permits the Charming Conqueror to win the prize.

                                  VII.

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

                                 VIII.

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

                                  IX.

    Honour! that put’st our words that should be free
        Into a set Formality.
    Thou base Debaucher of the generous heart,
    That teachest all our Looks and Actions Art;
        What Love design’d a sacred Gift,
        What Nature made to be possest;
        Mistaken Honour, made a Theft,
        For Glorious Love should be confest:
    For when confin’d, all the poor Lover gains,
    Is broken Sighs, pale Looks, Complaints and Pains.
    Thou Foe to Pleasure, Nature’s worst Disease,
      Thou Tyrant over mighty Kings,
    What mak’st thou here in Shepheards Cottages;
    Why troublest thou the quiet Shades and Springs?
        Be gone, and make thy Fam’d resort
          To Princes Pallaces;
    Go Deal and Chaffer in the Trading Court,
    That busie Market for Phantastick Things;
    Be gone and interrupt the short Retreat,
        Of the Illustrious and the Great;
        Go break the Politicians sleep,
        Disturb the Gay Ambitious Fool,
        That longs for Scepters, Crowns, and Rule,
    Which not his Title, nor his Wit can keep;
    But let the humble honest _Swain_ go on,
    In the blest Paths of the first rate of man;
        That nearest were to Gods Alli’d,
    And form’d for love alone, disdain’d all other Pride.

                                   X.

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


A _Farewel to_ Celladon, _On his Going into_ Ireland.

                              Pindarick.

      Farewell the Great, the Brave and Good,
      By all admir’d and understood;
    For all thy vertues so extensive are,
    Writ in so noble and so plain a Character,
    That they instruct humanity what to do,
    How to reward and imitate ‘em too,
      The mighty _Cesar_ found and knew,
      The Value of a Swain so true:
    And early call’d the Industrious Youth from Groves
      Where unambitiously he lay,
    And knew no greater Joyes, nor Power then Loves;
          Which all the day
    The careless and delighted _Celladon_ Improves;
    So the first man in Paradice was laid,
    So blest beneath his own dear fragrant shade,
      Till false Ambition made him range,
      So the Almighty call’d him forth,
    And though for Empire he did _Eden_ change;
      Less Charming ‘twas, and far less worth.

                                  II.

    Yet he obeyes and leaves the peaceful Plains,
      The weeping Nymphs, and sighing Swains,
      Obeys the mighty voice of _Jove_.
    The Dictates of his Loyalty pursues,
    Bus’ness Debauches all his hours of Love;
      Bus’ness, whose hurry, noise and news
        Even Natures self subdues;
    Changes her best and first simplicity,
      Her soft, her easie quietude
    Into mean Arts of cunning Policy,
    The Grave and Drudging Coxcomb to Delude.
    Say, mighty _Celladon_, oh tell me why,
      Thou dost thy nobler thoughts imploy
      In bus’ness, which alone was made
    To teach the restless States-man how to Trade
    In dark Cabals for Mischief and Design,
    But n’ere was meant a Curse to Souls like thine.
      Business the _Check_ to Mirth and Wit,
      Business the Rival of the Fair,
    The Bane to Friendship, and the Lucky Hit,
    Onely to those that languish in Dispair;
    Leave then that wretched troublesome Estate
      To him to whom forgetful Heaven,
      Has no one other vertue given,
      But dropt down the unfortunate,
      To Toyl, be Dull, and to be Great.

                                  III.

      But thou whose nobler Soul was fram’d,
      For Glorious and Luxurious Ease,
      By Wit adorn’d, by Love inflam’d;
      For every Grace, and Beauty Fam’d,
      Form’d for delight, design’d to please,
      Give, Give a look to every Joy,
    That youth and lavish Fortune can invent,
    Nor let Ambition, that false God, destroy
      Both Heaven and Natures first intent.
      But oh in vain is all I say,
        And you alas must go,
      The Mighty _Cæsar_ to obey,
      And none so fit as you.
    From all the Envying Croud he calls you forth,
    He knows your Loyalty, and knows your worth;
    He’s try’d it oft, and put it to the Test,
    It grew in Zeal even whilst it was opprest,
      The great, the God-like _Celladon_,
      Unlike the base Examples of the times,
    Cou’d never be Corrupted, never won,
      To stain his honest blood with Rebel _Crimes_.
    Fearless unmov’d he stood amidst the tainted Crowd,
    And justify’d and own’d his Loyalty aloud.

                                  IV.

    _Hybernia_ hail! Hail happy Isle,
      Be glad, and let all Nature smile.
    Ye Meads and Plains send forth your Gayest Flowers;
      Ye Groves and every Purling Spring,
      Where Lovers sigh, and Birds do sing,
    Be glad and gay, for _Celladon_ is yours;
      He comes, he comes to grace your Plains.
      To Charm the Nymphs, and bless the Swains,
      Ecchoes repeat his Glorious Name
      To all the Neighbouring Woods and Hills;
      Ye Feather’d Quire chant forth his Fame,
      Ye Fountains, Brooks, and Wand’ring Rills,
    That through the Meadows in Meanders run,
    Tell all your Flowry Brinks, the generous Swain is come.

                                  VI.

    Divert him all ye pretty Solitudes,
    And give his Life some softning Interludes:
      That when his weari’d mind would be,
      From Noise and Rigid Bus’ness free;
    He may upon your Mossey Beds lye down,
      Where all is Gloomy, all is Shade,
      With some dear Shee, whom Nature made,
      To be possest by him alone;
      Where the soft tale of Love She breathes,
    Mixt with the rushing of the wind-blown leaves,
      The different Notes of Cheerful Birds,
      And distant Bleating of the Herds:
    Is Musick far more ravishing and sweet,
    Then all the Artful Sounds that please the noisey Great.

                                  VII.

      Mix thus your Toiles of Life with Joyes,
    And for the publick good, prolong your days:
    Instruct the World, the great Example prove,
    Of Honour, Friendship, Loyalty, and Love.
      And when your busier hours are done,
      And you with _Damon_ sit alone;
      _Damon_ the honest, brave and young;
    Whom we must Celebrate where you are sung,
    For you (by Sacred Friendship ty’d,)
      Love nor Fate can nere divide;
    When your agreeing thoughts shall backward run,
    Surveying all the Conquests you have won,
    The Swaines you’ave left, the sighing Maids undone;
    Try if you can a fatal prospect take,
    Think if you can a soft _Idea_ make:
      Of what we are, now you are gone,
      Of what we feel for _Celladon_.

                                 VIII.

    ‘Tis _Celladon_ the witty and the gay,
    That blest the Night, and cheer’d the world all Day:
    ‘Tis _Celladon_, to whom our Vows belong,
    And _Celladon_ the Subject of our Song.
    For whom the Nymphs would dress, the Swains rejoice,
      The praise of these, of those the choice;
    And if our Joyes were rais’d to this Excess,
    Our Pleasures by thy presence made so great:
      Some pittying God help thee to guess,
      (What fancy cannot well Express.)
      Our Languishments by thy Retreat;
    Pitty our Swaines, pitty our Virgins more,
    And let that pitty haste thee to our shore;
    And whilst on happy distant Coasts you are,
    Afford us all your sighs, and _Cesar_ all your care.


On _a_ Juniper-Tree, _cut down to make_ Busks.

    Whilst happy I Triumphant stood,
    The Pride and Glory of the Wood;
    My Aromatick Boughs and Fruit,
    Did with all other Trees dispute.
    Had right by Nature to excel,
    In pleasing both the tast and smell:
    But to the touch I must confess,
    Bore an Ungrateful Sullenness.
    My Wealth, like bashful Virgins, I
    Yielded with some Reluctancy;
    For which my vallue should be more,
    Not giving easily my store.
    My verdant Branches all the year                                   }
    Did an Eternal Beauty wear;                                        }
    Did ever young and gay appear.                                     }
    Nor needed any tribute pay,
    For bounties from the God of Day:
    Nor do I hold Supremacy,
    (In all the Wood) o’er every Tree.
    But even those too of my own Race,
    That grow not in this happy place.
    But that in which I glory most,
    And do my self with Reason boast,
    Beneath my shade the other day,
    Young _Philocles_ and _Cloris_ lay,
    Upon my Root she lean’d her head,                                  }
    And where I grew, he made their Bed:                               }
    Whilst I the Canopy more largely spread.                           }
    Their trembling Limbs did gently press,
    The kind supporting yielding Grass:
    Ne’er half so blest as now, to bear
    A Swain so Young, a Nimph so fair:
    My Grateful Shade I kindly lent,
    And every aiding Bough I bent.
    So low, as sometimes had the blisse,
    To rob the Shepherd of a kiss,
    Whilst he in Pleasures far above
    The Sence of that degree of Love:
    Permitted every stealth I made,
    Unjealous of his Rival Shade.
    I saw ‘em kindle to desire,
    Whilst with soft sighs they blew the fire;
    Saw the approaches of their joy,
    He growing more fierce, and she less Coy,
    Saw how they mingled melting Rays,
    Exchanging Love a thousand ways.
    Kind was the force on every side,                                  }
    Her new desire she could not hide:                                 }
    Nor wou’d the Shepherd be deny’d.                                  }
    Impatient he waits no consent
    But what she gave by Languishment,
    The blessed Minute he pursu’d;
    And now transported in his Arms,
    Yeilds to the Conqueror all her Charmes,
    His panting Breast, to hers now join’d,
    They feast on Raptures unconfin’d;
    Vast and Luxuriant, such as prove
    The Immortality of Love.
    For who but a Divinitie,                                           }
    Could mingle Souls to that Degree;                                 }
    And melt ‘em into Extasie?                                         }
    Now like the _Phenix_, both Expire,                                }
    While from the Ashes of their Fire,                                }
    Sprung up a new, and soft desire.                                  }
    Like Charmers, thrice they did invoke,
    The God! and thrice new vigor took.
    Nor had the Mysterie ended there,
    But _Cloris_ reassum’d her fear,
    And chid the Swain, for having prest,
    What she alas wou’d not resist:
    Whilst he in whom Loves sacred flame,
    Before and after was the same,
    Fondly implor’d she wou’d forget
    A fault, which he wou’d yet repeat.
    From Active Joyes with some they hast,
    To a Reflexion on the past;
    A thousand times my Covert bless,
    That did secure their Happiness:
    Their Gratitude to every Tree
    They pay, but most to happy me;
    The Shepherdess my Bark carest,
    Whilst he my Root, Love’s Pillow, kist;
    And did with sighs, their fate deplore,
    Since I must shelter them no more;
    And if before my Joyes were such,
    In having heard, and seen too much,
    My Grief must be as great and high,                                }
    When all abandon’d I shall be,                                     }
    Doom’d to a silent Destinie.                                       }
    No more the Charming strife to hear,
    The Shepherds Vows, the Virgins fear:
    No more a joyful looker on,
    Whilst Loves soft Battel’s lost and won.
      With grief I bow’d my murmering Head,
    And all my Christal Dew I shed.
    Which did in _Cloris_ Pity move,
    (_Cloris_ whose Soul is made of Love;)
    She cut me down, and did translate,
    My being to a happier state.
    No Martyr for Religion di’d
    With half that Unconsidering Pride;
    My top was on that Altar laid.
    Where Love his softest Offerings paid:
    And was as fragrant Incense burn’d,
    My body into Busks was turn’d:
    Where I still guard the Sacred Store,
    And of Loves Temple keep the Door.


On _the_ Death _of Mr._ Grinhil, _the Famous Painter._

                                   I.

    What doleful crys are these that fright my sence,
    Sad as the Groans of dying Innocence?
    The killing Accents now more near Aproach,
            And the Infectious Sound,
      Spreads and Inlarges all around;
    And does all Hearts with Grief and Wonder touch.
      The famous _Grinhil_ dead! even he,
    That cou’d to us give Immortalitie;
      Is to the Eternal silent Groves withdrawn,
    Those sullen Groves of Everlasting Dawn;
    Youthful as Flowers, scarce blown, whose opening Leaves,
    A wond’rous and a fragrant Prospect gives,
    Of what it’s Elder Beauties wou’d display,
    When they should flourish up to ripning _May_.
    Witty as _Poets_, warm’d with Love and Wine,
      Yet still spar’d Heaven and his Friend,
    For both to him were Sacred and Divine:
    Nor could he this no more then that offend.
    Fixt as a _Martyr_ where he friendship paid,
            And Generous as a God,
    Distributing his Bounties all abroad;
    And soft and gentle as a Love-sick Maid.

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

    Each Excellence he had that Youth has in its Pride,
      And all Experienc’d Age cou’d teach,
    At once the vigorous fire of this,
    And every vertue which that cou’d Express.
      In all the heights that both could reach;
    And yet alas, in this Perfection di’d.
    Dropt like a Blossom with the Northern blast,
    (When all the scatter’d Leaves abroad were cast;)
    As quick as if his fate had been in hast:
      So have I seen an unfixt Star,
    Out-shine the rest of all the Numerous Train,
    As bright as that which Guides the Marriner,
    Dart swiftly from its darken’d Sphere:
      And nere shall sight the World again.

                                  IV.

    Ah why shou’d so much knowledge die!
      Or with his last kind breath,
    Why cou’d he not to some one friend bequeath
        The Mighty Legacie!
    But ‘twas a knowledge given to him alone,
      That his eternis’d Name might be
      Admir’d to all Posteritie,
    By all to whom his grateful Name was known.
      Come all ye softer Beauties, come;
      Bring Wreaths of Flowers to deck his tomb;
    Mixt with the dismal _Cypress_ and the _Yew_,
      For he still gave your Charmes their due:
    And from the injuries of Age and Time,
      Preserv’d the sweetness of your Prime:
    And best knew how t’ adore that Sweetness too;
      Bring all your Mournful Tributes here,
    And let your Eyes a silent sorrow wear,
    Till every Virgin for a while become
    Sad as his Fate, and like his Picture’s Dumb.


A Ballad _on Mr._ J. H. _to_ Amoret, _asking why I was so sad._

    My _Amoret_, since you must know,
    The Grief you say my Eyes do show:
    Survey my Heart, where you shall find,
    More Love then for your self confin’d.
    And though you chide, you’ll Pity too,
    A Passion which even Rivals you.

    _Amyntas_ on a Holyday
    As fine as any Lord of _May_,
    Amongst the Nimphs, and jolly Swaines,
    That feed their Flocks upon the Plaines:
    Met in a Grove beneath whose shade,
    A Match of Dancing they had made.

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

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

    His Bonnet with the same was Ti’d,
    A Silver Scrip hung by his Side:
    His Buskins garnisht A-la-mode,
    Were grac’d by every step he Trod;
    Like _Pan_, a Majesty he took,
    And like _Apollo_ when he spoke.

    His Hook a Wreath of Flowers Braid,
    The Present of some Love-sick Maid,
    Who all the morning had bestow’d,
    And to her Fancy now compos’d:
    Which fresher seem’d when near that place,
    To whom the Giver Captive was.

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

    He well cou’d feign an Innocence,
    And taught his Silence Eloquence;
    Each Smile he us’d, had got the force,
    To Conquer more than soft Discourse:
    Which when it serv’d his Ends he’d use,
    And subtilly thro’ a heart infuse.

    His Wit was such it cou’d controul
    The Resolutions of a Soul;
    That a Religious Vow had made,
    By Love it nere wou’d be betra’d:
    For when he spoke he well cou’d prove
    Their Errors who dispute with Love.

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

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

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


_Our Cabal._

    Come, my fair _Cloris_, come away,
    Hast thou forgot ‘tis Holyday?
    And lovely _Silvia_ too make haste,
    The Sun is up, the day does waste:
    Do’st thou not hear the Musick loud,
    Mix’d with the murmur of the Crowd?
    How can thy active Feet be still,
    And hear the Bag-pipes chearful Trill?


_Mr._ V. U.

    _Urania’s_ drest as fine and gay,
    As if she meant t’ out-shine the day;
    Or certain that no Victories
    Were to be gain’d but by her Eyes;
    Her Garment’s white, her Garniture
    The springing Beauties of the Year,
    Which are in such nice Order plac’d,
    That Nature is by Art disgrac’d:
    Her natural Curling Ebon Hair,
    Does loosly wanton in the Air.


_Mr._ G. V.

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


_My dear Brother_ J. C.

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


_My dear_ Amoret, _Mrs._ B.

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


_Mr._ J. B.

      Next Jolly _Thirsis_ came along,
    With many Beauties in a Throng.


_Mr._ Je. B.

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


_Mr._ N. R. V.

      With him the lovely _Philocless_,
    His Beauty heightned by his Dress,
    If any thing can add a Grace
    To such a Shape, and such a Face,
    Whose Natural Ornaments impart
    Enough without the help of Art.
    His Shoulders cover’d with a Hair,
    The Sun-Beams are not half so fair;
    Of which the Virgins Bracelets make,
    And where for _Philocless’s_ sake:
    His Beauty such, that one would swear
    His face did never take the Air.
    On’s Cheeks the blushing Roses show,
    The rest like whitest Daisies grow:
    His Lips, no Berries of the Field,
    Nor Cherries, such a Red do yield.
    His Eyes all Love, Soft’ning Smile;
    And when he speaks, he sighs the while:
    His Bashful Grace, with Blushes too,
    Gains more then Confidence can do.
    With all these Charms he does invade
    The Heart, which when he has betray’d,
    He slights the Trophies he has won,
    And weeps for those he has Undone;
    As if he never did intend
    His Charms for so severe an End.
    And all poor _Amoret_ can gain,
    Is pitty from the Lovely Swain:
    And if Inconstancy can seem
    Agreeable, ‘tis so in him.
    And when he meets Reproach for it,
    He does excuse it with his Wit.


_Mr._ E. B. _and Mrs._ F. M.

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


_Mr._ J. H.

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


_Mr._ Ed. Bed.

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


SONG.

_The Willing Mistriss._

    _Amyntas_ led me to a Grove,
      Where all the Trees did shade us;
    The Sun it self, though it had Strove,
      It could not have betray’d us:
    The place secur’d from humane Eyes,
      No other fear allows,
      But when the Winds that gently rise,
    Doe Kiss the yeilding Boughs.

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

    His Charming Eyes no Aid requir’d
      To tell their softning Tale;
    On her that was already fir’d,
      ‘Twas Easy to prevaile.
    He did but Kiss and Clasp me round,
      Whilst those his thoughts Exprest:
    And lay’d me gently on the Ground;
      Ah who can guess the rest?


SONG.

_Love Arm’d._

    Love in Fantastique Triumph satt,
    Whilst Bleeding Hearts a round him flow’d,
    For whom Fresh paines he did Create,
    And strange Tryanick power he show’d;
    From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire,
    Which round about, in sport he hurl’d;
    But ‘twas from mine he took desire,
    Enough to undo the Amorous World.

    From me he took his sighs and tears,
    From thee his Pride and Crueltie;
    From me his Languishments and Feares,
    And every Killing Dart from thee;
    Thus thou and I, the God have arm’d,
    And sett him up a Deity;
    But my poor Heart alone is harm’d,
    Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.


SONG.

_The Complaint._

    _Amyntas_ that true hearted Swaine,
    Upon a Rivers Banck was lay’d,
    Where to the Pittying streames he did Complaine
    On _Silvia_ that false Charming Maid
    While shee was still regardless of his paine.
      Ah! Charming _Silvia_, would he cry;
    And what he said, the _Echoes_ wou’d reply:
    Be kind or else I dy: _Ech_:--I dy.
    Be kind or else I dy: _Ech_:--I dy.

    Those smiles and Kisses which you give,
    Remember _Silvia_ are my due;
    And all the Joyes my Rivall does receive,
    He ravishes from me not you:
      Ah _Silvia_! can I live and this believe?
    Insensibles are toucht to see
    My Languishments, and seem to pitty me:
    Which I demand of thee: _Ech_:--of thee.
    Which I demand of thee: _Ech_:--of thee.

                                            _Set by Mr._ Banister.


SONG.

_The Invitation._

    _Damon_ I cannot blame your will,
    ‘Twas Chance and not Design did kill;
    For whilst you did prepare your Charmes,
    On purpose _Silvia_ to subdue:
    I met the Arrows as they flew,
    And sav’d her from their harms.

    Alas she cannot make returnes,
    Who for a Swaine already Burnes;
    A Shepherd whom she does Caress:
    With all the softest marks of Love,
    And ‘tis in vaine thou seek’st to move
    The cruel Shepherdess.

    Content thee with this Victory,
    Think me as faire and young as she:
    I’le make thee _Garlands_ all the day,
    And in the Groves we’l sit and sing;
    I’le Crown thee with the pride o’th’ Spring,
    When thou art Lord of _May_.


SONG.

    When _Jemmy_ first began to Love,
      He was the Gayest Swaine
    That ever yet a Flock had drove,
      Or danc’t upon the Plaine.
    T’was then that I, weys me poor Heart,
      My Freedom threw away;
    And finding sweets in every smart,
      I cou’d not say him nay.

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

    Sometimes to feed my Flocks with him,
      My _Jemmy_ wou’d invite me:
    Where he the Gayest Songs wou’d sing,
      On purpose to delight me.
    And _Jemmy_ every Grace displayd,
      Which were enough I trow,
    To Conquer any Princely Maid,
      So did he me I Vow.

    But now for _Jemmy_ must I mourn,
      Who to the Warrs must go;
    His Sheephook to a Sword must turne:
      Alack what shall I do?
    His Bag-pipe into War-like Sounds,
      Must now Exchanged bee:
    Instead of Braceletts, fearful Wounds;
      Then what becomes of me?


_To Mr._ Creech (_under the Name of_ Daphnis) _on his Excellent
Translation of_ Lucretius.

    Thou great Young Man! Permit amongst the Crowd
    Of those that sing thy mighty Praises lowd,
    My humble _Muse_ to bring its Tribute too.
      Inspir’d by thy vast flight of Verse,
    Methinks I should some wondrous thing rehearse,
    Worthy Divine _Lucretius_, and Diviner Thou.
        But I of Feebler Seeds design’d,
        Whilst the slow moving Atomes strove,
        With careless heed to form my Mind:
        Compos’d it all of Softer Love.
      In gentle Numbers all my Songs are Drest,
        And when I would thy Glories sing,
      What in strong manly Verse I would express,
    Turns all to Womannish Tenderness within,
    Whilst that which Admiration does inspire,
    In other Souls, kindles in mine a Fire.
    Let them admire thee on--Whilst I this newer way
        Pay thee yet more than they:
    For more I owe, since thou hast taught me more,
    Then all the mighty Bards that went before.
    Others long since have Pal’d the vast delight;
    In duller _Greek_ and _Latin_ satisfy’d the Appetite:
    But I unlearn’d in Schools, disdain that mine
    Should treated be at any Feast but thine.
    Till now, I curst my Birth, my Education,
    And more the scanted Customes of the Nation:
    Permitting not the Female Sex to tread,
    The mighty Paths of Learned Heroes dead.
    The God-like _Virgil_, and great _Homers_ Verse,
    Like Divine Mysteries are conceal’d from us.
        We are forbid all grateful Theams,
        No ravishing thoughts approach our Ear,
        The Fulsom Gingle of the times,
    Is all we are allow’d to understand or hear.
      But as of old, when men unthinking lay,
    Ere Gods were worshipt, or ere Laws were fram’d
    The wiser Bard that taught ‘em first t’ obey,
    Was next to what he taught, ador’d and fam’d;
    Gentler they grew, their words and manners chang’d,
    And salvage now no more the Woods they rang’d.
    So thou by this Translation dost advance
    Our Knowledg from the State of Ignorance,
    And equals us to Man! Ah how can we,
    Enough Adore, or Sacrifice enough to thee.

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

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

    The Learned _Thirsis_ did to thee belong,
    Who _Athens_ Plague has so divinely Sung.
    _Thirsis_ to wit, as sacred friendship true,
    Paid Mighty _Cowley’s_ Memory its due.
    _Thirsis_ who whilst a greater Plague did reign,
    Then that which _Athens_ did Depopulate:
    Scattering Rebellious Fury o’re the Plain,
    That threaten’d Ruine to the Church and State,
    Unmov’d he stood, and fear’d no Threats of Fate.
    That Loyal Champion for the Church and Crown,
    That Noble Ornament of the Sacred Gown,
    Still did his Soveraign’s Cause Espouse,
    And was above the Thanks of the mad Senate-house.
    _Strephon_ the Great, whom last you sent abroad,
    Who Writ, and Lov’d, and Lookt like any God;
    For whom the Muses mourn, the Love-sick Maids
    Are Languishing in Melancholly Shades.
      The _Cupids_ flag their Wings, their Bows untie,
      And useless Quivers hang neglected by,
      And scatter’d Arrows all around ‘em lye.
    By murmuring Brooks the careless Deities are laid,
    Weeping their rifled power now Noble _Strephon’s_ Dead.

    Ah Sacred _Wadham_! should’st thou never own
    But this delight of all Mankind and thine;
    For Ages past of Dulness, this alone,
      This Charming Hero would Attone.
    And make thee Glorious to succeeding time;
    But thou like Natures self disdain’st to be,
      Stinted to Singularity.
    Even as fast as she thou dost produce,
    And over all the Sacred Mystery infuse.
    No sooner was fam’d _Strephon’s_ Glory set,
    _Strephon_ the Soft, the Lovely and the Great;
    But _Daphnis_ rises like the Morning-Star,
    That guides the Wandring Traveller from afar.
    _Daphnis_ whom every Grace, and Muse inspires,
    Scarce _Strephons_ Ravishing Poetic Fires
    So kindly warm, or so divinely Cheer.
    Advance Young _Daphnis_, as thou hast begun,
      So let thy Mighty Race be run.
      Thou in thy large Poetick Chace,
      Begin’st where others end the Race.
    If now thy Grateful Numbers are so strong,
    If they so early can such Graces show,
    Like Beauty so surprizing, when so Young,
    What _Daphnis_ will thy Riper Judgment do,
    When thy Unbounded Verse in their own Streams shall flow!
        What Wonder will they not produce,                             }
        When thy Immortal Fancy’s loose;                               }
    Unfetter’d, Unconfin’d by any other Muse!                          }
    Advance Young _Daphnis_ then, and mayst thou prove
    Still sacred in thy Poetry and Love.
    May all the Groves with _Daphnis_ Songs be blest,
    Whilst every Bark is with thy Disticks drest.
    May Timerous Maids learn how to Love from thence
    And the Glad Shepherd _Arts of Eloquence_.
    And when to Solitude thou would’st Retreat,
    May their tun’d Pipes thy Welcome celebrate.
    And all the Nymphs strow Garlands at thy Feet.
    May all the Purling Streams that murmuring pass,
      The Shady Groves and Banks of Flowers,
      The kind reposing Beds of Grass,
      Contribute to their Softer Hours.
    Mayst thou thy Muse and Mistress there Caress,
    And may one heighten to ‘thers Happiness.
    And whilst thou so divinely dost Converse,
    We are content to know and to admire thee in thy Sacred Verse.


_To Mrs._ W. _On her Excellent Verses (Writ in Praise of some I had
made on the Earl of_ Rochester) _Written in a Fit of Sickness._

    Enough kind Heaven! to purpose I have liv’d,
    And all my Sighs and Languishments surviv’d.
    My Stars in vain their sullen influence have shed,
        Round my till now Unlucky Head:
      I pardon all the Silent Hours I’ve griev’d,
      My Weary Nights, and Melancholy Days;
        When no Kind Power my Pain Reliev’d,
      I lose you all, ye sad Remembrancers,
        I lose you all in New-born Joys,
      Joys that will dissipate my Falling Tears.
      The Mighty Soul of _Rochester’s_ reviv’d,
      Enough Kind Heaven to purpose I have liv’d.
      I saw the Lovely _Phantom_, no Disguise,
      Veil’d the blest Vision from my Eyes,
    ‘Twas all o’re _Rochester_ that pleas’d and did surprize.
    Sad as the Grave I sat by Glimmering Light,
    Such as attends Departing Souls by Night.
    Pensive as absent Lovers left alone,
    Or my poor Dove, when his Fond Mate was gone.
    Silent as Groves when only Whispering Gales,
          Sigh through the Rushing Leaves,
    As softly as a Bashful Shepherd Breaths,
          To his Lov’d Nymph his Amorous Tales.
    So dull I was, scarce Thought a Subject found,
    Dull as the Light that gloom’d around;
        When lo the Mighty Spirit appear’d,
        All Gay, all Charming to my sight;
        My Drooping Soul it Rais’d and Cheer’d,
        And cast about a Dazling Light.
        In every part there did appear,
        The Great, the God-like _Rochester_,
    His Softness all, his Sweetness everywhere.
    It did advance, and with a Generous Look,
    To me Addrest, to worthless me it spoke:
    With the same wonted Grace my Muse it prais’d,
    With the same Goodness did my Faults Correct;
    And careful of the Fame himself first rais’d,
    Obligingly it School’d my loose Neglect.
    The soft, the moving Accents soon I knew
    The gentle Voice made up of Harmony;
    Through the Known Paths of my glad Soul it flew;
    I knew it straight, it could no others be,
    ‘Twas not Alied but very very he.
        So the All-Ravisht Swain that hears
        The wondrous Musick of the Sphears,
    For ever does the grateful Sound retain,
        Whilst all his Oaten Pipes and Reeds,
    The Rural Musick of the Groves and Meads,
    Strive to divert him from the Heavenly Song in vain.
        He hates their harsh and Untun’d Lays,
    Which now no more his Soul and Fancy raise.
    But if one Note of the remembred Air
        He chance again to hear,
    He starts, and in a transport cries,--_’.is there._
    He knows it all by that one little taste,
    And by that grateful Hint remembers all the rest.
    Great, Good, and Excellent, by what new way
    Shall I my humble Tribute pay,
    For this vast Glory you my Muse have done,
    For this great Condescension shown!
    So Gods of old sometimes laid by
    Their Awful Trains of Majesty,
    And chang’d ev’n Heav’n a while for Groves and Plains,
    And to their Fellow-Gods preferr’d the lowly Swains,
    And Beds of Flow’rs would oft compare
    To those of Downey Clouds, or yielding Air;
    At purling Streams would drink in homely Shells,
    Put off the God, to Revel it in Woods and Shepherds Cells;
    Would listen to their Rustick Songs, and show
    Such Divine Goodness in Commending too,
    Whilst the transported Swain the Honour pays
    With humble Adoration, humble Praise.


_The Sence of a Letter sent me, made into Verse; To a New Tune._

                                   I.

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

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

    When before the Impregnable Fort I lay down,
    I resolv’d or to die, or to Purchase Renown,
        But how vain was the Boast!
        All the Glory I lost,
    And now vanquish’d and sham’d I’ve quitted my Post.


_The Return._

                                   I.

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

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

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


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

        _Amyntas_, if your Wit in Dreams
          Can furnish you with Theams,
    What must it do when your Soul looks abroad,
    Quick’nd with Agitations of the Sence,
    And dispossest of Sleeps dull heavy Load,
    When ev’ry Syllable has Eloquence?
        And if by Chance such Wounds you make,
    And in your Sleep such welcome Mischiefs do;
        What are your Pow’rs when you’re awake,
    Directed by Design and Reason too?

        I slept, as duller Mortals use,
        Without the Musick of a Thought,
    When by a gentle Breath, soft as thy Muse,
        Thy Name to my glad Ear was brought:
    _Amyntas_! cry’d the Page--And at the Sound,
    My list’ning Soul unusual Pleasure found.
    So the Harmonius _Spheres_ surprize,
    Whilst the All-Ravish’d _Shepherd_ gazes round,
    And wonders whence the Charms should rise,
    That can at once both please and wound.
    Whilst trembling I unript the _Seal_
            Of what you’d sent,
    My Heart with an Impatient Zeal,
    Without my Eyes, would needs reveal
            Its Bus’ness and Intent.

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


_To my Lady_ Morland _at_ Tunbridge.

    As when a Conqu’rour does in Triumph come,
    And proudly leads the vanquish’d Captives home,
    The Joyful People croud in ev’ry Street,
    And with loud shouts of Praise the Victor greet;
    While some whom Chance or Fortune kept away,
    Desire at least the Story of the Day;
    How brave the Prince, how gay the Chariot was,
    How beautiful he look’d, with what a Grace;
    Whether upon his Head he Plumes did wear;
    Or if a Wreath of Bays adorn’d his Hair:
    They hear ‘tis wondrous fine, and long much more
    To see the _Hero_ then they did before.
    So when the Marvels by Report I knew,
    Of how much Beauty, _Cloris_, dwelt in you;
    How many _Slaves_ your Conqu’ring Eyes had won,
    And how the gazing Crowd admiring throng:
    I wish’d to see, and much a Lover grew
    Of so much Beauty, though my Rivals too.
    I came and saw, and blest my Destiny;
    I found it Just you should out-Rival me.
    ‘Twas at the Altar, where more Hearts were giv’n
    To you that day, then were address’d to Heav’n.
    The Rev’rend Man whose Age and Mystery
    Had rendred Youth and Beauty Vanity,
    By fatal Chance casting his Eyes your way,                         }
    Mistook the duller Bus’ness of the Day,                            }
    Forgot the Gospel, and began to Pray.                              }
    Whilst the Enamour’d Crowd that near you prest,                    }
    Receiving _Darts_ which none could e’er resist,                    }
    Neglected the Mistake o’th’ Love-sick Priest.                      }
    Ev’n my Devotion, _Cloris_, you betray’d,
    And I to Heaven no other Petition made,
    But that you might all other Nymphs out-do
    In Cruelty as well as Beauty too.
    I call’d _Amyntas_ Faithless _Swain_ before,
    But now I find ‘tis Just he should Adore.
    Not to love you, a wonder sure would be,
    Greater then all his Perjuries to me.
    And whilst I Blame him, I Excuse him too;
    Who would not venture Heav’n to purchase you?
    But Charming _Cloris_, you too meanly prize
    The more deserving Glories of your Eyes,
    If you permit him on an Amorous score,
    To be your _Slave_, who was my _Slave_ before.
    He oft has Fetters worn, and can with ease
    Admit ‘em or dismiss ‘em when he please.
    A Virgin-Heart you merit, that ne’er found
    It could receive, till from your Eyes, the _Wound_;
    A Heart that nothing but your Force can fear,
    And own a _Soul_ as Great as you are Fair.


_Song to_ Ceres.

_In the_ Wavering Nymph, _or Mad_ Amyntas.

                                   I.

    _Ceres_, Great Goddess of the bounteous Year,
    Who load’st the Teeming Earth with Gold and Grain,
    Blessing the Labours of th’ Industrious _Swain_,
    And to their Plaints inclin’st thy gracious Ear:
    Behold two fair _Cicilian_ Lovers lie
        Prostrate before thy Deity;
    Imploring thou wilt grant the Just Desires
    Of two Chaste Hearts that burn with equal Fires.

                                  II.

    _Amyntas_ he, brave, generous and young;
    Whom yet no Vice his Youth has e’er betray’d:
    And Chaste _Urania_ is the Lovely Maid;
    His Daughter who has serv’d thy Altars long,
    As thy High Priest: A _Dowry_ he demands
    At the young Amorous Shepherds hands:
    Say, gentle Goddess, what the Youth must give,
    E’er the Bright Maid he can from thee receive.


_Song in the same Play, by the_ Wavering Nymph.

    _Pan_, grant that I may never prove
    So great a _Slave_ to fall in love,
    And to an Unknown _Deity_
    Resign my happy Liberty:
    I love to see the Amorous _Swains_
      Unto my Scorn their Hearts resign:
    With Pride I see the Meads and Plains
      Throng’d all with _Slaves_, and they all mine:
    Whilst I the whining Fools despise,
    That pay their Homage to my Eyes.


_The Disappointment._

                                   I.

    One day the Amorous _Lysander_
    By an impatient Passion sway’d,
    Surpriz’d fair _Cloris_, that lov’d Maid,
    Who could defend her self no longer.
    All things did with his Love conspire;
    The gilded Planet of the Day,
    In his gay Chariot drawn by Fire,
    Was now descending to the Sea,
    And left no Light to guide the World,
    But what from _Cloris_ Brighter Eyes was hurld.

                                  II.

    In a lone Thicket made for Love,
    Silent as yielding Maids Consent,
    She with a Charming Languishment,
    Permits his Force, yet gently strove;
    Her Hands his Bosom softly meet,
    But not to put him back design’d,
    Rather to draw ‘em on inclin’d:
    Whilst he lay trembling at her Feet,
    Resistance ‘tis in vain to show;
    She wants the pow’r to say--_Ah! What d’ye do?_

                                  III.

    Her Bright Eyes sweet, and yet severe,
    Where Love and Shame confus’dly strive,
    Fresh Vigor to _Lysander_ give;
    And breathing faintly in his Ear,
    She cry’d--_Cease, Cease--your vain Desire,_
    _Or I’ll call out--What would you do?_
    _My Dearer Honour ev’n to You_
    _I cannot, must not give--Retire,_
    _Or take this Life, whose chiefest part_
    _I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart._

                                  IV.

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

                                   V.

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

                                  VI.

    Her Balmy Lips encount’ring his,
    Their Bodies, as their Souls, are joyn’d;
    Where both in Transports Unconfin’d
    Extend themselves upon the Moss.
    _Cloris_ half dead and breathless lay;
    Her soft Eyes cast a Humid Light,
    Such as divides the Day and Night;
    Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay:
    And now no signs of Life she shows,
    But what in short-breath’d Sighs returns and goes.

                                  VII.

    He saw how at her Length she lay;
    He saw her rising Bosom bare;
    Her loose thin _Robes_, through which appear
    A Shape design’d for Love and Play;
    Abandon’d by her Pride and Shame.
    She does her softest Joys dispence,
    Off’ring her Virgin-Innocence
    A Victim to Loves Sacred Flame;
    While the o’er-Ravish’d Shepherd lies
    Unable to perform the Sacrifice.

                                 VIII.

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

                                  IX.

    _Nature’s Support_, (without whose Aid
    She can no Humane Being give)
    It self now wants the Art to live;
    Faintness its slack’ned Nerves invade:
    In vain th’ inraged Youth essay’d
    To call its fleeting Vigor back,
    No motion ‘twill from Motion take;
    Excess of Love his Love betray’d:
    In vain he Toils, in vain Commands
    The Insensible fell weeping in his Hand.

                                   X.

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

                                  XI.

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

                                  XII.

    Than _Cloris_ her fair Hand withdrew,
    Finding that God of her Desires
    Disarm’d of all his Awful Fires,
    And Cold as Flow’rs bath’d in the Morning Dew.
    Who can the _Nymph’s_ Confusion guess?
    The Blood forsook the hinder Place,
    And strew’d with Blushes all her Face,
    Which both Disdain and Shame exprest:
    And from _Lysander’s_ Arms she fled,
    Leaving him fainting on the Gloomy Bed.

                                 XIII.

    Like Lightning through the Grove she hies,
    Or _Daphne_ from the _Delphick God_,
    No Print upon the grassey Road
    She leaves, t’ instruct Pursuing Eyes.
    The Wind that wanton’d in her Hair,
    And with her Ruffled Garments plaid,
    Discover’d in the Flying Maid
    All that the Gods e’er made, if Fair.
    So _Venus_, when her _Love_ was slain,
    With Fear and Haste flew o’er the Fatal Plain.

                                  XIV.

    The _Nymph’s_ Resentments none but I
    Can well Imagine or Condole:
    But none can guess _Lysander’s_ Soul,
    But those who sway’d his Destiny.
    His silent Griefs swell up to Storms,
    And not one God his Fury spares;
    He curs’d his Birth, his Fate, his Stars;
    But more the _Shepherdess’s_ Charms,
    Whose soft bewitching Influence
    Had Damn’d him to the _Hell_ of Impotence.


_On a Locket of Hair Wove in a True-Loves Knot, given me by Sir_ R. O.

    What means this Knot, in Mystick Order Ty’d,
    And which no Humane Knowledge can divide?
    Not the Great Conqu’rours Sword can this undo
    Whose very Beauty would divert the Blow.
      Bright Relique! Shrouded in a Shrine of Gold!
    Less Myst’ry made a Deity of Old.
    Fair Charmer! Tell me by what pow’rful Spell
    You into this Confused Order fell?
    If Magick could be wrought on things Divine,
    Some _Amorous Sybil_ did thy Form design
    In some soft hour, which the Prophetick Maid
    In Nobler Mysteries of Love employ’d.
    Wrought thee a Hieroglyphick, to express
    The wanton God in all his Tenderness;
    Thus shaded, and thus all adorn’d with Charms,
    Harmless, Unfletch’d, without Offensive Arms,
    He us’d of Old in shady Groves to Play,                            }
    E’er _Swains_ broke Vows, or _Nymphs_ were vain and coy,           }
    Or Love himself had Wings to fly away.                             }
      Or was it (his Almighty Pow’r to prove)
    Design’d a Quiver for the God of Love?
    And all these shining Hairs which th’inspir’d Maid
    Has with such strange Mysterious Fancy laid,
    Are meant his Shafts; the subt’lest surest Darts
    That ever Conqu’red or Secur’d his Hearts;
    Darts that such tender Passions do convey,
    Not the young Wounder is more soft than they.
      ‘Tis so; the Riddle I at last have learn’d:
    But found it when I was too far concern’d.


_The Dream._ A Song.

                                   I.

    The Grove was gloomy all around,
    Murm’ring the Streams did pass,
    Where fond _Astrae_ laid her down
      Upon a Bed of Grass.

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

                                  II.

    Methought I ask’d him why he cry’d,
      My Pity led me on:
    All sighing the sad Boy reply’d,
      Alas I am undone!

    As I beneath yon Myrtles lay,
      Down by _Diana’s_ Springs,
    _Amyntas_ stole my Bow away,
      And Pinion’d both my Wings.

                                  III.

    Alas! cry’d I, ‘twas then thy Darts
      Wherewith he wounded me:
    Thou Mighty _Deity_ of Hearts,
      He stole his Pow’r from thee.

    Revenge thee, if a God thou be,
      Upon the _Amorous Swain_;
    I’ll set thy Wings at Liberty,
      And thou shalt fly again.

                                  IV.

    And for this Service on my Part,
      All I implore of thee,
    Is, That thou’t wound _Amyntas_ Heart,
      And make him die for me.

    His Silken Fetters I Unty’d,
      And the gay Wings display’d;
    Which gently fann’d, he mounts and cry’d,
      Farewel fond easy Maid.

                                   V.

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


_A letter to a Brother of the Pen in_ Tribulation.

    Poor _Damon_! Art thou caught? Is’t e’vn so?
    Art thou become a [1]_Tabernacler_ too?
    Where sure thou dost not mean to Preach or Pray,
    Unless it be the clean contrary way:
    This holy[2] time I little thought thy sin
    Deserv’d a _Tub_ to do its Pennance in.
    O how you’ll for th’ _Egyptian Flesh-pots_ wish,
    When you’r half-famish’d with your Lenten-dish,
    Your _Almonds_, _Currans_, _Biskets_ hard and dry,
    Food that will Soul and Body mortifie:
    Damn’d Penetential Drink, that will infuse
    Dull Principles into thy Grateful Muse.
    --Pox on’t that you must needs be fooling now,
    Just when the Wits had greatest[3] need of you.
    Was Summer then so long a coming on,
    That you must make an Artificial one?
    Much good may’t do thee; but ‘tis thought thy Brain
    E’er long will wish for cooler Days again.
    For Honesty no more will I engage:
    I durst have sworn thou’dst had thy Pusillage.
    Thy Looks the whole Cabal have cheated too;
    But thou wilt say, most of the Wits do so.
    Is this thy writing[4] Plays? who thought thy Wit
    An Interlude of Whoring would admit?
    To Poetry no more thou’lt be inclin’d,
    Unless in Verse to damn all Womankind:
    And ‘tis but Just thou shouldst in Rancor grow
    Against that Sex that has Confin’d thee so.
      All things in Nature now are Brisk and Gay
    At the Approaches of the _Blooming May_:
    The new-fletch’d Birds do in our Arbors sing
    A Thousand Airs to welcome in the Spring;
    Whilst ev’ry Swain is like a Bridegroom drest,
    And ev’ry Nymph as going to a Feast:
    The Meadows now their flowry Garments wear,
    And ev’ry Grove does in its Pride appear:
    Whilst thou poor _Damon_ in close Rooms are pent,
    Where hardly thy own Breath can find a vent.
    Yet that too is a Heaven, compar’d to th’ Task
    Of Codling every Morning in a Cask.
      Now I could curse this Female, but I know,
    She needs it not, that thus cou’d handle you.
    Besides, that Vengeance does to thee belong.
    And ‘twere Injustice to disarm thy Tongue.
    Curse then, dear Swain, that all the Youth may hear,
    And from thy dire Mishap be taught to fear.
    Curse till thou hast undone the Race, and all
    That did contribute to thy Spring and Fall.

[1] _So he called a Sweating-Tub._

[2] _Lent._

[3] _I wanted a Prologue to a Play._

[4] _He pretended to Retire to Write._


_The Reflection_: A Song.

                                   I.

    Poor Lost _Serena_, to Bemoan
      The Rigor of her Fate,
    High’d to a Rivers-side alone,
      Upon whose Brinks she sat.
    Her Eyes, as if they would have spar’d,
      The Language of her Tongue,
    In Silent Tears a while declar’d
      The Sense of all her wrong.

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

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

                                  IV.

    Thy Eyes in Silence told their Tale
      Of Love in such a way,
    That ‘twas as easie to Prevail,
      As after to Betray.
    And when you spoke my Listning Soul,
      Was on the Flattery Hung:
    And I was lost without Controul,
      Such Musick grac’d thy Tongue.

                                   V.

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

                                  VI.

    Till by such Obligations Prest,
      By such dear Perjuries won:
    I heedlesly Resign’d the rest,
      And quickly was undone.
    For as my Kindling Flames increase,
      Yours glimeringly decay:
    The Rifled Joys no more can Please,
      That once oblig’d your Stay.

                                  VII.

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


SONG.

_To Pesibles Tune._

                                   I.

      ‘Twas when the Fields were gay,
      The Groves and every Tree:
      Just when the God of Day,
      Grown weary of his Sway,
      Descended to the Sea,
    And Gloomy Light around did all the World survey.
      ‘Twas then the Hapless Swain,
      _Amyntas_, to Complain
      Of _Silvia’s_ cold Disdain,
      Retir’d to Silent Shades;
      Where by a Rivers Side,
      His Tears did swell the Tide,
    As he upon the Brink was lay’d.

                                  II.

      Ye Gods, he often cry’d,
      Why did your Powers design
      In _Silvia_ so much Pride,
      Such Falshood too beside,
      With Beauty so Divine?
    Why should so much of Hell with so much Heaven joyn?
      Be witness every Shade,
      How oft the lovely Maid
      Her tender Vows has paid;
      Yet with the self-same Breath,
      With which so oft before,
      And solemnly she swore,
    Pronounces now _Amyntas_ Death.

                                  III.

      But, Charming _Nymph_, beware,
      Whilst _I_ your Victim die,
      Some One, my Perjur’d Fair,
      Revenging my Despair,
      Will prove as false to thee;
    Which yet my wandring Ghost wou’d look more pale to see.
      For I shall break my Tomb,
      And nightly as I rome,
      Shall to my _Silvia_ come,
      And show the Piteous Sight;
      My bleeding Bosom too,
      Which wounds were given by you;
    Then vanish in the Shades of Night.


SONG.

_On her Loving Two Equally._

                      _Set by Captain_ Pack.

                                   I.

    How strongly does my Passion flow,
    Divided equally ‘twixt two?
    _Damon_ had ne’er subdu’d my Heart,
    Had not _Alexis_ took his part;
    Nor cou’d _Alexis_ pow’rful prove.
    Without my _Damons_ Aid, to gain my Love.

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

    Cure then, thou mighty winged God,
    This restless Feaver in my Blood;
    One Golden-Pointed Dart take back:
    But which, O _Cupid_, wilt thou take?
    If _Damons_, all my Hopes are crost;
    Or that of my _Alexis_, I am lost.


_The Counsel._ A Song.

_Set by Captain_ Pack.

                                   I.

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

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

    Then haste, my _Sylvia_, to the Grove,
    Where all the Sweets of _May_ conspire
    To teach us ev’ry Art of Love,
    And raise our Joys of Pleasure higher:
    Where while embracing we shall lie
    Loosly in Shades on Beds of Flow’rs,
    The duller World while we defie,
    Years will be Minutes, Ages Hours.


SONG.

_The Surprize._

                       _Set by Mr._ Farmer.

                                   I.

    _Phillis_, whose Heart was Unconfin’d,
    And free as Flow’rs on Meads and Plains,
    None boasted of her being Kind,
    ‘Mong’st all the languishing and amorous Swains.
    No Sighs or Tears the _Nymph_ cou’d move,
    To pity or return their Love.

                                  II.

    Till on a time the hapless Maid
    Retir’d to shun the Heat o’th’ Day
    Into a Grove, beneath whose shade
    _Strephon_ the careless _Shepherd_ sleeping lay:
    But O such Charms the Youth adorn,
    Love is reveng’d for all her Scorn.

                                  III.

    Her Cheeks with Blushes cover’d were,
    And tender Sighs her Bosom warm,
    A Softness in her Eyes appear;
    Unusual Pain she feels from ev’ry Charm:
    To Woods and Ecchoes now she cries,
    For Modesty to speak denies.


SONG.

                                   I.

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

                                  II.

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


_The Invitation_: A Song.

                      _To a New Scotch Tune._

                                   I.

    Come, my _Phillis_, let us improve
    Both our Joyes of Equal Love:
    While we in yonder Shady Grove,
    Count Minutes by our Kisses.
    See the Flowers how sweetly they spread,
    And each Resigns his Gawdy Head,
    To make for us a Fragrant Bed,
    To practice o’er New Blisses.

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

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

                                  IV.

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


_Silvio’s Complaint_: A Song.

                     _To a Fine Scotch Tune._

                                   I.

    In the Blooming Time o’th’ year,
    In the Royal Month of _May_:
    Au the Heaves were glad and clear,
    Au the Earth was Fresh and Gay.
    A noble Youth but all Forlorn,
    Lig’d Sighing by a Spring:
    ‘Twere better I’s was nere Born,
      Ere wisht to be a King.

                                  II.

    Then from his Starry Eyne,
    Muckle Showers of Christal Fell:
    To bedew the Roses Fine,
    That on his Cheeks did dwell.
    And ever ‘twixt his Sighs he’d cry,
    How Bonny a Lad I’d been,
    Had I, weys me, nere Aim’d high,
      Or wisht to be a King.

                                  III.

    With Dying Clowdy Looks,
    Au the Fields and Groves he kens:
    Au the Gleeding Murmuring Brooks,
    (Noo his Unambitious Friends)
    Tol which he eance with Mickle Cheer
    His Bleating Flocks woud bring:
    And crys, woud God I’d dy’d here,
      Ere wisht to be a King.

                                  IV.

    How oft in Yonder Mead,
    Cover’d ore with Painted Flowers:
    Au the Dancing Youth I’ve led,
    Where we past our Blether Hours.
    In Yonder Shade, in Yonder Grove,
    How Blest the _Nymphs_ have been:
    Ere I for Pow’r Debaucht Love,
      Or wisht to be a King.

                                   V.

    Not add the _Arcadian Swains_,
    In their Pride and Glory Clad:
    Not au the Spacious Plains,
    Ere cou’d Boast a Bleether Lad.
    When ere I Pip’d, or Danc’d, or Ran,
    Or leapt, or whirl’d the Sling:
    The Flowry Wreaths I still won,
      And wisht to be a King.

                                  VI.

    But Curst be yon Tall Oak,
    And Old _Thirsis_ be accurst:
    There I first my peace forsook,
    There I learnt Ambition first.
    Such Glorious Songs of _Hero’s_ Crown’d,
    The Restless Swain woud Sing:
    My Soul unknown desires found,
      And Languisht to be King.

                                  VII.

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

                                 VIII.

    Ye Noble Youths, beware,
    Shun Ambitious powerful Tales:
    Distructive, False, and Fair,
    Like the Oceans Flattering Gales.
    See how my Youth and Glories lye,
    Like Blasted Flowers i’th’ Spring:
    My Fame, Renown, and all dye,
      For wishing to be King.


_In Imitation of_ Horace.

                                   I.

    What mean those Amorous Curles of Jet?
      For what Heart-Ravisht Maid
    Dost thou thy Hair in order set,
      Thy Wanton Tresses Braid?
    And thy vast Store of Beauties open lay,
    That the deluded Fancy leads astray.

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

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

                                  IV.

    Cease, Cease, with Sighs to warm my Soul,
      Or press me with thy Hand:
    Who can the kindling fire controul,
      The tender force withstand?
    Thy Sighs and Touches like wing’d Lightning fly,
    And are the Gods of Loves Artillery.


_To_ Lysander, _who made some Verses on a Discourse of Loves Fire._

                                   I.

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

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

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

                                  IV.

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

                                   V.

      Though Honour does your Wish deny,
      Honour! the Foe to your Repose;
      Yet ‘tis more Noble far to dye,
      Then break Loves known and Sacred Laws:
    What Lover wou’d pursue a single Game,
    That cou’d amongst the Fair deal out his flame?

                                  VI.

      Since then, _Lysander_, you desire,
      _Amynta_ only to adore;
      Take in no Partners to your Fire,
      For who well Loves, that Loves one more?
    And if such Rivals in your Heart I find,
    Tis in My Power to die, but not be kind.


_A Dialogue for an Entertainment at Court, between_ Damon _and_ Sylvia.

                             _Damon._

    Ah, _Sylvia_! if I still pursue,
    Whilst you in vain your Scorn improve;
    What wonders might your Eies not do:
    If they would dress themselves in _Love_.

                             _Sylvia._

    _Shepherd_, you urge my Love in vain,
    For I can ne’er Reward your pain;
    _A Slave_ each Smile of mine can win,
      And all my softning Darts,
    When e’er I please, can bring me in
    A Thousand Yeilding Hearts.

                             _Damon._

    Yet if those _Slaves_ you treat with Cruelty,
      ‘Tis an Inglorious Victory;
    And those unhappy _Swaines_ you so subdue,
    May Learn at last to scorn, as well as you;
      Your Beauty though the Gods design’d
      Shou’d be Ador’d by all below;
    Yet if you want a God-like Pittying Mind,
    Our Adoration soon will colder grow:
      ‘Tis Pitty makes a Deity,
      Ah, _Sylvia_! daine to pitty me,
    And I will worship none but thee.

                             _Sylvia._

      Perhaps I may your Councel take,
    And Pitty, tho’ not Love, for _Damons_ sake;
      Love is a Flame my Heart ne’er knew,
    Nor knows how to begin to burn for you.

                             _Damon._

      Ah, _Sylvia_, who’s the happy _Swain_,
      For whom that Glory you ordain!
      Has _Strephon_, _Pithius_, _Hilus_, more
    Of Youth, of Love, or Flocks a greater store?
    My flame pursues you too, with that Address,
      Which they want Passion to Profess:
    Ah then make some Returns my Charming _Shepherdess_.

                             _Sylvia._

    Too Faithful _Shepherd_, I will try my Heart,
    And if I can will give you part.

                             _Damon._

    Oh that was like your self exprest,
    Give me but part, and I will steal the rest.

                             _Sylvia._

    Take care, _Young Swain_, you treat it well,
    If you wou’d have it in your Bosom dwell;
    Now let us to the Shades Retreat,
    Where all the _Nymphs_ and _Shepherds_ meet.

                             _Damon._

    And give me there your leave my Pride to show,
    For having but the hopes of Conquering you;
    Where all the _Swaines_ shall Passion learn of me:
      And all the _Nymphs_ to bless like thee.

                             _Sylvia._

    Where every Grace I will bestow,
    And every Look and Smile, shall show
    How much above the rest I vallue you.

                             _Damon._

    And I those Blessings will improve;
    By constant Faith, and tender Love.

                                    [_A Chorus of Satyrs and Nymphs
                                    made by another hand._]


_On Mr._ J. H. _In a Fit of Sickness._

                                   I.

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

                                  II.

      Our Bag-pipes now away are flung,
        Our Flocks a Wandering go;
    Garlands neglected on the Boughs are hung,
      That us’d to adorn each Chearful Brow,
      Forsaken looks the enameld _May_:
      And all its wealth Uncourted dies;
    Each little Bird forgets its wonted Lay,
    That Sung Good Morrow to the welcome Day.
      Or rather to thy Lovely Eies.
      The Cooling Streams do backward glide:
      Since on their Banks they saw not thee,
      Losing the Order of their Tide,
      And Murmuring chide thy Cruelty;
    Then hast to lose themselves i’th’ Angry Sea.

                                  III.

      Thus every thing in its Degree,
        Thy sad Retreat Deplore;
      Hast then _Amyntas_, and Restore;
        The whole Worlds Loss in thee.
    For like an Eastern Monarch, when you go,
    (If such a Fate the World must know)
      A Beautious and a Numerous Host
    Of Love-sick Maids, will wait upon thy Ghost;
    And Death that Secret will Reveal,
      Which Pride and Shame did here Conceal;
      Live then thou Lovelyest of the Plaines,
      Thou Beauty of the Envying _Swaines_;
      Whose Charms even Death it self wou’d court,
    And of his Solemn Business make a Sport.

                                  IV.

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

                                   V.

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


_To_ Lysander, _on some Verses he writ, and asking more for his Heart
then ‘twas worth._

                                   I.

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

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

    A Heart requires a Heart Unfeign’d and True,
      Though Subt’ly you advance the Price,
    And ask a Rate that Simple Love ne’er knew:
      And the free Trade Monopolize.

                                  IV.

    An Humble _Slave_ the Buyer must become,
      She must not bate a Look or Glance,
    You will have all, or you’ll have none;
      See how Loves Market you inhaunce.

                                   V.

    Is’t not enough, I gave you Heart for Heart,
      But I must add my Lips and Eies;
    I must no friendly Smile or Kiss impart;
      But you must _Dun_ me with Advice.

                                  VI.

    And every Hour still more unjust you grow,
      Those Freedoms you my life deny,
    You to _Adraste_ are oblig’d to show,
      And give her all my Rifled Joy.

                                  VII.

    Without Controul she gazes on that Face,
      And all the happy Envyed Night,
    In the pleas’d Circle of your fond imbrace:
      She takes away the Lovers Right.

                                 VIII.

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

                                  IX.

    _Adrastes_ Ears with that dear Voice are blest,
      That Charms my Soul at every Sound,
    And with those _Love-Inchanting_ Touches prest,
      Which _I_ ne’er felt without a Wound.

                                   X.

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

                                  XI.

    Whilst like a Glimering Taper still _I_ burn,
      And waste my self in my own flame,
    _Adraste_ takes the welcome rich Return:
      And leaves me all the hopeless Pain.

                                  XII.

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

                                 XIII.

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


_To the Honourable_ Edward Howard, _on his Comedy called The New_
Utopia.

                                   I.

    Beyond the Merit of the Age,
    You have adorn’d the Stage;
    So from rude Farce, to Comick Order brought,
        Each Action, and each Thought;
    To so Sublime a Method, as yet none
        (But Mighty _Ben_ alone)
    Cou’d e’er arive, and he at distance too;
    Were he alive he must resign to you:
      You have out-done what e’er he writ,
    In this last great Example of your Wit.
    Your _Solymour_ does his _Morose_ destroy,
    And your _Black Page_ undoes his _Barbers Boy_;
    All his Collegiate Ladies must retire,
    While we thy braver _Heroins_ do admire.
      This new _Utopia_ rais’d by thee,
    Shall stand a Structure to be wondered at,
    And men shall cry, this--this--is he
    Who that Poetick City did create:
    Of which _Moor_ only did the Model draw,
    You did Compleat that little World, and gave it Law.

                                  II.

    If you too great a Prospect doe allow
    To those whom Ignorance does at distance Seat,
    ‘Tis not to say, the Object is less great,
    But they want sight to apprehend it so:
      The ancient Poets in their times,
    When thro’ the Peopl’d Streets they sung their Rhimes,
    Found small applause; they sung but still were poor;
    Repeated Wit enough at every door.
    T’have made ‘em demy Gods! but ‘twou’d not do,
    Till Ages more refin’d esteem’d ‘em so.
    The Modern Poets have with like Success,
    Quitted the Stage, and Sallyed from the Press.
      Great _Johnson_ scarce a Play brought forth,
    But Monster-like it frighted at its Birth:
      Yet he continued still to write,
    And still his Satyr did more sharply bite.
      He writ tho certain of his Doom,
      Knowing his Pow’r in Comedy:
      To please a wiser Age to come:
    And though he Weapons wore to Justify
    The reasons of his Pen; he cou’d not bring,
    Dull Souls to Sense by Satyr, nor by Cudgelling.

                                  III.

      In vain the Errors of the Times,
    You strive by wholesom Precepts to Confute,
      Not all your Pow’r in Prose or Rhimes,
        Can finish the Dispute:
    ‘Twixt those that damn, and those that do admire:
    The heat of your Poetick fire.
      Your Soul of Thought you may imploy
        A Nobler way,
    Then in revenge upon a Multitude,
      Whose Ignorance only makes ‘em rude.
        Shou’d you that Justice do,
      You must for ever bid adieu,
        To Poetry divine,
        And ev’ry Muse o’th’ Nine:
    For Malice then with Ignorance would join,
      And so undo the World and You:
      So ravish from us that delight,
      Of seeing the Wonders which you Write:
    And all your Glories unadmir’d must lye,
      As Vestal Beauties are Intomb’d before they dye.

                                  IV.

      Consider and Consult your Wit,
      Despise those Ills you must indure:
      And raise your Scorne as great as it,
      Be Confident and then Secure.
        And let your rich-fraught Pen,
        Adventure our again;
    Maugre the Stormes that do opose its course,
    Stormes that destroy without remorse:
        It may new Worlds decry,
      Which Peopl’d from thy Brain may know
    More than the Universe besides can show:
    More Arts of Love, and more of Gallantry.
    Write on! and let not after Ages say,
    The Whistle or rude Hiss cou’d lay
      Thy mighty Spright of Poetry,
      Which but the Fools and Guilty fly;
      Who dare not in thy Mirror see
        Their own Deformity:
    Where thou in two, the World dost Character,
    Since most of Men Sir _Graves_, or _Peacocks_ are.

                                   V.

      And shall that Muse that did ere while,
    Chant forth the Glories of the British Isle,
      Shall shee who lowder was than Fame;
        Now useless lie, and tame?
    Shee who late made the _Amazons_ so Great,
      And shee who Conquered _Scythia_ too;
      (Which _Alexander_ ne’re cou’d do)
      Will you permitt her to retreat?
      Silence will like Submission show:
      And give Advantage to the Foe!
    Undaunted let her once gain appear,
    And let her lowdly Sing in every Ear:
    Then like thy Mistris Eyes, who have the skill,
        Both to preserve and kill;
    So thou at once maist be revenged on those
        That are thy Foes,
    And on thy Friends such Obligations lay,
    As nothing but the Deed the Doer can repay.


_To_ Lysander _at the_ Musick-Meeting.

    It was too much, ye Gods, to see and hear;
    Receiving wounds both from the Eye and Ear:
    One Charme might have secur’d a Victory,
    Both, rais’d the Pleasure even to Extasie:
    So Ravisht Lovers in each others Armes,
    Faint with excess of Joy, excess of Charmes:
    Had I but gaz’d and fed my greedy Eyes,
    Perhaps you’d pleas’d no farther than surprize.
    That Heav’nly Form might Admiration move,
    But, not without the _Musick_, charm’d with _Love_:
    At least so quick the Conquest had not been;
    You storm’d without, and Harmony within:
    Nor cou’d I listen to the sound alone,
    But I alas must look--and was undone:
    I saw the Softness that compos’d your Face,
    While your Attention heightend every Grace:
    Your Mouth all full of Sweetness and Content,
    And your fine killing Eyes of Languishment:
    Your Bosom now and then a sigh wou’d move,
    (For _Musick_ has the same effects with Love.)
    Your Body easey and all tempting lay,                              }
    Inspiring wishes which the Eyes betray,                            }
    In all that have the fate to glance that way:                      }
    A careless and a lovely Negligence,
    Did a new Charm to every Limb dispence:
    So look young Angels, Listening to the sound,
    When the Tun’d Spheres Glad all the Heav’ns around:
    So Raptur’d lie amidst the wondering Crowd,
    So Charmingly Extended on a Cloud.
      When from so many ways Loves Arrows storm,                       }
    Who can the heedless Heart defend from harm?                       }
    Beauty and _Musick_ must the Soul disarme;                         }
    Since Harmony, like Fire to Wax, does fit
    The softned Heart Impressions to admit:
    As the brisk sounds of Warr the Courage move,
    Musick prepares and warms the Soul to Love.
    But when the kindling Sparks such Fuel meet,
    No wonder if the Flame inspir’d be great.


_An_ Ode _to_ Love.

                                   I.

    Dull Love no more thy Senceless Arrows prize,
    Damn thy Gay Quiver, break thy Bow;
      ‘Tis only young _Lysanders_ Eyes,
      That all the Arts of Wounding know.

                                  II.

    A Pox of Foolish Politicks in Love,
    A wise delay in Warr the Foe may harme:
    By Lazy Siege while you to Conquest move;
    His fiercer Beautys vanquish by a Storme.

                                  III.

    Some wounded God, to be reveng’d on thee,
    The Charming Youth form’d in a _lucky_ houre,
    Drest him in all that fond Divinity,
    That has out-Rivall’d thee, a God, in Pow’r.

                                  IV.

      Or else while thou supinely laid
      Basking beneath som Mirtle shade,
      In careless sleepe, or tir’d with play,
      When all thy Shafts did scatterd ly;
      Th’unguarded Spoyles he bore away,
    And Arm’d himself with the Artillery.

                                   V.

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

                                  VI.

      Thy bow, thy Quiver, and thy Darts:
    Even of thy Painted Wing has rifled thee,
    To bear him from his Conquer’d broken Hearts,
      To the next Fair and Yeilding She.


_Love Reveng’d_, A Song.

                                   I.

    _Celinda_ who did Love Disdain,
    For whom had languisht many a Swain;
    Leading her Bleating Flock to drink,
    She spy’d upon the Rivers Brink
    A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare,
    How much he lov’d, but lov’d not her.

                                  II.

    At first she Laught, but gaz’d the while,
    And soon she lessen’d to a Smile;
    Thence to Surprize and Wonder came,
    Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame:
    Then cry’d she out, Now, now I prove,
    Thou art a God, Almighty Love.

                                  III.

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


SONG.

_To a New_ Scotch _Tune._

                                   I.

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

                                  II.

      In _Jemmy’s_ Powerful Eyes,
    Young Gods of Love are playing,
      And on his Face there lies
    A Thousand Smiles betraying.
    But Oh he dances with a Grace,
      None like him e’er was seen;
    No God that ever fancy’d was,
      Has so Divine a Miene.

                                  III.

      To _Jemmy_ ev’ry Swaine
    Did lowly doff his Bonnet;
      And every Nymph would strain,
    To praise him in her Sonnet:
    The Pride of all the Youths he was,
      The Glory of the Groves,
    The Joy of ev’ry tender Lass:
      The Theam of all our Loves.

                                  IV.

      But Oh Unlucky Fate,
    A Curse upon Ambition:
      The Busie Fopps of State
    Have ruin’d his Condition.
    For Glittering Hopes he’as left the Shade,
      His Peaceful Hours are gone:
    By flattering Knaves and Fools betray’d,
      Poor _Jemmy_ is undone.


_The Cabal at_ Nickey Nackeys.

                                   I.

    A _Pox_ of the States-man that’s witty,
    Who watches and Plots all the Sleepless Night:
    For Seditious Harangues, to the Whiggs of the City;
    And Maliciously turns a Traytor in Spight.
    Let him Wear and Torment his lean Carrion:
      To bring his Sham-Plots about,
      Till at last King Bishop and Barron,
    For the Publick _Good_ he have quite rooted out.

                                  II.

      But we that are no _Polliticians_,
    But Rogues that are Impudent, Barefac’d and Great,
    Boldly head the _Rude Rable_ in times of Sedition;
    And bear all down before us, in Church and in State.
      Your Impudence is the best State-Trick;
        And he that by Law meanes to rule,
      Let his History with ours be related;
    And tho’ we are the Knaves, we know who’s the Fool.


_A Paraphrase on the Eleventh_ Ode _Out of the first Book of_ Horace.

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


_A Translation._

                                   I.

    _Lydia_, Lovely Maid, more fair
    Than Milk or whitest Lilies are,
    Than Polisht _Indian_ Iv’ry shows,
    Or the fair unblushing Rose.

                                  II.

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

                                  III.

    _Lydia_, ope’ thy starry Eyes,
    Shew the Beds where _Cupid_ lies,
    Open, Maid, thy Rosie-Cheeks,
    Red as Sun-declining streaks.

                                  IV.

    Shew thy Coral Lips, my Love,
    Kiss me softer than the Dove,
    Till my Ravisht Soul does lie
    Panting in an Ecstasie.

                                   V.

    Oh hold--and do not pierce my Heart,
    Which beats, as life wou’d thence depart,
    Hide thy Breasts that swell and rise,
    Hide ‘em from my wishing Eyes.

                                  VI.

    Shut thy Bosome, white as Snow,
    Whence _Arabian_ perfumes flow;
    Hide it from my Raptur’d Touch,
    I have gaz’d--and kist too much.

                                  VII.

    Cruel Maid--on Malice bent,
    Seest thou not my Languishment?
    _Lydia!_--Oh I faint!--I die!
    With thy Beauties Luxury.


_A Paraphrase on_ OVID’S _Epistle of_ OENONE _to_ PARIS.


THE ARGUMENT.

Hecuba, _being with Child of_ Paris, _dream’d she was delivered of a
    Firebrand:_ Priam, _consulting the Prophets, was answer’d the Child
    shou’d be the Destruction of_ Troy, _wherefore_ Priam _commanded it
    should be deliver’d to wild Beasts as soon as born; but_ Hecuba
    _conveys it secretly to Mount_ Ida, _there to be foster’d by the
    Shepherds, where he falls in love with the Nymph_ OEnone, _but at
    last being known and own’d, he sails into_ Greece, _and carries_
    Helen _to_ Troy, _which_ OEnone _understanding, writes him this
    Epistle._

    To thee, dear _Paris_, Lord of my Desires,
    Once tender Partner of my softest Fires;
    To thee I write, mine, while a Shepherd’s Swain,
    But now a Prince, that Title you disdain.
    Oh fatal Pomp, that cou’d so soon divide
    What Love, and all our sacred Vows had ty’d!
    What God, our Love industrious to prevent,
    Curst thee with power, and ruin’d my Content?
    Greatness, which does at best but ill agree
    With Love, such Distance sets ‘twixt Thee and Me.
    Whilst thou a Prince, and I a Shepherdess,
    My raging Passion can have no redress.
    Wou’d God, when first I saw thee, thou hadst been
    This Great, this Cruel, Celebrated thing.
    That without hope I might have gaz’d and bow’d,
    And mixt my Adorations with the Crowd;
    Unwounded then I had escap’d those Eyes,
    Those lovely Authors of my Miseries.
    Not that less Charms their fatal pow’r had drest,
    But Fear and Awe my Love had then supprest:
    My unambitious Heart no Flame had known,
    But what Devotion pays to Gods alone.
    I might have wondr’d, and have wisht that He,
    Whom Heaven shou’d make me love, might look like Thee.
    More in a silly Nymph had been a sin,
    This had the height of my Presumption been.
    But thou a Flock didst feed on _Ida’s_ Plain,
    And hadst no Title, but _The lovely Swain_.
    A Title! which more Virgin Hearts has won,
    Than that of being own’d King _Priam’s_ Son.
    Whilst me a harmless Neighbouring Cotager
    You saw, and did above the rest prefer.
    You saw! and at first sight you lov’d me too,
    Nor cou’d I hide the wounds receiv’d from you.
    Me all the Village Herdsmen strove to gain,                        }
    For me the Shepherds sigh’d and su’d in vain,                      }
    Thou hadst my heart, and they my cold disdain.                     }
    Not all their Offerings, Garlands, and first born
    Of their lov’d Ewes, cou’d bribe my Native scorn.
    My Love, like hidden Treasure long conceal’d,
    Cou’d onely where ‘twas destin’d, be reveal’d.
    And yet how long my Maiden blushes strove
    Not to betray my easie new-born Love.
    But at thy sight the kindling Fire wou’d rise,
    And I, unskill’d, declare it at my Eyes.
    But oh the Joy! the mighty Ecstasie
    Possest thy Soul at this Discovery.
    Speechless, and panting at my feet you lay,
    And short breath’d Sighs told what you cou’d not say.
    A thousand times my hand with Kisses prest,
    And look’d such Darts, as none cou’d e’er resist.
    Silent we gaz’d, and as my Eyes met thine,
    New Joy fill’d theirs, new Love and shame fill’d mine!
    You saw the Fears my kind disorder show’d
    And breaking Silence Faith anew you vow’d!
    Heavens, how you swore by every Pow’r Divine
    You wou’d be ever true! be ever mine!
    Each God, a sacred witness you invoke,
    And wish’d their Curse when e’er these Vows you broke.
    Quick to my Heart each perjur’d Accent ran,
    Which I took in, believ’d, and was undone.
    “Vows are Love’s poyson’d Arrows, and the heart
    So wounded, rarely finds a Cure from Art.”
     At least this heart which Fate has destin’d yours,                 }
    This heart unpractis’d in Love’s mystick pow’rs,                   }
    For I am soft and young as _April_ Flowers.                        }
      Now uncontroll’d we meet, uncheck’d improve
    Each happier Minute in new Joys of Love!
    Soft were our hours! and lavishly the Day
    We gave intirely up to Love, and Play.
    Oft to the cooling Groves our Flocks we led,                       }
    And seated on some shaded, flowery Bed,                            }
    Watch’d the united Wantons as they fed.                            }
    And all the Day my list’ning Soul I hung                           }
    Upon the charming Musick of thy Tongue,                            }
    And never thought the blessed hours too long.                      }
    No Swain, no God like thee cou’d ever move,                        }
    Or had so soft an Art in whisp’ring Love.                          }
    No wonder for thou art Ally’d to _Jove_!                           }
    And when you pip’d, or sung, or danc’d, or spoke,
    The God appear’d in every Grace, and Look.
    Pride of the Swains, and Glory of the Shades,
    The Grief, and Joy of all the Love-sick Maids.
    Thus whilst all hearts you rul’d without Controul,
    I reign’d the absolute Monarch of your Soul.
      Each Beach my Name yet bears, carv’d out by thee,
    _Paris_, and his _OEnone_ fill each Tree;
    And as they grow, the Letters larger spread,
    Grow still a witness of my Wrongs when dead!
      Close by a silent silver Brook there grows                       }
    A Poplar, under whose dear gloomy Boughs                           }
    A thousand times we have exchang’d our Vows!                       }
    Oh may’st thou grow! t’ an endless date of Years!
    Who on thy Bark this fatal Record bears;
    _When_ Paris _to_ OEnone _proves untrue,_
    _Back_ Xanthus _Streams shall to their Fountains flow._
    Turn! turn your Tides! back to your Fountains run!
    The perjur’d Swain from all his Faith is gone!
      Curst be that day, may Fate appoint the hour,
    As Ominous in his black Kalendar;
    When _Venus_, _Pallas_, and the Wife of _Jove_
    Descended to thee in the Mirtle Grove,
    In shining Chariots drawn by winged Clouds:
    Naked they came, no Veil their Beauty shrouds;
    But every Charm, and Grace expos’d to view,
    Left Heav’n to be survey’d, and judg’d by you.
    To bribe thy voice _Juno_ wou’d Crowns bestow,
    _Pallas_ more gratefully wou’d dress thy Brow
    With Wreaths of Wit! _Venus_ propos’d the choice
    Of all the fairest _Greeks_! and had thy Voice.
    Crowns, and more glorious Wreaths thou didst despise,
    And promis’d Beauty more than Empire prize!
    This when you told, Gods! what a killing fear                      }
    Did over all my shivering Limbs appear?                            }
    And I presag’d some ominous Change was near!                       }
    The Blushes left my Cheeks, from every part
    The Bloud ran swift to guard my fainting heart.
    You in my Eyes the glimmering Light perceiv’d                      }
    Of parting Life, and on my pale Lips breath’d                      }
    Such Vows, as all my Terrors undeceiv’d.                           }
    But soon the envying Gods disturb’d our Joy,
    Declar’d thee Great! and all my Bliss destroy!
      And now the Fleet is Anchor’d in the Bay,
    That must to _Troy_ the glorious Youth convey.
    Heavens! how you look’d! and what a God-like Grace
    At their first Homage beautify’d your Face!
    Yet this no Wonder, or Amazement brought,
    You still a Monarch were in Soul, and thought!
    Nor cou’d I tell which most the News augments,
    Your Joys of Pow’r, or parting Discontents.
    You kist the Tears which down my Cheeks did glide,
    And mingled yours with the soft falling Tide,
    And ‘twixt your Sighs a thousand times you said,
    _Cease, my_ OEnone! _Cease, my charming Maid!_
    _If_ Paris _lives his Native_ Troy _to see_,
    _My lovely Nymph, thou shalt a Princess be!_
    But my Prophetick Fears no Faith allow’d,
    My breaking Heart resisted all you vow’d.
    _Ah must we part_, I cry’d! _that killing word_
    _No farther Language cou’d to Grief afford._
    Trembling, I fell upon thy panting Breast,                         }
    Which was with equal Love, and Grief opprest,                      }
    Whilst sighs and looks, all dying spoke the rest.                  }
    About thy Neck my feeble Arms I cast,
    Not _Vines_, nor _Ivy_ circle _Elms_ so fast.
    To stay, what dear Excuses didst thou frame,
    And fansiedst Tempests when the Seas were calm?
    How oft the Winds contrary feign’d to be,
    When they, alas, were onely so to me!
    How oft new Vows of lasting Faith you swore,
    And ‘twixt your Kisses all the old run o’er?
      But now the wisely Grave, who Love despise,
    (Themselves past hope) do busily advise.
    Whisper Renown, and Glory in thy Ear,
    Language which Lovers fright, and Swains ne’er hear.
    For _Troy_, they cry! these Shepherds Weeds lay down,
    Change Crooks for Scepters! Garlands for a Crown!
    “But sure that Crown does far less easie sit,
    Than Wreaths of Flow’rs, less innocent and sweet.
    Nor can thy Beds of State so gratefull be,
    As those of Moss, and new faln Leaves with me!”
       Now tow’rds the Beach we go, and all the way
    The Groves, the Fern, dark Woods, and springs survey;
    That were so often conscious to the Rites
    Of sacred Love, in our dear stoln Delights.
    With Eyes all languishing, each place you view,
    And sighing cry, _Adieu, dear Shades, Adieu!_
    Then ‘twas thy Soul e’en doubted which to doe,
    Refuse a Crown, or those dear Shades forego!
    Glory and Love! the great dispute pursu’d,
    But the false Idol soon the God subdu’d.
      And now on Board you go, and all the Sails
    Are loosned, to receive the flying Gales.
    Whilst I, half dead on the forsaken Strand,                        }
    Beheld thee sighing on the Deck to stand,                          }
    Wafting a thousand Kisses from thy Hand.                           }
    And whilst I cou’d the lessening Vessel see,
    I gaz’d, and sent a thousand Sighs to thee!
    And all the Sea-born _Nereids_ implore
    Quick to return thee to our Rustick shore.
      Now like a Ghost I glide through ev’ry Grove,                    }
    Silent, and sad as Death, about I rove,                            }
    And visit all our Treasuries of Love!                              }
    This Shade th’account of thousand Joys does hide,
    As many more this murmuring Rivers side,
    Where the dear Grass, still sacred, does retain
    The print, where thee and I so oft have lain.
    Upon this Oak thy Pipe, and Garland’s plac’d,
    That Sicamore is with thy Sheephook grac’d.
    Here feed thy Flock, once lov’d though now thy scorn,
    Like me forsaken, and like me forlorn!
      A Rock there is, from whence I cou’d survey                      }
    From far the blewish Shore, and distant Sea,                       }
    Whose hanging top with toyl I climb’d each day,                    }
    With greedy View the prospect I ran o’er,
    To see what wish’d for ships approach’d our shore.
    One day all hopeless on its point I stood,
    And saw a Vessel bounding o’er the Flood,
    And as it nearer drew, I cou’d discern
    Rich Purple Sails, Silk Cords, and Golden Stern;
    Upon the Deck a Canopy was spread                                  }
    Of Antique work in Gold and Silver made,                           }
    Which mix’d with Sun-beams dazling Light display’d.                }
    But oh! beneath this glorious Scene of State
    (Curst be the sight) a fatal Beauty sate.
    And fondly you were on her Bosome lay’d,
    Whilst with your perjur’d Lips her Fingers play’d;
    Wantonly curl’d and dally’d with that hair,
    Of which, as sacred Charms, I Bracelets wear.
      Oh! hadst thou seen me then in that mad state,
    So ruin’d, so desig’d for Death and Fate,
    Fix’d on a Rock, whose horrid Precipice
    In hollow Murmurs wars with Angry Seas;
    Whilst the bleak Winds aloft my Garments bear,                     }
    Ruffling my careless and dishevel’d hair,                          }
    I look’d like the sad Statue of Despair.                           }
    With out-strech’d voice I cry’d, and all around
    The Rocks and Hills my dire complaints resound.
    I rent my Garments, tore my flattering Face,
    Whose false deluding Charms my Ruine was.
    Mad as the Seas in Storms, I breathe Despair,
    Or Winds let loose in unresisting Air.
    Raging and Frantick through the Woods I fly,
    And _Paris!_ lovely, faithless _Paris_ cry.
    But when the Echos sound thy Name again,
    I change to new variety of Pain.
    For that dear name such tenderness inspires,
    And turns all Passion to Loves softer Fires:
    With tears I fall to kind Complaints again,
    So Tempests are allay’d by Show’rs of Rain.
      Say, lovely Youth, why wou’dst thou thus betray
    My easie Faith, and lead my heart astray?
    I might some humble Shepherd’s Choice have been,
    Had I that Tongue ne’er heard, those Eyes ne’er seen.
    And in some homely Cott, in low Repose,
    Liv’d undisturb’d with broken Vows and Oaths:
    All day by shaded Springs my Flocks have kept,
    And in some honest Arms at night have slept.
    Then unupbraided with my wrongs thou’dst been
    Safe in the Joys of the fair Grecian Queen:
    What Stars do rule the Great? no sooner you
    Became a Prince, but you were Perjur’d too.
    Are Crowns and Falshoods then consistent things?
    And must they all be faithless who are Kings?
    The Gods be prais’d that I was humbly born,
    Even thô it renders me my _Paris_ scorn.
    For I had rather this way wretched prove,
    Than be a Queen and faithless in my Love.
    Not my fair Rival wou’d I wish to be,
    To come prophan’d by others Joys to thee.
    A spotless Maid into thy Arms I brought,
    Untouch’d in Fame, ev’n Innocent in thought;
    Whilst she with Love has treated many a Guest,
    And brings thee but the leavings of a Feast:
    With _Theseus_ from her Country made Escape,
    Whilst she miscall’d the willing Flight, a Rape.
    So now from _Atreus_ Son, with thee is fled,
    And still the Rape hides the Adult’rous Deed.
    And is it thus Great Ladies keep intire
    That Vertue they so boast, and you admire?
    Is this a Trick of Courts, can Ravishment
    Serve for a poor Evasion of Consent?
    Hard shift to save that Honour priz’d so high,
    Whilst the mean Fraud’s the greater Infamy.
    How much more happy are we Rural Maids,
    Who know no other Palaces than Shades?
    Who wish no Title to inslave the Croud,
    Lest they shou’d babble all our Crimes aloud;
    No Arts our Good to shew, our Ill to hide,
    Nor know to cover faults of Love with Pride.
    I lov’d, and all Love’s Dictates did pursue,
    And never thought it cou’d be Sin with you.
    To Gods, and Men, I did my Love proclaim;
    For one soft hour with thee, my charming Swain,
    Wou’d Recompence an Age to come of Shame,
    Cou’d it as well but satisfie my Fame.
    But oh! those tender hours are fled and lost,
    And I no more of Fame, or Thee can boast!
    ‘Twas thou wert Honour, Glory, all to me:                          }
    Till Swains had learn’d the Vice of Perjury,                       }
    No yielding Maids were charg’d with Infamy.                        }
    ‘Tis false and broken Vows make Love a Sin,
    Hadst thou been true, We innocent had been.
    But thou less faith than _Autumn_ leaves do’st show,
    Which ev’ry Blast bears from their native Bough.
    Less Weight, less Constancy, in thee is born,
    Than in the slender mildew’d Ears of Corn.
    Oft when you Garlands wove to deck my hair,                        }
    Where mystick Pinks, and Dazies mingled were,                      }
    You swore ‘twas fitter Diadems to bear:                            }
    And when with eager Kisses prest my hand,
    Have said, _How well a Scepter ‘twou’d command!_
    And when I danc’d upon the Flow’ry Green,                          }
    With charming, wishing Eyes survey my Mien,                        }
    And cry! the Gods design’d thee for a Queen!                       }
    Why then for _Helen_ dost thou me forsake?
    Can a poor empty Name such difference make?
    Besides if Love can be a Sin, thine’s one,
    To _Menelaus_ _Helen_ does belong.
    Be Just, restore her back, She’s none of thine,
    And, charming _Paris_, thou art onely mine.
    ‘Tis no Ambitious Flame that makes me sue
    To be again belov’d, and blest by you;
    No vain desire of being ally’d t’ a King,                          }
    Love is the onely Dowry I can bring,                               }
    And tender Love is all I ask again;                                }
    Whilst on her dang’rous Smiles fierce War must wait
    With Fire and Vengeance at your Palace gate,
    Rouze your soft Slumbers with their rough Alarms,
    And rudely snatch you from her faithless Arms:
    Turn then, fair Fugitive, e’er ‘tis too late,
    E’er thy mistaken Love procures thy Fate;
    E’er a wrong’d Husband does thy Death design,
    And pierce that dear, that faithless Heart of thine.




A Voyage to the Isle of Love.


INTRODUCTION.

_Le Voyage de l’.sle d’.mour_, that dainty fantasy which has been so
admirably translated by Mrs. Behn, is the work of Paul Tallemant, a
graceful French littérateur, who was born at Paris, 18 June, 1642. He
was brought up in circumstances of affluence and even prodigal luxury
until the extravagances and dissipations of both grandfather and father
left him whilst yet young in a state of indigence. He thereupon took
orders, but, as was not unusual at the time, devoted much attention
to art and literature, becoming well known in society for his songs,
ballads, idylls, pastorals, and even gallant little operas in which
he never ceased to burn incense to the King. He proved so successful
that at twenty-four in 1666 he succeeded to the place of Gombaud in
the Academy. His chief title to literary renown at that date was
none other than _Le Voyage de l’.sle d’.mour_. Colbert, his patron,
procured for him a pension of 500 crowns, the abbeys of Ambierle and
Saint-Albin, together with various other posts affording no small
emoluments. Tallemant became a popular preacher and society flocked
to hear his fashionable discourses. He frequently counted the Queen
and Princes of the blood amongst his auditors. He died of an apoplexy
in his seventy-first year. His poems, always neat and elegant, can
hardly be claimed to have any great value, although they never fail
to please. Mrs. Behn has indeed greatly improved upon her original.
_Le Voyage de l’.sle d’.mour_ was first printed at Paris, 12mo, 1663.
It was reprinted in _Le Recueil de pièces galantes_; Cologne, 12mo,
1667; again, ‘A Leyde. Chez Abraham Gogat.’ 12mo, 1671. _Le Voyage
et la Conqueste de l’.sle d’.mour, le Passe-Partout des Coeurs_
appeared at Paris ‘chez Augustin Besoigne’ 1675. With the sub-title
_La Clef des Coeurs_ it was issued from van Bulderen’s press at the
Hague in 1713, 12mo. So it will be seen that the little book enjoyed
no small popularity. The best edition is that in volume XXVI of the
collection entitled _Voyages Imaginaires, Songes, Visions, et Romans
Cabalistiques_. Amsterdam, 1788. It is illustrated by an exquisitely
graceful plate of C. P. Marillier at the lines

    Celui que tu vois si sévère,
    Est le Respect, fils de l’.mour.

    Him whom you see so awful and severe,
    Is call’d Respect, the Eldest Son of Love.


A VOYAGE to the ISLE OF LOVE.


_An Account from_ Lisander _to_ Lysidas _his Friend._

    At last, dear _Lysidas_, I’l set thee Free,
    From the disorders of Uncertainty;
    Doubt’s the worst Torment of a generous Mind,
    Who ever searching what it cannot find,
    Is roving still from wearied thought to thought,
    And to no settled Calmness can be brought:
    The Cowards Ill, who dares not meet his Fate,                      }
    And ever doubting to be Fortunate,                                 }
    Falls to that Wretchedness his fears Create.                       }
      I should have dy’d silent, as Flowers decay,
    Had not thy Friendship stopt me on my way,
    That friendship which our Infant hearts inspir’d,
    E’re them Ambition or false Love had fir’d:
    Friendship! which still enlarg’d with years and sense
    Till it arriv’d to perfect Excellence;
    Friendship! Mans noblest bus’ness! without whom                    }
    The out-cast Life finds nothing it can own,                        }
    But Dully dyes unknowing and unknown.                              }
    Our searching thought serves only to impart
    It’s new gain’d knowledge to anothers Heart;
    The truly wise, and great, by friendship grow,
    That, best instructs ‘em how they should be so,
    That, only sees the Error of the Mind,
    Which by its soft reproach becomes Refin’d;
    Friendship! which even Loves mighty power controuls,
    When that but touches; this Exchanges Souls.
    The remedy of Grief, the safe retreat
    Of the scorn’d Lover, and declining great.
      This sacred tye between thy self and me,
    Not to be alter’d by my Destiny;
    This tye, which equal to my new desires
    Preserv’d it self amidst Loves softer Fires,
    Obliges me (without reserve) t’ impart
    To _Lycidas_ the story of my Heart;
    Tho’ ‘twill increase its present languishment,
    To call to its remembrance past content:
    So drowning Men near to their native shore
    (From whence they parted ne’er to visit more)
    Look back and sigh, and from that last Adieu,
    Suffer more pain then in their Death they do:
    That grief, which I in silent Calms have born,
    It will renew, and rowse into a Storm.


The Truce.

    _With you, unhappy Eyes, that first let in_
      _To my fond Heart the raging Fire,_
      _With you a_ Truce _I will begin,_
    _Let all your Clouds, let all your Show’rs retire,_
      _And for a while become serene,_
    _And you, my constant rising Sighs, forbear,_
      _To mix your selves with flying Air,_
    _But utter Words among that may express,_
    _The vast degrees of Joy and Wretchedness._
    _And you, my Soul! forget the dismal hour,_
      _When dead and cold_ Aminta _lay,_
    _And no kind God, no pittying Power_
      _The hasty fleeting Life would stay;_
      _Forget the Mad, the Raving pain._
    _That seiz’d Thee at a sight so new,_
    _When not the Wind let loose, nor raging Main_
    _Was so destructive and so wild as thou._
    _Forget thou saw’st the lovely yielding Maid,_
      _Dead in thy trembling Arms_
    _Just in the Ravishing hour, when all her Charms_
    _A willing Victim to thy Love was laid,_
    _Forget that all is fled thou didst Adore,_
    _And never, never, shall return to bless Thee more._

      Twelve times the _Moon_ has borrow’d Rays; that Night
    Might favour Lovers stealths by Glimmering Light:
    Since I imbarqu’d on the inconstant Seas
    With people of all Ages and Degrees,
    All well dispos’d and absolutely bent,
    To visit a far Country call’d _Content_.
    The Sails were hoisted, and the Streamers spread,
    And chearfully we cut the yielding Floud;
    Calm was the Sea, and peaceful every Wind,
    As if the Gods had with our Wishes joyn’d
    To make us prosperous; All the whispering Air
    Like Lovers Joys, was soft, and falsly fair.
    The ruffling Winds were hush’d in wanton sleep,
    And all the Waves were silenc’d in the deep:
    No threatning Cloud, no angry Curl was found,
    But bright, serene, and smooth, ‘twas all around:
    But yet believe false _Iris_ if she weep,
    Or Amorous _Layis_ will her promise keep,
    Before the Sea that Flatters with a Calm,
    Will cease to ruin with a rising Storm;
    For now the Winds are rows’d, the Hemisphere
    Grows black, and frights the hardy Mariner,
    The Billows all into Disorder hurl’d,
    As if they meant to bury all the World;
    And least the Gods on us should pity take,
    They seem’d against them, too, a War to make.
      Now each affrighted to his Cabin Flyes,
    And with Repentance Load the angry Skyes;
    Distracted Prayers they all to Heaven Address,
    While Heaven best knows, they think of nothing less;
    To quit their Interest in the World’s their fear,
    Not whether,--but to go,--is all their Care,
    And while to Heav’n their differing crimes they mount,
    Their vast disorders doubles the account;
    All pray, and promise fair, protest and weep,
    And make those Vows they want the pow’r to keep,
    And sure with some the angry Gods were pleas’d;
    For by degrees their Rage and Thunder ceas’d:
    In the rude War no more the Winds engage,
    And the destructive Waves were tir’d with their own Rage;
    Like a young Ravisher, that has won the day,
    O’re-toil’d and Panting, Calm and Breathless lay,
    While so much Vigour in the Incounter’s lost,
    They want the pow’r a second Rape to Boast.
    The Sun in Glory daignes again t’ appear;                          }
    But we who had no Sense, but that of fear,                         }
    Cou’d scarce believe, and lessen our dispair.                      }
    Yet each from his imagin’d Grave gets out,
    And with still doubting Eyes looks round about.
    Confirm’d they all from Prayer to Praises hast,
    And soon forgot the sense of dangers past;
    And now from the recruited Top-mast spy’d,
    An Island that discover’d Natures Pride:
    To which was added, all that Art could do
    To make it Tempting and Inviting too;
    All wondering Gaz’d upon the happy place,
    But none knew either where, or what it was:
    Some thought, th’.naccessible Land ‘t had been,
    And others that Inchantment they had seen,
    At last came forth a Man, who long before
    Had made a Voyage to that fatal shoar,
    Who with his Eyes declin’d, as if dismaid,
    At sight of what he dreaded: Thus he said.--

    _This is the Coast of_ Africa,
      _Where all things sweetly move;_
    _This is the Calm_ Atlantick _Sea,_
      _And that the_ Isle of Love;

    _To which all Mortals Tribute pay,_
      _Old, Young, the Rich and Poor;_
    _Kings do their awful Laws obey,_
      _And Shepherds do Adore._

    _There’s none its forces can resist,_
      _Or its Decrees Evince,_
    _It Conquers where, and whom it list,_
      _The_ Cottager _and_ Prince.

    _In entering here, the King resigns,_
      _The Robe and Crown he wore;_
    _The Slave new Fetters gladly joyns_
      _To those he dragg’d before._

    _All thither come, early or late,_
      _Directed by Desire,_
    _Not Glory can divert their fate,_
      _Nor quench the Amorous fire._

    _The Enterances on every side,_
      _Th’. Attracts _and_ Beauties _Guard,_
    _The_ Graces _with a wanton Pride,_
      _By turn secure the Ward._

    _The God of Love has lent ‘em Darts,_
      _With which they gently Greet,_
    _The heedless undefended Hearts_
      _That pass the fatal Gate._

    _None e’re escapt the welcom’d blow,_
      _Which ner’e is sent in vain;_
    _They Kiss the Shaft, and Bless the Foe,_
      _That gives the pleasing Pain._

    Thus whilst we did this grateful story learn,
    We came so near the Shoar, as to discern
    The Place and Objects, which did still appear
    More Ravishing, approaching ‘em more near.
      There the vast Sea, with a smooth calmness flows
    As are the Smiles on happy Lovers Brows:
    As peaceably as Rivulets it glides,
    Imbracing still the shaded Islands sides;
    And with soft Murmurs on the Margent flows,
    As if to Nature it design’d Repose;
    Whose Musick still is answer’d by the Breeze,
    That gently plays with the soft rufl’d Trees.
    Fragrant and Flowry all the Banks appear                           }
    Whose mixt disorders more delightful were,                         }
    Then if they had been plac’d with Artful care,                     }
    The Cowslip, Lilly, Rose and Jesamine,
    The Daffodil, the Pink and Eglintine,
    Whose gawdy store continues all the year,
    Makes but the meanest of the Wonders here.
    Here the young _Charmers_ walk the Banks along,
    Here all the _Graces_ and the _Beauties_ throng.
    But what did most my Admiration draw,
    Was that the Old and Ugly there I saw,
    Who with their Apish Postures, void of shame
    Still practice Youth, and talk of Darts and Flame.
    I laught to see a Lady out of date,                                }
    A worn out Beauty, once of the first rate;                         }
    With youthful Dress, and more fantastick Prate,                    }
    Setting her wither’d Face in thousand forms,
    And thinks the while she Dresses it in charms;
    Disturbing with her Court: the busier throng
    Ever Addressing to the Gay and Young;
    There an old Batter’d Fop, you might behold,
    Lavish his Love, Discretion, and his Gold
    On a fair she, that has a Trick in Art,
    To cheat him of his Politicks and Heart;
    Whilst he that Jilts the Nation ore and ore,
    Wants sense to find it in the subtiller _W--re_.
      The Man that on this Isle before had been,
    Finding me so admire at what I’d seen;
    Thus said to me.--


LOVE’s Power.

    _Love when he Shoots abroad his Darts,_
      _Regards not where they light:_
    _The Aged to the Youthful Hearts,_
      _At random they unite._
    _The soft un-bearded Youth, who never found_
      _The Charms in any Blooming Face,_
      _From one of Fifty takes the Wound;_
    _And eagerly persues the cunning Chase:_
      _While she an Arted Youth puts on;_
    _Softens her Voice, and languishes her Eyes;_
      _Affects the Dress, the Mean, the Tone,_
    _Assumes the noysy Wit, and ceases to be Wise;_
    _The tender Maid to the Rough Warrior yields;_
      _Unfrighted at his Wounds and Scars,_
      _Pursues him through the Camps and Fields,_
    _And Courts the story of his dangerous Wars,_
    _With Pleasure hears his Scapes, and does not fail_
    _To pay him with a Joy for every Tale._

      _The fair young Bigot, full of Love and Prayer,_
      _Doats on the lewd and careless Libertine;_
    _The thinking States-man fumbles with the Player,_
      _And dearly buys the (barely wishing) Sin._
    _The Peer with some mean Damsel of the trade,_                     }
    _Expensive, common, ugly and decay’d:_                             }
    _The gay young Squire, on the blouz’d Landry Maid._                }
    _All things in Heaven, in Earth, and Sea,_
      _Love gives his Laws unto;_
    _Tho’ under different Objects, they_
      _Alike obey, and bow;_
    _Sometimes to be reveng’d on those,_
      _Whose Beauty makes ‘em proudly nice,_
    _He does a Flame on them impose,_
      _To some unworthy choice._
    _Thus rarely equal Hearts in Love you’ll find,_
    _Which makes ‘em still present the God as Blind._

    Whilst thus he spake, my wondering Eyes were staid
    With a profound attention on a Maid!
    Upon whose Smiles the _Graces_ did await,
    And all the _Beauties_ round about her sate;
    Officious _Cupid’s_ do her Eyes obey,
    Sharpning their Darts from every Conquering Ray:
    Some from her Smiles they point with soft desires,
    Whilst others from her Motion take their Fires:
    Some the Imbroider’d Vail and Train do bear,
    And some around her fan the gentle Air,
    Whilst others flying, scatter fragrant Show’rs,                    }
    And strow the paths she treads with painted flow’rs,               }
    The rest are all imploy’d to dress her Bow’rs;                     }
    While she does all, the smiling Gods carress,
    And they new Attributes receive from each Address.


The CHARACTER.

    _Such Charms of Youth, such Ravishment_
      _Through all her Form appear’d,_
    _As if in her Creation Nature meant,_
      _She shou’d alone be ador’d and fear’d:_
    _Her Eyes all sweet, and languishingly move,_                      }
    _Yet so, as if with pity Beauty strove,_                           }
    _This to decline, and that to charm with Love._                    }
    _A chearful Modesty adorn’d her Face,_
      _And bashful Blushes spread her smiling Cheeks;_
    _Witty her Air; soft every Grace,_
      _And ‘tis eternal Musick when she speaks,_
    _From which young listening Gods the Accents take_                 }
    _And when they wou’d a perfect Conquest make,_                     }
    _Teach their young favourite Lover so to speak._                   }

                                   2.

    _Her Neck, on which all careless fell her Hair,_                   }
    _Her half discover’d rising Bosome bare,_                          }
    _Were beyond Nature formed; all Heavenly fair._                    }
    _Tempting her dress, loose with the Wind it flew,_
    _Discovering Charms that wou’d alone subdue;_
    _Her soft white slender Hands whose touches wou’d_
    _Beget desire even in an awful God;_
    _Long Winter’d Age to tenderness wou’d move,_
    _And in his Frozen Blood, bloom a new spring of_ Love.

    All these at once my Ravisht Senses charm’d,
    And with unusual Fires my Bosome warm’d.
    Thus my fixt Eyes pursu’d the lovely Maid,
    Till they had lost her in the envied Glade;
    Yet still I gaz’d, as if I still had view’d
    The Object, which my new desires pursu’d.
      Lost while I stood; against my Will, my sight
    Conducted me unto a new delight.
    Twelve little Boats were from the Banks unty’d,
    And towards our Vessel sail’d with wondrous Pride,
    With wreathes of Flowers and Garlands they were drest,
    Their Cordage all of Silk and Gold consist,
    Their Sails of silver’d Lawn, and Tinsel were,
    Which wantonly were ruffled in the Air.
    As many little Cupids gayly clad,
    Did Row each Boat, nor other guides they had.
    A thousand _Zephires_ Fann’d the moving Fleet,
    Which mixing with the Flow’rs became more sweet,
    And by repeated Kisses did assume
    From them a scent that did the Air perfume.
    So near us this delightful Fleet was come,
    We cou’d distinguish what the _Cupid’s_ sung,
    Which oft with charming Notes they did repeat,
    With Voices such as I shall ne’re forget.

    _You that do seek with Amorous desires,_
      _To tast the Pleasures of the Life below,_
    _Land on this_ Island, _and renew your Fires,_
      _For without_ Love, _there is no joy, you know._

    Then all the _Cupids_ waiting no Commands,
    With soft inviting Smiles present their Hands,
    And in that silent Motion seem’d to say,
    _You ought to follow, where Love leads the way._
    Mad with delight, and all transported too,
    I quitted Reason, and resolv’d to go;
    For that bright charming Beauty I had seen,
    And burnt with strange desire to see again,
    Fill’d with new hope, I laught at Reasons force,
    And towards the Island, bent my eager Course;
    The _Zephires_ at that instant lent their Aid,
    And I into Loves Fleet was soon convey’d,
    And by a thousand Friendships did receive,
    Welcomes which none but God’s of Love cou’d give.
    Many possest with my Curiosity,
    Tho’ not inspir’d like me, yet follow’d me,
    And many staid behind, and laught at us:
    And in a scoffing tone reproacht us thus,

    _Farewel, Adventurers, go search the Joy,_
      _Which mighty Love inspires, and you shall find,_
    _The treatment of the wond’rous Monarch Boy,_
      _In’s Airy Castle always soft and kind._

    We on the fragrant Beds of Roses laid,                             }
    And lull’d with Musick which the _Zephires_ made,                  }
    When with the Amorous silken Sails they plaid,                     }
    Rather did them as wanting Wit account
    Then we in this affair did Judgment want,
    With Smiles of pity only answer’d them,
    Whilst they return’d us pitying ones again.
    Now to the wisht for Shoar, with speed we high;
    Vain with our Fate, and eager of our Joy,
    And as upon the Beach we landed were,
    An awful Woman did to us repair.
    Goddess of _Prudence_! who with grave advice,
    Counsels the heedless Stranger to be Wise;
    She guards this Shoar, and Passage does forbid,
    But now blind Sense her Face from us had hid;
    We pass’d and dis-obey’d the heavenly Voice,
    Which few e’er do, but in this fatal place.
      Now with impatient hast, (but long in vain)                      }
    I seek the Charming Author of my Pain,                             }
    And haunt the Woods, the Groves, and ev’ry Plain.                  }
    I ask each Chrystal Spring, each murmuring Brook,
    Who saw my fair, or knows which way she took?
    I ask the Eccho’s, when they heard her Name?
    But they cou’d nothing but my Moans proclaim;
    My Sighs, the fleeting Winds far off do bear,
    My Charmer, cou’d no soft complaining hear:
    At last, where all was shade, where all was Gay;                   }
    On a Brooks Brink, which purling past away,                        }
    Asleep the lovely Maid extended lay;                               }
    Of different Flowers the _Cupids_ made her Bed,
    And Rosey Pillows did support her Head.
    With what transported Joy my Soul was fill’d,
    When I, the Object of my wish beheld!
    My greedy View each lovely part survey’d;
    On her white Hand, her Blushing Cheek was laid
    Half hid in Roses; yet did so appear
    As if with those, the Lillys mingled were;
    Her thin loose Robe did all her shape betray,
    (Her wondrous shape that negligently lay)
    And every Tempting Beauty did reveal,
    But what young bashful Maids wou’d still conceal;
    Impatient I, more apt to hope than fear,
    Approacht the Heav’nly sleeping Maid more near;
    The place, my flame, and all her Charms invite
    To tast the sacred Joys of stoln delight.
    The Grove was silent, and no Creature by,
    But the young smiling God of Love and I;
    But as before the awful shrine, I kneel’d,
    Where Loves great Mystery was to be reveal’d,
    A Man from out the Groves recess appears,
    Who all my boasted Vigor turn’d to fears,
    He slackt my Courage by a kind surprize,
    And aw’d me with th’ Majesty of his Eyes;
    I bow’d, and blusht, and trembling did retire,
    And wonder’d at the Pow’r that checkt my fire;
    So excellent a Mean, so good a Grace,
    So grave a Look, such a commanding Face;
    In modest Speech, as might well subdue,
    Youth’s native wildness; yet ‘twas gracious too.
    A little _Cupid_ waiting by my side,
    (Who was presented to me for a guide,)
    Beholding me decline, the Sleeping Maid,
    To gaze on this Intruder,--Thus he said.


RESPECT.

                                   I.

    _Him whom you see so awful and severe,_
    _Is call’d_ Respect, _the Eldest Son of_ Love;
    Esteem _his Mother is; who every where_
    _Is the best Advocate to all the fair,_
    _And knows the most obliging Arts to move:_
    _Him you must still carress, and by his Grace,_
    _You’ll conquer all the Beauties of the Place;_
      _To gain him ‘tis not Words will do,_
      _His Rhetorick is the Blush and Bow._

                                  II.

    _He even requires that you shou’d silent be,_
    _And understand no Language but from Eyes,_
    _Or Sighs, the soft Complaints on Cruelty;_
    _Which soonest move the Heart they wou’d surprize:_
    _They like the Fire in Limbecks gently move._
      _What words (too hot and fierce) destroy;_
    _These by degrees infuse a lasting Love;_
    _Whilst those do soon burn out the short blaz’d Joy._
      _These the all-gaining Youth requires,_
    _And bears to Ladies Hearts the Lambent Fires;_
    _And He that wou’d against despair be proof,_
    _Can never keep him Company enough._

    Instructed thus, I did my steps direct,
    Towards the necessary Grave _Respect_,
    Whom I soon won to favour my design,
    To which young LOVE his promis’d aid did joyn.
      This wak’t _Aminta_, who with trembling fear,
    Wonder’d to see a stranger enter’d there;
    With timorous Eyes the Grove she does survey,
    Where are my LOVES, she crys! all fled away?
    And left me in this gloomy shade alone?
    And with a Man! Alas, I am undone.
    Then strove to fly; but I all prostrate lay,
    And grasping fast her Robe, oblig’d her stay;
    Cease, lovely Charming Maid, Oh cease to fear,
    I faintly cry’d,--There is no _Satyr_ near;
    I am of humane Race, whom Beauty Aws,
    And born an humble Slave to all her Laws;
    Besides we’re not alone within the Grove,
    Behold _Respect_, and the young God of LOVE:
    How can you fear the Man who with these two,
    In any Shade or hour approaches you?
    Thus by degrees her Courage took its place;
    And usual Blushes drest again her Face,
    Then with a Charming Air, her Hand she gave,
    She bade me rise, and said she did believe.
      And now my Conversation does permit;
    But oh the entertainment of her Wit,
    Beyond her Beauty did my Soul surprize,
    Her Tongue had Charms more pow’rful than her Eyes!
    Ah _Lysidas_, hadst thou a list’ner been                           }
    To what she said; tho’ her thou ne’re had’st seen,                 }
    Without that Sense, thou hadst a Captive been.                     }
    Guess at my Fate,--but after having spoke,
    Many indifferent things: Her leave she took.
      The Night approach’t, and now with Thoughts opprest,
    I minded neither where, nor when to Rest,
    When my Conductor LOVE! whom I pursu’d,
    Led to a Palace call’d _Inquietude_.


INQUIETUDE.

    _A Neighbouring_ Villa _which derives its name,_
    _From the rude sullen Mistress of the same;_
    _A Woman of a strange deform’d Aspect;_
    _Peevishly pensive, fond of her neglect;_
    _She never in one posture does remain,_
    _Now leans, lyes down, then on her Feet again;_
    _Sometimes with Snails she keeps a lazy pace,_
    _And sometimes runs like Furies in a Chase;_
    _She seldom shuts her watchful Eyes to sleep,_
    _Which pale and languid does her Visage keep;_
    _Her loose neglected Hair disorder’d grows;_
    _Which undesign’d her Fingers discompose;_
    _Still out of Humour, and deprav’d in Sense,_
    _And Contradictive as Impertinence;_
    _Distrustful as false States-men, and as nice_
    _In Plots, Intrigues, Intelligence and Spies._

    To her we did our Duty pay, but she
    Made no returns to our Civility.
    Thence to my Bed; where rest in vain I sought,                     }
    For pratling LOVE still entertain’d my thought,                    }
    And to my Mind, a thousand Fancies brought:                        }
    _Aminta’s_ Charms and Pow’rful Attractions,
    From whence I grew to make these soft Reflections.


The REFLECTION.

                                   I.

    _What differing Passions from what once I felt,_
        _My yielding Heart do melt,_
    _And all my Blood as in a Feaver burns,_
      _Yet shivering Cold by turns._
    _What new variety of hopes and fears?_
      _What suddain fits of Smiles and Tears?_
    Hope! _Why dost thou sometimes my Soul imploy_
      _With Prospects of approaching Joy?_
      _Why dost thou make me pleas’d and vain,_
      _And quite forget last minutes pain?_
    _What Sleep wou’d calm_, Aminta _keeps awake;_
    _And I all Night soft Vows and Wishes make._
    _When to the Gods I would my Prayers address,_
        _And sue to be forgiven,_
      Aminta’s _name, I still express,_
      _And Love is all that I confess,_
    Love _and_ Aminta! _Ever out Rival Heaven!_

                                  II.

      _Books give me no content at all;_
    _Unless soft_ Cowly _entertain my Mind,_
      _Then every pair in Love I find;_
    Lysander _him_, Aminta _her, I call:_
    _Till the bewitching Fewel raise the fire;_
      _Which was design’d but to divert,_
    _Then to cool Shades I ragingly retire,_
      _To ease my hopeless panting Heart,_
    _Yet thereto every thing begets desire._
    _Each flowry Bed, and every loanly Grove,_
    _Inspires new Wishes, new impatient Love._

    [Sidenote A: Little Arts to please.]

      Thus all the Night in vain I sought repose,
    And early with the Sun next day, I rose;
    Still more impatient grew my new desires,
    To see again the Author of my Fires,
    _Love_ leads me forth, to little [A]CARES we pass,
    Where _Love_ instructed me _Aminta_ was;
    Far from _Inquietude_ this Village stands,
    And for its Beauty all the rest commands;
    In all the _Isle of Love_, not one appears,
    So ravishingly Gay as _Little Cares_.


Little CARES, _or Little Arts to please_.

                                   I.

    _Thither all the Amorous Youth repair,_
    _To see the Objects of their Vows;_
      _No Jealousies approach ‘em there;_
      _They Banish Dulness and Despair;_
    _And only Gayety and Mirth allow._
    _The Houses cover’d o’re with flow’rs appear,_
      _Like fragrant Arbours all the year,_
      _Where all the dear, the live-long day,_
    _In Musick, Songs, and Balls is past away:_
    _All things are form’d for pleasure and delight,_
      _Which finish not but with the Light;_
      _But when the Sun returns again,_
    _They hold with that bright God an equal Reign._

                                  II.

      _There no Reproaches dwell; that Vice_
      _Is banisht with the Coy and Nice._
      _The Froward there learn Complyance;_
    _There the Dull Wise his Gravity forsakes,_
      _The Old dispose themselves to Dance,_
    _And Melancholy wakens from his Trance,_
    _And against Nature sprightly Humour takes._
    _The formal States-man does his Int’rest quit,_
      _And learns to talk of Love and Wit;_
      _There the Philosopher speaks Sense,_
      _Such as his Mistress Eyes inspire;_
      _Forgets his learned Eloquence,_
    _Nor now compares his Flame to his own Chimick fire._

                                  III.

    _The Miser there opens his Golden heaps,_
    _And at_ Love’s _Altar offers the rich Prize;_
    _His needless fears of want does now despise,_
    _And as a lavish Heir, he Treats and Reaps_
    _The Blessings that attend his grateful Sacrifice._
      _Even the Fluttering Coxcomb there_
      _Does less ridiculous appear:_
    _For in the Crowd some one unlucky Face,_
      _With some particular Grimmas,_
    _Has the ill fate his Heart to gain,_                              }
    _Which gives him just the Sense to know his pain;_                 }
    _Whence he becomes less talkative and vain._                       }
    _There ‘tis the Muses dwell! that sacred Nine,_
      _Who teach the inlarged Soul to prove,_
      _No Arts or Sciences Divine,_
      _But those inspired by Them and_ Love!
    _Gay Conversation, Feast, and Masquerades,_
    _Agreeable Cabals, and Serinades;_
      _Eternal Musick, Gladness, Smiles and Sport,_
    _Make all the bus’ness of this Little Court._

    At my approach new Fires my Bosom warm;
    New vigor I receive from every Charm:
    I found invention with my Love increase;
    And both instruct me with new Arts to please;
    New Gallantrys I sought to entertain,
    And had the Joy to find ‘em not in vain;
    All the Extravagance of Youth I show,
    And pay’d to Age the Dotage I shall owe;
    All a beginning Passion can conceive,
    What beauty Merits, or fond Love can give.
    With diligence I wait _Aminta’s_ look,
    And her decrees from Frowns or Smiles I took,
    To my new fixt resolves, no stop I found,
    My Flame was uncontroul’d and knew no bound;
    Unlimited Expences every day
    On what I thought she lik’d, I threw away:
    My Coaches, and my Liverys, rich and new,
    In all this Court, none made a better show.
      _Aminta_ here was unconfin’d and free,
    And all a well-born Maid cou’d render me
    She gave: My early Visits does allow,
    And more ingagingly receives me now,
    Her still increasing Charms, Her soft Address,                     }
    Partial Lover cannot well Express,                                 }
    Her Beautys with my flame each hour increase.                      }
    ‘Twas here my Soul more true content receiv’d,
    Then all the Duller hours of Life I’d liv’d.
    --But with the envying Night I still repair
    To _Inquietude_; none lodge at _Little Care_.
    The hasty Minutes summon me away,                                  }
    While parting pains surmount past hours of Joy,                    }
    And Nights large Reckoning over-pays the day.                      }
    The GOD of _Sleep_ his wonted Aid denys;
    Lends no Repose, or to my Heart or Eyes:
    Only one hour of Rest the breaking Morning brought,
    In which this happy Dream Assail’d my Thought,


The DREAM.

    _All Trembling in my Arms_ Aminta _lay,_
      _Defending of the Bliss I strove to take;_
    _Raising my Rapture by her kind delay,_
      _Her force so charming was and weak._
    _The soft resistance did betray the Grant,_
      _While I prest on the Heaven of my desires;_
    _Her rising Breasts with nimbler Motions Pant;_
      _Her dying Eyes assume new Fires._
    _Now to the height of languishment she grows,_
      _And still her looks new Charms put on;_
    _--Now the last Mystery of_ Love _she knows,_
      _We Sigh, and Kiss: I wak’d, and all was done._

    ‘Twas but a Dream, yet by my Heart I knew,
    Which still was Panting, part of it was true:
    Oh how I strove the rest to have believ’d;
    Asham’d and Angry to be undeceiv’d!
      But now LOVE calls me forth; and scarce allows
    A moment to the Gods to pay my Vows:
    He all Devotion has in disesteem,
    But that which we too fondly render him:
    LOVE drest me for the day; and both repair,
    With an impatient hast to _Little Care_;
    Where many days m’ advantage I pursu’d,
    But Night returns me to _Inquietude_;
    There suffer’d all that absent Lovers griev’d,
    And only knew by what I felt I liv’d;
    A thousand little Fears afflict my Heart,
    And all its former order quite subvert;
    The Beauty’s which all day my hope imploy’d,
    Seem now too excellent to be enjoy’d.
    I number all my RIVALS over now,
    Then Raving Mad with Jealousie I grow,
    Which does my Flame to that vast height increase;
    That here I found, I lov’d to an Excess:
    These wild Distractions every Night increase,
    But day still reconciles me into Peace;
    And I forget amidst their soft Delights,
    The unimagin’d torment of the Nights.
      ‘Twas thus a while I liv’d at _Little Care_,
    Without advance of Favour or of fear,
    When fair _Aminta_ from that Court departs,
    And all her Lovers leave with broken Hearts,
    On me alone she does the Grace confer,
    In a Permission I shou’d wait on her.
    Oh with what eager Joy I did obey!
    Joy, which for fear it shou’d my Flame betray,
    I Veil’d with Complisance; which Lovers Eyes
    Might find transported through the feign’d disguise;
    But hers were unconcern’d; or wou’d not see,
    The Trophies of their new gain’d Victory:
      _Aminta_ now to _Good Reception_ goes;
    A place which more of Entertainment shows
    Then State or Greatness; where th’.nhabitants,
    Are Civil to the height of Complisance;
    They Treat all Persons with a chearful Grace,
    And show ‘em all the pleasures of the Place;
    By whose Example bright _Aminta_ too,
    Confirm’d her self, and more obliging grew.
    Her Smiles and Air more Gracious now appear;
    And her Victorious Eyes more sweetness wear:
    The wonderous Majesty that drest her Brow,
    Becomes less Awful, but more Charming now:
    Her Pride abating does my Courage warm,
    And promises success from every Charm.
    She now permits my Eyes, with timorous Fears,
    To tell her of the Wounds she’as made by hers,
    Against her Will my Sighs she does approve,
    And seems well pleas’d to think they come from Love.
    Nothing oppos’d it self to my delight,
    But absence from _Aminta_ every Night.
      But LOVE, who recompences when he please,
    And has for every Cruelty an ease;
    Who like to bounteous Heaven, assigns a share
    Of future Bliss to those that suffer here:
    Led me to HOPE! A City fair and large,
    Built with much Beauty, and Adorn’d with Charge.


HOPE.

    _’.is wonderous Populous from the excess,_
    _Of Persons from all parts that thither press:_
    _One side of this magnifick City stands,_
    _On a foundation of unfaithful Sands;_
    _Which oftentimes the glorious Load destroys,_
    _Which long designing was with Pomp and Noise;_
    _The other Parts well founded neat and strong,_
    _Less Beautiful, less Business, and less Throng._
    _’.is built upon a Rivers Bank, who’s clear_
    _And Murmuring Glide delights the Eye and Ear._


The River of PRETENSION.

    _This River’s call’d_ Pretension; _and its source_
    _T’ a bordering Mountain owes, from whence with force,_
    _It spreads into the Arms of that calm space,_
    _Where the proud City dayly sees her face;_
    _’.is treacherously smooth and falsly fair,_
    _Inviting, but undoing to come near;_
    _’.ainst which the Houses there find no defence,_
    _But suffer undermining Violence;_
    _Who while they stand, no Palaces do seem_
    _In all their Glorious Pomp to equal them._

    This River’s Famous for the fatal Wrecks,
    Of Persons most Illustrious of both Sex,
    Who to her Bosom with soft Whispers drew,
    Then basely smil’d to see their Ruin too.
    ‘Tis there so many Monarchs perisht have,
    And seeking Fame alone have found a Grave.
    ‘Twas thither I was tempted too, and LOVE
    Maliciously wou’d needs my Conduct prove;
    Which Passion now to such a pass had brought,
    It gave admittance to the weakest thought,
    And with a full carreer to this false Bay
    I ran. But met _Precaution_ in my way.
    With whom _Respect_ was, who thus gravely said,
    Pretension _is a River you must Dread:_
    _Fond Youth, decline thy fatal Resolution,_
    _Here unavoidably thou meets Confusion;_
    _Thou fly’st with too much hast to certain Fate,_
    _Follow my Counsel, and be Fortunate._

    Asham’d, all Blushing I decline my Eyes,
    Yet Bow’d and Thank’d _Respect_ for his advice.
    From the bewitching River straight I hy’d,
    And hurried to the Cities farthest side
    Where lives the Mighty _Princess Hope_, to whom
    The whole Isle as their ORACLE do come;
    Tho’ little Truth remains in what she says,
    Yet all adore her Voice, and her Wise Conduct praise.


The Princess HOPE.

                                   I.

    _She blows the Youthful Lovers flame,_
    _And promises a sure repose;_
    _Whilst with a Treason void of shame,_
    _His fancy’d Happiness o’re-throws._
      _Her Language is all soft and fair_                              }
      _But her hid Sense is naught but Air,_                           }
      _And can no solid reason bear;_                                  }
        _As often as she speaks,_
        _Her faithless Word she breaks;_
    _Great in Pretension, in Performance small,_
      _And when she Swears ‘tis Perjury all._
    _Her Promises like those of Princes are,_
      _Made in Necessity and War,_
      _Cancell’d without remorse, at ease,_
      _In the voluptuous time of Peace._

                                  II.

      _These are her qualities; but yet_
      _She has a Person full of Charms,_
      _Her Smiles are able to beget_
      _Forgiveness for her other harms;_
      _She’s most divinely shap’d, her Eyes are sweet,_
      _And every Glance to please she does employ,_
      _With such address she does all persons treat_
      _As none are weary of her flattery,_
      _She still consoles the most afflicted Hearts,_
      _And makes the Proud vain of his fancy’d Arts._

    Amongst the rest of those who dayly came,
    T’ admire this _Princess_, and oblige their flame,
    (Conducted thither by a false report,                              }
    That Happiness resided in her Court)                               }
    Two young successless Lovers did resort:                           }
    One, so above his Aim had made pretence,
    That even to Hope, for him, was Impudence;
    Yet he ‘gainst Reasons Arguments makes War,
    And vainly Swore, his Love did merit her.
    Boldly Attempted, daringly Addrest,
    And with unblushing Confidence his flame confest.
    The other was a Bashful Youth, who made
    His Passion his _Devotion_, not his _Trade_;
    No fond opiniater, who a price
    Sets on his Titles, Equipage, or Eyes,
    But one that had a thousand Charms in store,
    Yet did not understand his _Conquering_ Pow’r:
    This _Princess_ with a kind Address receives
    These Strangers; and to both new Courage gives.
    She animates the haughty to go on!
    Says--_A Town long besieg’d must needs be won._
    _Time and Respect remove all obstacles,_
    _And obstinate Love arrives at Miracles._
    _Were she the Heir to an illustrious Crown,_
    _Those Charms, that haughty meen, that fam’d renown,_
    _That wond’rous skill you do in Verse profess,_
    _That great disdain of common Mistresses;_
    _Can when you please with aid of Billet Deux,_
    _The Royal Virgin to your Arms subdue,_
    _One skill’d in all the Arts to please the fair,_
    _Shou’d be above the Sense of dull despair:_
    _Go on, young noble Warrier, then go on,_
    _Though all the fair are by that Love undone._
      Then turning to the other: _Sir_, said she,
    _Were the bright Beauty you Adore like me,_
    _Your silent awful Passion more wou’d move,_
    _Than all the bold and forward Arts of Love._
    _A Heart the softest composition forms,_
    _And sooner yields by treaty, then by storms;_
    _A Look, a Sigh, a Tear, is understood,_
    _And makes more warm disorders in the Blood,_
    _Has more ingaging tender Eloquence,_
    _Then all the industry of Artful Sense:_
    _So falling drops with their soft force alone_
    _Insinuate kind impressions in obdurate stone._
      But that which most my pity did imploy,
    Was a young Hero, full of Smiles and Joy.
    A noble Youth to whom indulgent Heaven,
    Had more of Glory then of Virtue given;
    Conducted thither by a Politick throng,
    The Rabble Shouting as he past along.
    Whilst he, vain with the beastly Din they make,
    (Which were the same, if Bears were going to stake)
    Addresses to this faithless Flatterer;
    Who in return, calls him, _young God of War!_
    The _Cities Champion!_ and his _Countries Hope_,
    _The Peoples Darling_, and _Religious Prop_.
    _Scepters_ and _Crowns_ does to his view expose;
    And all the Fancied pow’r of Empire shows.
    In vain the Vision he wou’d dis-believe,
    In spight of Sense she does his Soul deceive:
    He Credits all! nor ask’s which way or how,
    The dazling Circle shall surround his Brow;
    Implicitly attends the flattering Song,
    Gives her his easy Faith, and is undone.
    For with one turn of State the Frenzy’s heal’d,
    The Blind recover and the Cheats reveal’d.
    Whilst all his _Charms_ of _Youth_ and _Beauty_ lies,
    The kind reproach of pitying Enemies.
      To me she said, and smiling as she spoke,
    Lisander, _you with Love have Reason took,_
    _Continue so, and from_ Aminta’s _Heart_
    _Expect what Love and Beauty can impart._
    I knew she flatter’d, yet I cou’d not choose
    But please my Self, and credit the Abuse;
    Her charming Words that Night repos’d me more,
    Then all the grateful Dreams I’d had before.
      Next day I rose, and early with the Sun;
    Love guided me to _Declaration_,
    A pleasant City built with Artful Care,
    To which the Lovers of the Isle repair.
    In our pursuit _Respect_ dissatisfy’d,
    Did the unreasonable Adventure chide;
    Return, unheedy Youth, cry’d he, return!
    Let my advice th’ approaching danger warn:
    Renounce thy Purpose and thy haste decline,
    Or thou wilt ruine all Loves great design;
    Amaz’d I stood, and unresolv’d t’ obey,
    Cou’d not return, durst not pursue my way;
    Whilst LOVE, who thought himself concern’d as Guide
    I’th’ Criminal Adventure, thus reply’d:


LOVE’s Resentment.

    _Must we eternal Martyrdom pursue?_
    _Must we still_ Love, _and always suffer too?_
      _Must we continue still to dye,_
      _And ne’r declare the cruel Cause;_
      _Whilst the fair Murdress asks not why,_
      _But triumphs in her rigorous Laws;_
      _And grows more mighty in disdain,_                              }
      _More Peevish, Humorous, Proud and Vain_                         }
      _The more we languish by our Pain?_                              }
    _And when we Vow, Implore, and Pray,_
      _Shall the Inhumane cruel fair_
    _Only with nice disdain the sufferer pay?_
    _Consult her Pride alone in the affair,_
    _And coldly cry--In time perhaps I may--_
    _Consider and redress the Youth’s despair;_
    _And when she wou’d a Period put to’s Fate,_
    _Alas, her cruel Mercy comes too late!_
    But wise _Respect_ obligingly reply’d,
    Amintas _Cruelty you need not dread,_
    _Your Passion by your Eyes will soon be known,_
    _Without this hast to Declaration;_
    _’.is I will guide you where you still shall find,_
    Aminta _in best Humour and most kind._

    Strong were his Arguments; his Reasonings prove
    Too pow’rful for the angry God of _Love_.
    Who by degrees t’ his native softness came,
    Yields to _Respect_ and owns his haste a blame.
    Both vow obedience to his judging Wit,
    And to his graver Conduct both submit,
    Who now invites us to a Reverend place,
    An ancient Town, whose Governor he was.
    Impregnable, with Bastions fortify’d,
    Guarded with fair built Walls on every side,
    The top of which the Eye cou’d scarce discern,
    So strong as well secur’d the Rich concern;
    _Silence_ with _Modesty_ and _Secrecy_,
    Have all committed to their Custody.
    _Silence_ to every questions ask’d, replies
    With apt Grimasses of the Face and Eyes;
    Her Finger on her Mouth; and as you’ve seen,
    Her Picture, Handsom, with fantastick mean,
    Her every Motion her Commands express,
    But seldom any the hid Soul confess.
    The _Virgin Modesty_ is wond’rous fair,
    A bashful Motion, and a blushing Air;
    With unassur’d regard her Eyes do move,
    Untaught by affectation or Self-love;
    Her Robes not gaudy were, nor loosely ty’d,
    But even concealing more then need be hid.
    For _Secrecie_, one rarely sees her Face,
    Whose lone Apartment is some Dark recess;
    From whence unless some great affairs oblige,
    She finds it difficult to dis-ingage;
    Her voice is low, but subtilly quick her Ears,
    And answers still by signs to what she hears.
    --Led by _Respect_ we did an entrance get,
    Not saying any thing, who ere we met.


The City of DISCRETION.

    _The Houses there, retir’d in Gardens are,_
    _And all is done with little noise,_
    _One seldom sees Assemblies there,_
    _Or publick shows for Grief or Joys._
    _One rarely walks but in the Night,_
    _And most endeavour to avoid the Light._
    _There the whole World their bus’ness carry,_
    _Without or confident, or Secretary:_
    _One still is under great constraint,_
    _Must always suffer, but ne’r make complaint,_
    _’.is there the dumb and silent languishes,_
    _Are predic’d, which so well explain the Heart:_
    _Which without speaking can so much express,_
    _And secrets to the Soul the nearest way impart;_
    _Language which prettify perswades belief;_
    _Who’s silent Eloquence obliges Joy or Grief._

    This City’s called _Discretion_, being the name
    Of her that is Lieutenant of the same,
    And Sister to _Respect_; a Lady who
    Seldom obtains a Conquest at first view;
    But in repeated Visits one shall find,
    Sufficient Charms of Beauty and of Mind:
    Her vigorous piercing Eyes can when they please,
    Make themselves lov’d, and understood with Ease.
    Not too severe, but yet reserv’d and wise,
    And her Address is full of subtilties;
    Which upon all occasions serves her turn;
    T’ express her Kindness, and to hide her scorn;
    Dissimulations Arts, she useful holds,
    And in good manners sets ‘en down for rules.
    ‘Twas here _Aminta_ liv’d, and here I paid
    My constant visits to the lovely Maid.
    With mighty force upon my Soul I strove,
    To hide the Sent’ments of my raging Love.
    All that I spoke did but indifferent seem,
    Or went no higher than a great esteem.
    But ‘twas not long my Passion I conceal’d,
    My flame in spight of me, it self reveal’d.


The silent Confession.

    _And tho’ I do not speak, alas,_
    _My Eyes, and Sighs too much do say!_
    _And pale and languishing my Face,_
    _The torments of my Soul betray;_
      _They the sad story do unfold,_
      Love _cannot his own secrets hold;_
    _And though Fear ty’s my Tongue, Respect my Eyes,_
      _Yet something will disclose the pain;_
      _Which breaking out throw’s all disguise;_
      _Reproaches her with Cruelties;_
    _Which she augments by new disdain;_
      _--Where e’re she be, I still am there;_
      _What-ere she do, I that prefer;_
    _In spight of all my strength, at her approach,_
    _I tremble with a sight or touch;_
    _Paleness or Blushes does my Face surprize,_
    _If mine by chance meet her encountering Eyes;_
    _’.was thus she learn’d my Weakness, and her Pow’r;_
    _And knew too well she was my Conqueror._

    And now--
    Her Eyes no more their wonted Smiles afford,
    But grew more fierce, the more they were ador’d;
    The marks of her esteem which heretofore
    Rais’d my aspiring flame, oblige no more;
    She calls up all her Pride to her defence;
    And as a Crime condemns my just pretence;
    Me from her presence does in Fury chase;
    No supplications can my doom reverse;
    And vainly certain of her Victory,
    Retir’d into the _Den_ of _Cruelty_.


The Den of Cruelty.

    A Den _where_ Tygers _make the passage good,_
    _And all attempting_ Lovers _make their Food;_
    _I’th’ hollow of a mighty_ Rock _’.is plac’d,_
    _Which by the angry Sea is still imbrac’d:_
    _Whose frightful surface constant Tempest wears,_
    _Which strikes the bold Adventurers with Fears._
      _The_ Elements _their rudest Winds send out,_
    _Which blow continual coldness round about._
    _Upon the_ Rock _eternal Winter dwells,_
    _Which weeps away in dropping Isicles;_
    _The barren hardness meets no fruitful Ray,_
    _Nor bears it Issue to the God of day;_
    _All bleek and cale, th’ unshady prospect lies,_
    _And nothing grateful meets the melancholy Eyes._

    To this dire place _Aminta_ goes, whilst I,
    Begg’d her with Prayers and Tears to pass it by;
    All dying on the Ground my self I cast,
    And with my Arms her flying Feet imbrac’d;
    But she from the kind force with Fury flung,
    And on an old deformed Woman hung.
      A Woman frightful, with a horrid Frown,
    And o’re her angry Eyes, her Brows hung down:
    One single Look of hers, fails not t’ impart,
    A terror and despair to every Heart:
    She fills the Universe with discontents,
    And Torments for poor Lovers still invents.
    This is the mighty _Tyrant Cruelty_,
    Who with the _God of Love_ is still at enmity;
    She keeps a glorious Train, and Glorious Court,
    And thither Youth and Beauty still resort:
    But oh my Soul form’d for Loves softer Sport,
    Cou’d not endure the _Rigor_ of her Court!
    Which her first rude Address did so affright,
    That I all Trembling hasted from her Sight,
    Leaving the unconcern’d and cruel Maid,
    And on a Rivers Bank my self all fainting laid;
    Which River from the obdurate Rock proceeds,
    And cast’s it self i’th’ Melancholy Meads.


The River of Despair.

    _Its Torrent has no other source,_
    _But Tears from dying Lovers Eyes;_
    _Which mixt with Sighs precipitates its course;_
    _Softning the senseless Rocks in gliding by;_
    _Whose doleful Murmurs have such Eloquence_
    _That even the neighbouring Trees and flow’rs have pitying sense;_
    _And Cruelty alone knows in what sort,_
    _Against the moving sound to make defence,_
    _Who laughs at all despair and Death as sport._

    A dismal Wood the Rivers Banks do bear,
    Securing even the day from entering there;
    The Suns bright Rays a passage cannot find,
    Whose Boughs make constant War against the Wind;
    Yet through their Leaves glimmers a sullen Light;
    Which renders all below more terrible than Night,
    And shows upon the Bark of every Tree,
    Sad stories carv’d of Love and Cruelty;
    The Grove is fill’d with Sighs, with Crys, and Groans,
    Reproaches and Complaints in dying Moans;
    The Neighbouring Eccho’s nothing do repeat,
    But what the Soul sends forth with sad regret;
    And all things there no other Murmurs make,
    But what from Language full of death they take,
    ‘Twas in this place dispairing ere to free
    _Aminta_ from the Arms of _Cruelty,_
    That I design’d to render up my Breath,
    And charge the cruel Charmer with my Death.


The RESOLVE.

    _Now, my fair Tyrant, I despise your Pow’r;_
    _’.is Death, not you becomes my Conqueror;_
      _This easy Trophy which your scorn_
      _Led bleeding by your Chariot-side,_
      _Your haughty Victory to adorn,_
      _Has broke the Fetters of your Pride,_
      _Death takes his quarrel now in hand,_
      _And laughs at all your Eyes can do;_
      _His pow’r thy Beauty can withstand,_
    _Not all your Smiles can the grim victor bow._
      _He’ll hold no Parley with your Wit,_
      _Nor understands your wanton play,_
    _Not all your Arts can force him to submit,_
    _Not all your Charms can teach him to obey;_
      _Your youth nor Beauty can inspire,_
    _His frozen Heart with_ Love’s _perswasive fire;_
    _Alas, you cannot warm him to one soft desire;_
      _Oh mighty Death that art above,_
      _The pow’r of Beauty or of_ Love!

    Thus sullen with my Fate sometimes I grew,
    And then a fit of softness wou’d ensue,
    Then weep, and on my Knees implore my Fair,
    And speak as if _Aminta present were_.


The QUESTION.

      _Say, my fair Charmer, must I fall,_
      _A Victim to your Cruelty?_
    _And must I suffer as a Criminal?_
    _Is it to_ Love _offence enough to dye?_
      _Is this the recompence at last,_
      _Of all the restless hours I’ve past?_
      _How oft my Awe, and my Respect,_
        _Have fed your Pride and Scorn?_
      _How have I suffered your neglect,_
        _Too mighty to be born?_
      _How have I strove to hide that flame_
        _You seem’d to disapprove?_
      _How careful to avoid the name_
        _Of Tenderness or_ Love?
    _Least at that Word some guilty Blush shou’d own,_
    _What your bright Eyes forbad me to make known._

    Thus fill’d the neighbouring Eccho’s with my Cry,
    Did nothing but reproach, complain and dye:
    One day----
    All hopeless on the Rivers Brink I stood,
    Resolv’d to plunge into the Rapid Floud,
    That Floud that eases Lovers in despair,
    And puts an end to all their raging care:
    ‘Tis hither those betray’d by Beauty come,
    And from this kinder stream receive their doom;
    Here Birds of Ominous presages Nest,
    Securing the forlorn Inhabitants from rest:
    Here Mid-night-Owls, night-Crows, and Ravens dwell,
    Filling the Air with Melancholy Yell:
    Here swims a thousand Swans, whose doleful moan
    Sing dying Loves Requiems with their own:
    I gaz’d around, and many Lovers view’d,
    Gastly and pale, who my design pursu’d;
    But most inspir’d by some new hope, or won
    To finish something they had left undone;
    Some grand Important bus’ness of their Love,
    Did from the fatal precipice remove:
    For me, no Reason my designs disswade,
    Till _Love_ all Breathless hasted to my Aid;
    With force m’ unfixing Feet he kindly graspt,
    And tenderly reproacht my desperate hast,
    Reproach’d my Courage, and condemn’d my Wit,
    That meanly cou’d t’ a Womans scorn submit,
    That cou’d to feed her Pride, and make her vain,
    Destroy an Age of Life, for a short date of pain:
    He wou’d have left me here, but that I made,                       }
    So many friendships as did soon perswade                           }
    The yielding Boy, who Smil’d, resolv’d and staid.                  }
    He rais’d my Head, and did again renew,
    His Flatteries, and all the Arts he knew:
    To call my Courage to its wonted place.
    What, cry’d he--(sweetly Angry) shall a Face
    Arm’d with the weak resistance of a Frown,
    Force us to lay our Claims and Titles down?
    Shall _Cruelty_ a peevish Woman prove,
    Too strong to be overcome by Youth and Love?
    No! rally all thy Vigor, all thy Charms,
    And force her from the cruel Tyrants Arms;
    Come, once more try th’ incens’d Maid to appease,
    Death’s in our pow’r to grasp when ere we please;
    He said----And I the heavenly voice attend,
    Whilst towards the Rock our hasty steps we bend,
    Before the Gates with all our forces lye,
    Resolv’d to Conquer, or resolv’d to dye;
    In vain Love all his feeble Engines rears,
    His soft Artillery of Sighs and Tears,
    Were all in vain--against the Winds were sent,
    For she was proof ‘gainst them and Languishment:
    Repeated Vows and Prayers mov’d no Remorse,
    And ‘twas to Death alone I had Recourse:
    _Love_ in my Anguish bore a mighty part,
    He pityed, but he cou’d not ease my Heart:
    A thousand several ways he had assay’d,
    To touch the Heart of this obdurate Maid;
    Rebated all his Arrow’s still return,
    For she was fortify’d with Pride and Scorn.
    The useless Weapons now away he flung,
    Neglected lay his Ivory Bow unstrung,
    His gentle Azure Wings were all unprun’d,
    And the gay Plumes a fading Tinct assum’d;
    Which down his snowy sides extended lay,
    And now no more in wanton Motions play.
    He blusht to think he had not left one dart,
    Of force enough to wound _Aminta’s_ Heart;
    He blusht to think she shou’d her freedom boast,
    Whilst mine from the first Dart he sent was lost:
    Thus tir’d with our Complaints; (whilst no relief
    Rescu’d the fleeting Soul from killing Grief)
    We saw a Maid approach, who’s lovely Face
    Disdain’d the Beauties of the common race:
    Soft were her Eyes, where unfeign’d Sorrow dwelt,
    And on her Cheeks in pitying Show’rs they melt:
    Soft was her Voice, and tenderly it strook,
    The eager listening Soul, when e’re she spoke;
    And what did yet my Courage more augment,
    She wore this sadness for my languishment.

      _And sighing said, ah Gods! have you_
    _Beheld this dying Youth, and never found_
      _A pity for a Heart so true,_
    _Which dyes adoring her that gave the Wound?_
    _His Youth, his Passion, and his Constancy,_
      _Merits, ye God’s, a kinder Destiny._

    With pleasure I attended what she said,
    And wonder’d at the friendship of the Maid.
    Of LOVE I ask’d her name? who answer’d me,
    ‘Twas _Pity_: Enemy to _Cruelty_:
    Who often came endeavouring to abate,
    The Languishments of the unfortunate;
    And said, if she wou’d take my injur’d part,
    She soon wou’d soften fair _Aminta’s_ Heart;
    For she knows all the subtillest Arts to move,
    And teach the timorous Virgin how to love.
    With Joy I heard, and my Address apply’d,
    To gain the Beauteous _Pity_ to my Side:
    Nothing I left untold that might perswade,
    The listening Virgin to afford her aid.
    Told her my Passions, Sorrows, Pains and Fears,
    And whilst I spoke, confirm’d ‘em with my Tears;
    All which with down-cast Eyes she did attend,
    And blushing said, my Tale had made a Friend;
    I bow’d and thankt her with a chearful look,
    Which being return’d by hers, her leave she took:
    Now to _Aminta_ all in haste she hyes,                             }
    Whom she assail’d with sorrow in her Eyes,                         }
    And a sad story of my Miseries,                                    }
    Which she with so much tenderness exprest,
    As forc’d some Sighs from the fair Charmers Breast;
    The subtil _Pity_ found she should prevail,
    And oft repeats th’ insinuating Tale,
    And does insensibly the Maid betray,
    Where _Love_ and I, Panting and Trembling lay;
    Where she beheld th’ effects of her disdain,
    And in my languid Face she read my Pain.
    Down her fair Cheeks some pitying drops did glide;
    Which cou’d not be restrain’d by feebler Pride;
    Against my anguish she had no defence,
    Such Charms had grief, my Tears such Eloquence;
    My Sighs and Murmurs she began t’ approve,
    And listen’d to the story of my LOVE.
    With tenderness, she did my Sufferings hear,
    And even my Reproaches now cou’d bear:
    At last my trembling Hand in hers she took,
    And with a charming Blush, these Words she spoke:

                                   I.

    _Faithful_ Lisander, _I your Vows approve,_
      _And can no longer hide._
    _My Sense of all your suffering Love,_
      _With the thin Veil of Pride._

                                  II.

    _’.was long in Vain that Pity did assail,_
      _My cold and stubborn Heart;_
    _Ere on th’ insensible she cou’d prevail,_
      _To render any Part._

                                  III.

    _To her for all the tenderness,_
      _Which in my Eyes you find,_
    _You must your gratitude express,_
      _’.is_ Pity _only makes me kind._

                                  IV.

    _Live then_, Lisander, _since I must confess,_
      _In spight of all my native modesty,_
    _I cannot wish that you shou’d_ Love _me less;_
    _Live then and hope the Circling Sun may see_
    _In his swift course a grateful change in me,_
    _And that in time your Passion may receive_
    _All you dare take, and all a Maid may give._

    Oh, _Lysidas_, I cannot here relate,
    The Sense of Joy she did in me create;
    The sudden Blessing overcame me so,
    It almost finisht, what Grief fail’d to do;
    I wanted Courage for the soft surprize,
    And waited re-enforcements from her Eyes:
    At last with Transports which I cou’d not hide,
    Raising my self from off the ground, I cry’d.


The TRANSPORT.

    _Rejoyce! my new made happy Soul, Rejoyce!_
    _Bless the dear minute, bless the Heav’nly voice,_
      _That has revok’t thy fatal doom;_
    _Rejoyce!_ Aminta _leads thee from the Tomb._
    _Banish the anxious thoughts of dying hours,_                      }
    _Forget the shades and melancholy Bow’rs,_                         }
    _Thy Eyes so oft bedew’d with falling show’rs;_                    }
    _Banish all Thoughts that do remain,_                              }
      _Of Sighing Days and Nights of Pain,_                            }
    _When on neglected Beds of Moss thou’st lain:_                     }
    _Oh happy Youth!_ Aminta _bids thee live;_
    _Thank not the sullen God’s or defer Stars,_
    _Since from her Hand thou dost the Prize receive;_
    _Hers be the Service, as the bounty hers;_
    _For all that Life must dedicated be,_
    _To the fair God-like Maid that gave it Thee._

    Now, _Lysidas_, behold my happy State;
    Behold me Blest, behold me Fortunate,
    And from the height of languishing despair,
    Rais’d to the Glory of _Aminta’s_ care:
    And this one moment of my Heaven of Joy,
    Did the remembrance of past Griefs destroy:
    And _Pity_ ceas’d not here; but with new Eloquence,
    Obliges the shy Maid to visit _Confidence_.


CONFIDENCE.

    _A Lady lovely, with a charming Meen,_
    _Gay, frank, and open, and an Air serene;_
    _In every Look she does her Soul impart,_
    _With ease one reads the Sent’ments of her Heart;_
    _Her Humour generous, and her Language free,_
    _And all her Conversation graceful Liberty:_
    _Her_ Villa _is Youth’s general Rendezvous,_
    _Where in delightful Gardens, winding Groves,_
    _The happy Lovers dwell with secresie,_
    _Un-interrupted by fond Jealousie:_
    _’.is there with Innocence, they do and say_
    _A thousand things, to pass the short-liv’d day:_
    _There free from censuring Spies, they entertain,_
    _And pleasures tast, un-intermixt with pain._

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


The REFLECTION.

    _Oh with what Pleasure did I pass away._
    _The too swift course of the delightful day!_
    _What Joys I found in being a Slave_
    _To every Conquering Smile she gave,_
      _Whose every sweetness wou’d inspire_
      _The Cinick and the Fool with Love;_
      _Alas, I needed no more Fire,_
      _Who did its height already prove:_
    _Ah my_ Aminta! _had I been content,_
      _With this degree of Ravishment,_
    _With the nee’r satisfy’d delight I took,_
    _Only to prattle Love, to sigh and look,_
      _With the dull Bartering Kiss for Kiss,_
      _And never aim’d at higher Bliss,_
      _With all the stealths forgetful Lovers make,_
      _When they their_ Little Covenants _break:_
    _To these sad shades of Death I’d not been hurl’d,_
    _And thou mightst still have blest the drooping World;_
    _But though my Pleasure were thus vast and high,_                  }
      _Yet Loves insatiate Luxury_                                     }
    _Still wish’d reveal’d the unknown Mystery._                       }

    But still _Love_ importun’d, nor cou’d I rest,
    So often, and impatiently he prest,
    That I the lovely Virgin wou’d invite,
    To the so worshipp’d _Temple of Delight_.
    By all the Lovers Arts I strove to move,
    And watch the softest Minutes of her Love,
    Which against all my Vows and Prayers were proof.
    Alas she lov’d, but did not love enough:
    And I cou’d no returns but Anger get,
    Her Heart was not intirely conquer’d yet;
    For liking, I mistook her Complysance,
    And that for Love; when ‘twas her Confidence.
      But ‘twas not long my Sighs I did imploy,
    Before she rais’d me to the height of Joy.
    And all my Fears and Torments to remove,
    Yields I shall lead her to the _Court of LOVE_.
      Here, _Lysidas_, thou thinks me sure and blest,
    With Recompence for all my past unrest;
    But fortun’d smil’d the easier to betray,
    She’s less inconstant than a Lover’s Joy:
    For whilst our Chariot Wheels out-stript the Wind,
    Leaving all thought of Mortal Cares behind,
    Whilst we sate gazing full of new surprize,
    Exchanging Souls from eithers darting Eyes,
    We encounter’d _One_ who seem’d of great Command,
    Who seiz’d the Reins with an all-pow’rful hand:
    Awful his looks, but rude in his Address,
    And his Authority roughly did express;
    His violent Hands he on _Aminta_ laid,
    And out of mine snatch’d the dear trembling Maid;
    So suddenly as hinder’d my defence,
    And she cou’d only say in parting thence,
    _Forgive_, Lisander, _what by force I do,_
    _Since nothing else can ravish me from you;_
    _Make no resistance, I obey_ [5]Devoir.
    _Who values not thy Tears, thy Force or Prayer,_
    _Retain thy Faith and Love Aminta still,_
    _Since she abandons thee against her Will._
    Immoveable I remain’d with this surprize,
    Nor durst reply so much as with my Eyes.
    I saw her go, but was of Sense bereav’d,
    And only knew from what I heard, I liv’d;
    Yes, yes, I heard her last Commands, and thence
    By violent degrees retriev’d my Sense.
    Ye Gods, in this your Mercy was severe,
    You might have spar’d the useless favour here.
    But the first Thoughts my Reason did conceive,
    Were to pursue the injurious Fugitive.
    Raving, that way I did my haste direct,
    But once more met the Reverend _Respect_,
    From whom I strove my self to dis-ingage,
    And faign’d a calmness to disguise my Rage.
    In vain was all the Cheat, he soon perceiv’d,
    Spight of my Smiles, how much, and why I griev’d;
    Saw my despairs, and what I meant to do,
    And begg’d I wou’d the rash Design forego;
    A thousand dangers he did represent,
    T’ win me from the desperate attempt.
    I ever found his Counsel just and good,
    And now resolv’d it shou’d not be withstood;
    Thus he ore-came my Rage, but did not free,
    My Soul from Griefs more painful Tyranny;
    Grief tho’ more soft, did not less cruel prove,
    Madness is easier far then hopeless Love.
      I parted thus, but knew not what to do;
    Nor where I went; nor did I care to know;
    With folded Arms, with weeping Eyes declin’d,                      }
    I search the unknown shade, I cou’d not find,                      }
    And mixt my constant Sighs with flying Wind.                       }
    By slow unsteady steps the Paths I trace,
    Which undesign’d conduct me to a place
    Fit for a Soul distrest; obscur’d with shade,
    Lonely and fit for Love and Sorrow made;
    The Murmuring Boughs themselves together twist,
    And ‘twou’d allow to Grief her self some rest.
    Inviron’d ‘tis with lofty Mountains round,
    From whence the Eccho’s, Sighs, and Crys rebound;
    Here in the midst and thickest of the Wood,
    Cover’d with bending Shades a Castle stood,
    Where _Absence_ that dejected Maid remains,
    Who nothing but her Sorrow entertains.

[5] Duty.


ABSENCE.

    _Her mourning languid Eyes are rarely shown,_
    _Unless to those afflicted like her own;_
    _Her lone Apartment all obscure as Night,_
    _Discover’d only by a glimmering Light:_
    _Weeping she sate, her Face with Grief dismaid,_
    _Which all its natural sweetness has decaid;_
    _Yet in despight of Grief there does appear,_                      }
    _The ruin’d Monuments of what was fair,_                           }
    _E’r cruel_ Love _and_ Grief _had took possession there._          }
    _These made her old without the aid of Years;_                     }
    _Worn out, and faint with lingring hopes and fears,_               }
    _She seldom answers ought but with her Tears._                     }
    _No Train attends, she only is obey’d_
    _By_ Melancholy, _that soft, silent Maid:_
    _A Maid that fits her Humour every way,_
    _With whom she passes all the tedious day:_
    _No other object can her Mind content,_
    _She Feeds and Flatters all her languishment;_
    _The noisy Streams that from high Mountains fall;_
    _And water all the Neighbouring flowry Vale:_
    _The Murmurs of the Rivulets that glide,_
    _Against the bending Seges on the side;_
    _Of mournful Birds the sad and tuneful Noats,_
    _The Bleats of straggling Lambs, and new yean’d Goats:_
    _The distant Pipe of some lone Mountain Swain,_                    }
    _Who to his injur’d Passion fits his strain;_                      }
    _Is all the Harmony her Soul can entertain._                       }

      On a strict league of Friendship we agree,
    For I was sad, and as forlorn as she;
    To all her Humours, I conform my own,
    Together Sigh, together Weep, and Moan;
    Like her to Woods and Fountains I retreat,
    And urge the pitying Eccho’s to repeat
    My tale of _Love_, and at each Period found
    _Aminta’s_ name, and bear it all around,
    Whilst listening Voices do the charm reply,
    And lost in mixing Air, together dye.
    There minutes like dull days creep slowly on,
    And every day I drag an Age along;
    The coming hours cou’d no more pleasures hast,
    Than those so insupportably I’d past.
    I rav’d, I wept, I wisht, but all in vain,
    The distant Maid, nor saw, nor eas’d my pain;
    With my sad tale, each tender Bark I fill,
    This--soft complaints, and that--my Ravings tell;
    This bears vain Curses on my cruel fate,
    And Blessings on the Charming Virgin, that;
    The Willow by the lonely Spring that grows,
    And o’re the Stream bends his forsaken Boughs,
    I call _Lisander_; they, like him, I find,
    Murmur and ruffl’d are with every Wind.
    On the young springing Beech that’s straight and tall,
    I Carve her name, and that _Aminta_ call;
    But where I see an Oak that Climbs above
    The rest, and grows the Monster of the Grove;
    Whose pow’rful Arms when aiding Winds do blow,
    Dash all the tender twining Shades below,
    And even in Calms maliciously do spread,
    That naught beneath can thrive, imbrace or breed;
    Whose mischiefs far exceed his fancy’d good,
    _Honour_ I call him: _Tyrant_ of the Wood.
    Thus rove from Thought to Thought without relief:
    A change ‘tis true; but ‘tis from Grief to Grief;
    Which when above my silence they prevail,                          }
    With Love I’m froward, on my Fortune rail,                         }
    And to the Winds breathe my neglected Tale.                        }


To LOVE.

                                   I.

      _Fond_ Love _thy pretty Flatteries cease,_
        _That feeble Hope you give;_
      _Unless ‘twould make my happiness,_
      _In vain, dear Boy; in vain you strive,_
    _It cannot keep my tortur’d Heart alive._

                                  II.

      _Tho’ thou shou’dst give me all the Joys,_
      _Luxurious Monarch’s do possess,_
    _Without_ Aminta _’.is but empty noise,_
      _Dull and insipid happiness;_
    _And you in vain invite me to a Feast,_
    _Where my_ Aminta _cannot be a Guest._

                                  III.

      _Ye glorious Trifles, I renounce ye all,_
    _Since she no part of all your splendour makes;_
    _Let the Dull unconcern’d obey your call,_
    _Let the gay Fop, who his Pert Courtship takes;_
    _For_ Love, _whilst he profanes your Deity,_
    _Be Charm’d and Pleas’d with all your necessary vanity._

                                  IV.

      _But give me leave, whose Soul’s inspir’d,_
      _With sacred, but desparing Love._
      _To dye from all your noise retir’d,_
    _And Buried lie within this silent Grove._
      _For whilst I Live, my Soul’s a prey,_
      _To insignificant desires,_
      _Whilst thou fond God of Love and Play,_
    _With all thy Darts, with all thy useless Fires,_
    _With all thy wanton flatteries cannot charm,_
    _Nor yet the frozen-hearted Virgin warm._

                                   V.

    _Others by absence Cure their fire,_
    _Me it inrages more with pain;_
    _Each thought of my_ Aminta _blows it higher,_
    _And distance strengthens my desire;_
    _I Faint with wishing, since I wish in vain;_
    _Either be gone, fond_ Love, _or let me dye,_
    _Hopeless desire admits no other remedy._

    Here ‘twas the height of _Cruelty_ I prov’d,
    By absence from the sacred Maid I lov’d:
    And here had dy’d, but that Love found a way,
    Some letters from _Aminta_ to convey,
    Which all the tender marks of pity gave,
    And hope enough to make me wish to Live.
      From _Duty_, now the lovely Maid is freed,
    And calls me from my lonely solitude:
    Whose cruel Memory in a Moments space,
    The thoughts of coming Pleasures quite deface;
    With an impatent Lovers hast I flew,
    To the vast Blessing Love had set in view,
    But oh I found _Aminta_ in a place,
    Where never any Lover happy was!


RIVALS.

    Rivals _’.is call’d, a Village where,_
    _The Inhabitants in Fury still appear;_
    _Malicious paleness, or a generous red,_
    _O’r every angry face is spread,_
    _Their Eyes are either smiling with disdain,_
    _Or fiercely glow with raging Fire._
    _Gloomy and sullen with dissembl’d pain,_
    Love _in the Heart, Revenge in the desire:_
    _Combates, Duels, Challenges,_
    _Is the discourse, and all the business there._
    _Respect of Blood, nor sacred friendship tyes;_
      _Can reconcile the Civil War,_
      _Rage, Horror, Death, and wild despair,_
      _Are still Rencounter’d, and still practised there._

    ‘Twas here the lovely cruel Maid I found,
    Incompass’d with a thousand Lovers round;
    At my approach I saw their Blushes rise,
    And they regarded me with angry Eyes.
    _Aminta_ too, or else my Fancy ‘twas,
    Receiv’d me with a shy and cold Address,
    --I cou’d not speak--but Sigh’d, retir’d and Bow’d;                }
    With pain I heard her Talk and Laugh aloud,                        }
    And deal her Freedoms to the greedy Crowd.                         }
    I Curst her Smiles, and envy’d every look,
    And Swore it was too kind, what’ere she spoke;
    Condemn’d her Air, rail’d on her soft Address,                     }
    And vow’d her Eyes did her false Heart confess,                    }
    And vainly wisht their Charming Beauties less.                     }
    A Secret hatred in my Soul I bear,
    Against these objects of my new despair;
    I waited all the day, and all in vain;
    Not one lone minute snatcht, to ease my pain;
    Her Lovers went and came in such a sort,                           }
    It rather seem’d _Loves-Office_ than his _Court_,                  }
    Made for eternal _Bus’ness_, not his _Sport_,                      }
    _Love_ saw my pain, and found my rage grew high,
    And led me off, to lodge at _Jealousie_.


JEALOUSIE.

                                   I.

    _A Palace that is more uneasy far,_
    _Then those of cruelty and absence are,_
    _There constant show’rs of Hail and Rains do flow,_
    _Continual Murmuring Winds around do blow,_
    _Eternal Thunder rowling in the Air,_
    _And thick dark hanging Clouds the day obscure;_
    _Whose sullen dawn all Objects multiplies._
    _And render things that are not, to the Eyes._
    _Fantoms appear by the dull gloomy light,_                         }
    _That with such subtil Art delude the sight,_                      }
    _That one can see no Object true or right._                        }
    _I here transported and impatient grow_
      _And all things out of order do;_
    _Hasty and peevish every thing I say,_                             }
    _Suspicion and distrust’s my Passions sway,_                       }
    _And bend all Nature that uneasy way._                             }

                                  II.

      _A thousand Serpents gnaw the Heart;_
      _A thousand Visions fill the Eyes,_
    _And Deaf to all that can relief impart,_
      _We hate the Counsel of the Wise,_
    _And Sense like Tales of Lunaticks despise:_
    _Faithless, as Couzen’d Maids, by Men undone,_
    _And obstinate as new Religion,_
    _As full of Error, and false Notion too,_
      _As Dangerous, and as Politick;_
    _As Humerous as a Beauty without Wit;_
    _As Vain and Fancyful in all we do:_
    _--Thus Wreck the Soul, as if it did conceal,_
    _Love Secrets which by torturing ‘two’d reveal._

    Restless and wild, ranging each Field and Grove;
    I meet the Author of my painful Love;
    But still surrounded with a numerous Train
    Of Lovers, whom _Love_ taught to Sigh and Fawn,
    At my approach, my Soul all Trembling flies,
    And tells its soft Resentment at my Eyes:
    My Face all pale, my steps unsteady fall,
    And faint Confusion spreads it self o’re all.
    I listen to each low breath’d Word she says,
    And the returns the happy Answerer pays:
    When catching half the Sense, the rest Invent,
    And turn it still to what will most Torment;
    If any thing by Whispers she impart,
    ‘Tis Mortal, ‘tis a Dagger at my Heart;
    And every Smile, each Motion, Gesture, Sign,
    In favour of some Lover I explain:
    When I am absent, in some Rivals Arms,
    I Fancy she distributes all her Charms,
    And if alone I find her; sighing cry,
    _Some happier Lover she expects than I._
    So that I did not only Jealous grow,
    Of all I saw; but all I fancy’d too.


The COMPLAINT.

                                   I.

    _Oft in my Jealous Transports I wou’d cry,_
    _Ye happy shades, ye happy Bow’rs,_
    _Why speaks she tenderer things to you than me?_
    _Why does she Smile, carress and praise your Flowers?_
    _Why Sighs she (opening Buds) her Secrets all_
      _Into your fragrant Leaves?_
    _Why does she to her Aid your sweetness call,_
      _Yet take less from you than she gives?_
    _Why on your Beds must you be happy made,_
    _And be together with_ Aminta _laid?_
    _You from her Hands and Lips may KISSES take,_
    _And never meet Reproaches from her Pride;_
      _A thousand Ravishing stealths may make,_
    _And even into her softer Bosome glide._
    _And there expire! Oh happy Rival flowers,_
    _How vainly do I wish my Fate like that of Yours?_

                                  II.

    _Tell me, ye silent Groves, whose Gloom invites,_
    _The lovely Charmer to your Solitudes?_
    _Tell me for whom she languishes and sighs?_
    _For whom she feels her soft Inquietudes?_
    _Name me the Youth for whom she makes her Vows,_
    _For she has breath’d it oft amongst your listening Boughs?_
    _Oh happy confidents of her Amours,_
    _How vainly do I wish my Fortune blest as Yours._

                                  III.

    _Oh happy Brooks, oh happy Rivulets,_
    _And Springs that in a thousand Windings move;_
    _Upon your Banks how oft_ Aminta _sits,_
    _And prattles to you all her Tale of Love:_
    _Whilst your smooth surface little Circles bears,_
    _From the Impressions of her falling Tears,_
    _And as you wantonly reflecting pass,_
    _Glide o’re the lovely Image of her Face;_
    _And sanctifies your stream, which as you run,_
    _You Boast in Murmurs to the Banks along._
    _Dear Streams! to whom she gives her softest hours,_
    _How vainly do I wish my happiness like yours._

    Sometimes I rail’d again, and wou’d upbraid,
    Reproachfully, the charming fickle Maid:
      Sometimes I vow’d to do’t no more,
        But one, vain, short-liv’d hour,
      Wou’d Perjure all I’d Sworn before,
        And Damn my fancy’d Pow’r.
      Sometimes the sullen fit wou’d last,
        A teadious live-long day:
      But when the wrecking hours were past,
      With what Impatience wou’d I hast,
      And let her Feet weep my neglect away.
    Quarrels are the Reserves Love keeps in store,
    To aid his Flames and make ‘em burn the more.


The PENITENT.

                                   I.

    _With Rigor Arm your self, (I cry’d)_
      _It is but just and fit;_
    _I merit all this Treatment from your Pride,_
      _All the reproaches of your Wit;_
    _Put on the cruel Tyrant as you will,_
    _But know, my tender Heart adores you still._

                                  II.

      _And yet that Heart has Murmur’d too,_                           }
    _And been so insolent to let you know,_                            }
    _It did complain, and rave, and rail’d at you;_                    }
    _Yet all the while by every God I swear,_
    _By every pitying Pow’r the wretched hear;_
      _By all those Charms that dis-ingage,_
      _My Soul from the extreams of Rage;_
    _By all the Arts you have to save and kill,_
    _My faithful tender Heart adores you still._

                                  III.

    _But oh you shou’d excuse my soft complaint,_
      _Even my wild Ravings too prefer,_
      _I sigh, I burn, I weep, I faint,_
      _And vent my Passions to the Air;_
      _Whilst all my Torment, all my Care_
    _Serves but to make you put new Graces on,_
      _You Laugh, and Rally my despair,_
    _Which to my Rivals renders you more fair;_
    _And but the more confirms my being undone:_
    _Sport with my Pain as gayly as you will,_
    _My fond, my tender Heart adores you still._

      My differing Passions thus, did never cease,
    Till they had touch’d her Soul with tenderness;
    My _Rivals_ now are banish’d by degrees,                           }
    And with ‘em all my Fears and Jealousies;                          }
    And all advanc’d, as if design’d to please.                        }


The City of LOVE.

    In this vast Isle a famous _City_ stands,
    Who for its Beauty all the rest Commands,
    Built to delight the wondering Gazers Eyes,
    Of all the World the great _Metropolis_.
    Call’d by LOVE’s name: and here the Charming God,
    When he retires to Pleasure, makes abode;
    ‘Tis here both Art and Nature strive to show,                      }
    What Pride, Expence, and Luxury, can do,                           }
    To make it Ravishing and Awful too:                                }
    All Nations hourly thither do resort,
    To add a splendour to this glorious Court;
    The Young, the Old, the Witty, and the Wise,
    The Fair, the Ugly, Lavish, and Precise;
    Cowards and Braves, the Modest, and the Lowd,
    Promiscuously are blended in the Crowd.
    From distant Shoars young Kings their Courts remove,
    To pay their Homage to the God of Love.
    Where all their sacred awful Majesty,
    Their boasted and their fond Divinity;
    Loose their vast force; as lesser Lights are hid,
    When the fierce God of Day his Beauties spread.
    The wondering World for _Gods_ did _Kings_ adore,
    Till _LOVE_ confirm’d ‘em Mortal by his Pow’r;
    And in _Loves Court_, do with their Vassals live,
    Without or _Homage_, or _Prerogative_:
    Which the young _God_, not only Blind must show,
    But as Defective in his Judgment too.


LOVE’s Temple.

    Midst this Gay Court a famous Temple stands,
    Old as the Universe which it commands;
    For mighty _Love_ a sacred being had,                              }
    Whilst yet ‘twas _Chaos_, e’re the World was made,                 }
    And nothing was compos’d without his Aid.                          }
    Agreeing _Attoms_ by his pow’r were hurl’d,
    And _Love_ and _Harmony_ compos’d the World.
      ‘Tis rich, ‘tis solemn all! Divine yet Gay!                      }
    From the Jemm’d Roof the dazling Lights display,                   }
    And all below inform without the Aids of day.                      }
    All Nations hither bring rich offerings,
    And ‘tis endow’d with Gifts of Love-sick Kings.
      Upon an Altar (whose unbounded store
    Has made the Rifled Universe so poor,
    Adorn’d with all the Treasure of the Seas,
    More than the Sun in his vast course surveys)
    Was plac’d the _God!_ with every Beauty form’d,
    Of Smiling Youth, but Naked, unadorn’d.
    His painted Wings displaid: His Bow laid by,
    (For here _Love_ needs not his Artillery)
    One of his little Hands aloft he bore,
    And grasp’d a wounded Heart that burnt all o’re,
    Towards which he lookt with lovely Laughing Eyes:
    As pleas’d and vain, with the fond Sacrifice,
    The other pointing downward seem’d to say,
    _Here at my Feet your grateful Victims lay_,
    Whilst in a Golden Tablet o’re his Head,                           }
    In Diamond Characters this _Motto_ stood,                          }
    _Behold the Pow’r that Conquers every GOD_.                        }
    The Temple Gates are open Night and Day,
    _Love’s_ Votaries at all hours Devotions pay,
    A Priest of _Hymen_ gives attendance near,
    But very rarely shows his Function here,
    For Priest cou’d ne’r the Marriage-cheat improve,
    Were there no other Laws, but those of Love!
    A Slavery generous Heav’n did ne’r design,
    Nor did its first lov’d Race of men confine;
    A Trick, that Priest, whom Avarice cunning made,
    Did first contrive, then sacred did perswade,
    That on their numerous and unlucky Race,
    They might their base got Wealth securely place.
    Curse--cou’d they not their own loose Race inthral,
    But they must spread the infection over all!
    That Race, whose Brutal heat was grown so wild,
    That even the Sacred Porches they defil’d;
    And Ravisht all that for Devotion came,
    Their Function, nor the Place restrains their flame.
    But _Love’s_ soft Votaries no such injuries fear,
    No pamper’d _Levits_ are in Pension here;
    Here are no fatted Lambs to Sacrifice,                             }
    No Oyl, fine Flower, or Wines of mighty price,                     }
    The subtil Holy Cheats to Gormandize.                              }
    _Love’s_ soft Religion knows no Tricks nor Arts,
    All the Attoning Offerings here are Hearts.
      The Mystery’s silent, without noyse or show,                     }
    In which the Holy Man has nought to do,                            }
    The Lover is both Priest and Victim too.                           }
      Hither with little force I did perswade,
    My lovely timorously yielding Maid,
    Implor’d we might together Sacrifice,
    And she agrees with Blushing down-cast Eyes;
    ‘Twas then we both our Hearts an Offering made,
    Which at the Feet of the young _God_ we laid,
    With equal Flames they Burnt; with equal Joy,
    But with a Fire that neither did destroy;
    Soft was its Force and Sympathy with them,
    Dispers’d it self through every trembling Limb;
    We cou’d not hide our tender new surprize,
    We languisht and confest it with our Eyes;
    Thus gaz’d we--when the Sacrifice perform’d,
    We found our Hearts entire--but still they burn,
    But by a Blessed change in taking back,
    The lovely Virgin did her Heart mistake:
    Her Bashful Eyes favour’d _Love’s_ great design,
    I took her Burning Victim: and she mine.
      Thus, _Lysidas_, without constraint or Art,
    I reign’d the _Monarch_ of _Aminta’s_ Heart;
    My great, my happy Title she allows,
    And makes me Lord of all her tender Vows,
    All my past Griefs in coming Joys were drown’d,
    And with eternal Pleasure I was Crown’d;
    My Blessed hours in the extream of Joy,
    With my soft Languisher I still imploy;
    When I am Gay, Love Revels in her Eyes,
    When sad--there the young God all panting lies.
    A thousand freedoms now she does impart,                           }
    Shows all her tenderness dis-rob’d of Art,                         }
    But oh this cou’d not satisfy my Heart.                            }
    A thousand Anguishes that still contains,
    It sighs, and heaves, and pants with pleasing pains.
    We look, and Kiss, and Press with new desire,
    Whilst every touch Blows the unusual Fire.
    For _Love’s_ last _Mystery_ was yet conceal’d,
    Which both still languisht for, both wisht reveal’d:
    Which I prest on--and faintly she deny’d,
    With all the weak efforts of dying Pride,
    Which struggled long for Empire in her Soul,
    Where it was wont to rule without controul.
    But Conquering Love had got possession now,
    And open’d every Sally to the Foe:
    And to secure my doubting happiness,
    Permits me to conduct her to the _Bow’r of Bliss_.
    That Bow’r that does eternal Pleasures yield,
    Where _Psyche_ first the _God of Love_ beheld:
    But oh, in entering this so blest abode,
    All Gay and Pleas’d as a Triumphing _God_,
    I new unlook’d for difficulties meet,
    Encount’ring _Honour_ at the sacred Gate.


HONOUR.

                                   I.

    _Honour’s a mighty Phantom! which around_
    _The sacred Bower does still appear;_
      _All Day it haunts the hallow’d ground._
      _And hinders Lovers entering there._
      _It rarely ever takes its flight,_
      _But in the secret shades of night._
    _Silence and gloom the charm can soonest end,_
    _And are the luckyest hours to lay the Fiend,_
    _Then ‘tis the Vision only will remove,_
    _With Incantations of soft Vows of_ Love.

                                  II.

      _But as a God he’s Worshipt here,_
      _By all the lovely, young, and fair,_
      _Who all their kind desires controul,_
      _And plays the Tyrant o’re the Soul:_
    _His chiefest Attributes, are Pride and Spight,_
    _His pow’r, is robbing Lovers of delight,_
      _An Enemy to Humane kind,_
        _But most to Youth severe;_
    _As Age ill-natur’d, and as ignorance Blind,_
    _Boasting, and Baffled too, as Cowards are;_
    _Fond in opinion, obstinately Wise,_
    _Fills the whole World with bus’ness and with noise._

                                  III.

    _Where wert thou born? from what didst thou begin?_
    _And what strange Witchcraft brought thy Maxims in?_
    _What hardy Fool first taught thee to the Crowd?_
    _Or who the Duller Slaves that first believ’d?_
    _Some Woman sure, ill-natur’d, old, and proud,_
    _Too ugly ever to have been deceiv’d;_
    _Unskill’d in Love; in Virtue, or in Truth,_
    _Preach’d thy false Notions first, aud so debaucht our Youth._

                                  IV.

    _And as in other Sectuaries you find,_
    _His Votaries most consist of Womankind,_
    _Who Throng t’ adore the necessary Evil,_
    _But most for fear, as Indians do the Devil._
    _Peevish, uneasy all; for in Revenge,_
    _Love shoots ‘em with a thousand Darts._
    _They feel, but not confess the change;_
    _Their false Devotion cannot save their Hearts._
    _Thus while the Idol Honour they obey,_                            }
    _Swift time comes on, and blooming Charms decay,_                  }
    _And Ruin’d Beauty does too late the Cheat betray._                }

    This Goblin here--the lovely Maid Alarms,
    And snatch’d her, even from my Trembling Arms,
    With all the Pow’r of _Non-sence_ he commands,
    Which she for mighty Reason understands.
    Aminta, _fly_, he crys! _fly, heedless Maid,_
    _For if thou enter’st this Bewitching shade,_
    _Thy Flame, Content, and Lover, all are lost,_
    _And thou no more of Him, or Fame shall boast,_
    _The charming Pleasure soon the Youth will cloy,_
    _And what thou wouldst preserve, that will destroy._
    _Oh hardy Maid by too much Love undone,_
    _Where are thy Modesty, and Blushes gone?_
    _Where’s all that Virtue made thee so Ador’d?_
    _For Beauty stript of Virtue, grows abhorr’d:_
    _Dyes like a flower whose scent quick Poyson gives,_
    _Though every gawdy Glory paints its leaves;_
    _Oh fly, fond Maid, fly that false happiness,_
    _That will attend Thee in the Bower of Bliss._

    Thus spoke the Phantom, while the listening Maid,
    Took in the fatal Councel; and obey’d:
    Frighted she flys, even from the Temple door,
    And left me fainting on the sacred floor:
    LOVE saw my Griefs, and to my rescue came,
    Where on his Bosom, thus I did complain.


The LOSS.

    _Weep, weep,_ Lysander, _for the lovely Maid,_
      _To whom thy sacred Vows were paid;_
    _Regardless of thy Love, thy Youth, thy Vows,_
    _The Dull Advice of Honour now pursues;_
      _Oh say my lovely Charmer, where_
        _Is all that softness gone?_
      _Your tender Voice and Eyes did wear,_
        _When first I was undone._
    _Oh whether are your Sighs and Kisses fled?_
        _Where are those clasping Arms,_
      _That left me oft with Pleasures dead,_
        _With their Excess of Charms?_
    _Where is the Killing Language of thy Tongue,_
    _That did the Ravisht Soul surprize?_
    _Where is that tender Rhetorick gone,_
    _That flow’d so softly in thy Eyes?_
    _That did thy heavenly face so sweetly dress,_
    _That did thy wonderous Soul so well express?_
    _All fled with Honour on a Phantom lost;_
    _Where Youth’s vast store must perish unpossest._
    _Ah, my dear Boy, thy loss with me bemoan,_
    _The lovely Fugitive is with Honour gone!_

    _Love_ laughing spread his Wings and mounting flies,               }
    As swift as Lightning through the yielding Skies,                  }
    Where _Honour_ bore away the Trembling Prize.                      }
    There at her Feet the _Little Charmer_ falls,
    And to his Aid his powerful softness calls:
    _Assails_ her with his Tears, his Sighs and Crys,
    Th’ unfailing Language of his Tongue and Eyes.

    _Return_, said he, _return oh fickle Maid,_
    _Who solid Joys abandon’st for a shade;_
    _urn and behold the Slaughter of thy Eyes;_
    _See--the Heart-broken Youth all dying lyes._
    _Why dost thou follow this Phantastick spright?_
    _This faithless_ Ignis Fatuus _of the Light?_
    _This Foe to Youth, and Beauties worst Disease,_
    _Tyrant of Wit, of Pleasure, and of Ease;_
    _Of all substantial Harms he Author is,_
    _But never pays us back one solid Bliss._
    _--You’ll urge, your Fame is worth a thousand Joys;_
    _Deluded Maid, trust not to empty noise,_
    _A sound, that for a poor Esteem to gain,_
    _Damns thy whole Life t’ uneasyness and pain._
    _Mistaken Virgin, that which pleases me_                           }
    _I cannot by another tast and see;_                                }
    _And what’s the complementing of the World to thee?_               }
    _No, no, return with me, and there receive,_
    _What poor, what scanted_ Honour _cannot give,_
    _Starve not those Charms that were for pleasure made,_
    _Nor unpossest let the rich Treasure fade._
    _When time comes on;_ Honour _that empty word,_
    _Will leave thee then fore-slighted Age to guard;_
    _Honour as other faithless Lovers are,_
    _Is only dealing with the young and fair;_
    _Approaching Age makes the false_ Hero _fly,_
    _He’s Honour with the Young, but with the old necessity._

    --Thus said the _God!_ and all the while he spoke,
    Her Heart new Fire, her Eyes new softness took.

    Now crys, _I yield, I yield the Victory!_
    _Lead on, young Charming Boy, I follow thee;_
    _Lead to_ Lysander, _quickly let’s be gone,_
    _I am resolv’d to Love, and be undone;_
    _I must not, cannot_, Love _at cheaper rate,_
    Love _is the word_, Lysander _and my fate._

      Thus to my Arms _Love_ brought the trembling Maid;
    _Who on my Bosom sighing, softly, said:_
    _Take, charming Victor--what you must--subdue--_
    _’.is_ Love_--and not Aminta gives it you,_
    Love _that o’re all, and every part does reign,_
    _And I shou’d plead-and struggle--but in vain;_
    _Take what a yielding Virgin--can bestow,_
    _I am--dis-arm’d--of all resistance now_.--
    _Then down her Cheeks a tender shower did glide,_
    _The Trophies of my Victory, Joy, and Pride:_
    _She yields, ye Gods_ (I cry’d) _and in my Arms,_
    _Gives up the wonderous Treasure of her Charms._
    --Transported to the Bower of Bliss we high,
    But once more met _Respect_ upon the way,
    But not as heretofore with Meen and Grace
    All formal, but a gay and smiling Face;
    A different sort of Air his looks now wears,
    Galljard and Joyful every part appears.
    And thus he said--

    _Go, happy Lovers, perfect the desires,_
    _That fill two Hearts that burn with equal Fires;_
    _Receive the mighty Recompence at last,_
      _Of all the Anxious hours you’ve past,_
    _Enter the Bower where endless Pleasures flow,_
      _Young Joys, new Raptures all the year:_
      _Respect has nothing now to do,_
      _He always leaves the Lover here._
    _Young_ Loves _attend and here supply all want,_
    _In secret Pleasures I’m no confident._

    _Respect_ here left me: and He scarce was gone,
    But I perceiv’d a Woman hasting on,
    Naked she came; all lovely, and her Hair
    Was loosely flying in the wanton Air:
    _Love_ told me ‘twas _Occasion_, and if I
    The swift pac’d Maid shou’d pass neglected by,
    My Love, my Hopes, and Industry were vain,
    For she but rarely e’re returned again.
    I stopt her speed, and did implore her Aid,
    Which granted, she _Aminta_ did perswade
    Into the _Palace of true Joys_ to hast,
    And thither ‘twas, we both arriv’d at last.
      Oh _Lysidas_, no Mortal Sense affords,
    No Wit, no Eloquence can furnish Words
    Fit for the soft Discription of the _Bower_;
    Some _Love-blest God in the Triumphing hour_,
    Can only guess, can only say what ‘tis;                            }
    Yet even that God but faintly wou’d express,                       }
    Th’ unbounded pleasures of the _Bower of Bliss_.                   }
    A slight, a poor Idea may be given,
    Like that we fancy when we paint a Heav’n,
    As solid Christal, Diamonds, shining Gold,
    May fancy Light, that is not to be told.
    To vulgar Senses, Love like Heaven shou’d be
    (To make it more Ador’d) a Mystery:
    Eternal Powers! when ere I sing of Love,
    And the unworthy Song immortal prove;
    To please my wandering Ghost when I am Dead,
    Let none but Lovers the soft stories read;
    Praise from the Wits and Braves I’le not implore;
    Listen, ye Lovers all, I ask no more;
    That where Words fail, you may with thought supply,
    If ever any lov’d like me, or were so blest as I.


The Prospect and Bower of Bliss.

                                   I.

    _’.is all eternal Spring around,_
      _And all the Trees with fragrant flowers are Crown’d;_
    _No Clouds, no misty Showers obscure the Light,_
      _But all is calm, serene and gay,_
    _The Heavens are drest with a perpetual bright,_
    _And all the Earth with everlasting_ May.
    _Each minute blows the Rose and Jesamine,_
      _And twines with new-born Eglantine,_
      _Each minute new Discoveries bring;_
      _Of something sweet, of something ravishing._

                                  II.

    _Fountains, wandering Brooks soft rills,_
      _That o’re the wanton Pebbles play;_
    _And all the Woods with tender murmuring fills,_
      _Inspiring Love, inciting Joy;_
    _(The sole, the solemn business of the day)_
    _Through all the Groves, the Glades and thickets run,_
    _And nothing see but_ Love _on all their Banks along;_
    _A thousand Flowers of different kinds,_
      _The neighbouring Meads adorn;_
    _Whose sweetness snatcht by flying Winds,_
      _O’re all the_ Bow’r _of Bliss is born;_
    _Whether all things in nature strive to bring,_
    _All that is soft, all that is ravishing._

                                  III.

    _The verdant Banks no other Prints retain,_
    _But where young Lovers, and young Loves have lain._
      _For_ Love _has nothing here to do,_
      _But to be wanton, soft and gay,_
      _And give a lavish loose to joy._
      _His emptyed Quiver, and his Bow,_
    _In flowry Wreaths with rosy Garlands Crown’d,_
      _In Myrtle shades are hung,_
    _As Conquerors when the Victories won,_
    _Dispose their glorious Trophies all around._
    _Soft Winds and Eccho’s that do haunt each Grove,_
    _Still whisper, and repeat no other Songs than Love._
    _Which round about the sacred Bower they sing,_
    _Where every thing arrives that’s sweet and ravishing._

                                  IV.

    _A thousand gloomy Walks the Bower contains,_
      _Sacred all to mighty Love;_
    _A thousand winding turns where Pleasure reigns;_
    _Obscur’d from day by twining Boughs above,_
      _Where_ Love _invents a thousand Plays,_
      _Where Lovers act ten thousand Joys:_
      _Nature has taught each little Bird,_
      _A soft Example to afford;_
      _They Bill and Look, and Sing and Love,_
      _And Charm the Air, and Charm the Grove;_
    _Whilst underneath the Ravisht_ Swain _is lying,_
      _Gazing, Sighing, Pressing, Dying;_
      _Still with new desire warm’d,_
    _Still with new Joy, new Rapture charm’d;_
    _Amongst the green soft Rivulets do pass,_
    _In winding Streams half hid in Flowers and Grass,_
    _Who Purl and Murmur as they glide along,_
    _And mix their Musick with the Shepherds Pipe and Song,_
      _Which Eccho’s through the sacred Bower repeat,_
    _Where every thing arrives that’s ravishing and sweet._

                                   V.

      _The Virgin here shows no disdain,_                              }
      _Nor does the Shepherd Sigh in vain,_                            }
    _This knows no Cruelty, nor that no Pain:_                         }
    _No Youth complains upon his rigorous fair;_                       }
    _No injur’d Maid upon her perjur’d dear,_                          }
    _’.is only_ Love, _fond_ Love _finds entrance here;_               }
      _The Notes of Birds, the Murmuring Boughs,_
      _When gentle Winds glide through the Glades,_
      _Soft Sighs of Love, and soft breath’d Vows,_
    _The tender Whisperings of the yielding Maids,_
      _Dashing Fountains, Purling Springs,_
    _The short breath’d crys from faint resistance sent,_
      _(Crys which no aid desires or brings)_
    _The soft effects of Fear and Languishment;_
      _The little struggling of the fair,_
    _The trembling force of the young Conqueror,_
      _The tender Arguments he brings,_
    _The pretty Non-sence with which she assails._
    _Which as she speaks, she hopes it nought prevails_
    _But yielding owns her_ Love _above her Reasonings,_
    _Is all is heard: Silence and shade the rest._
    _Which best with_ Love, _which best with Joys consist,_
    _All which young Eccho’s through the Bower does sing,_
    _Where every thing is heard, that’s sweet and ravishing._

                                  VI.

    _Recesses Dark, and Grotto’s all conspire,_
      _To favour_ Love _and soft desire;_
      _Shades, Springs and Fountains flowry Beds,_                     }
      _To Joys invites, to Pleasure leads,_                            }
    _To Pleasure which all Humane thought exceeds._                    }
      _Heav’n, Earth, and Sea, here all combine,_                      }
      _To propagate_ Love’s _great design,_                            }
    _And render the Appointments all Divine._                          }
    _After long toyl, ‘tis here the Lover reaps_
    _Transporting softnesses beyond his hopes;_
    _’.is here fair Eyes, all languishing impart_
    _The secrets of the fond inclining Heart;_
    _Fine Hands and Arms for tender Pressings made,_
    _In_ Love’s _dear business always are imploy’d:_
      _The soft Inchantments of the Tongue,_
    _That does all other Eloquence controul,_
      _Is breath’d with broken Sighs among,_
      _Into the Ravish’d Shepherds Soul,_
    _Whilst all is taken, all is given,_
      _That can compleat a Lovers Heav’n:_
    _And_ Io Peans _through the Woods do ring,_
    _From new fletch’d God, in Songs all Ravishing._

      Oh my dear _Lysidas!_ my faithful Friend,
    Would I cou’d here with all my Pleasures end:
    ‘Twas Heaven! ‘twas Extaxsie! each minute brought
    New Raptures to my Senses, Soul and Thought;
    Each Look, each Touch, my Ravisht fancy charm’d,
    Each Accent of her Voice my Blood Alarm’d;
    I pant with every Glance, faint with a Kiss,
    Oh Judge my Transports then in higher Bliss.
    A while all Dead, between her Arms I lay,
    Unable to possess the conquer’d Joys;
    But by degrees my Soul its sense retriev’d;
    Shame and Confusion let me know I liv’d.
    I saw the trembling dis-appointed Maid,
    With charming angry Eyes my fault upbraid,
    While Love and Spight no kind Excuse affords,
    My Rage and Softness was above dull Words,
    And my Misfortune only was exprest,
    By Signing out my Soul into her Brest:
    A thousand times I breath’d _Aminta’s_ name,
    _Aminta!_ call’d! but that increas’d my flame.
    And as the Tide of Love flow’d in, so fast
    My Low, my Ebbing Vigor out did hast.
    But ‘twas not long, thus idly, and undone
    I lay, before vast Seas came rowling on,
    Spring-tides of Joy, that the rich neighboring shoar               }
    And down the fragrant Banks it proudly bore,                       }
    O’re-flow’d and ravisht all great Natures store.                   }
    Swoln to Luxurious heights, no bounds it knows,
    But wantonly it Triumphs where it flows.
    Some God inform Thee of my blest Estate,
    But all their Powers divert thee from my Fate.
    ‘Twas thus we liv’d the wonder of the Groves,
    Fam’d for our Love, our mutual constant Loves.
    Young Amorous Hero’s at her Feet did fall,
    Despair’d and dy’d, whilst I was Lord of All;
    Her Empire o’re my Soul each moment grew,                          }
    New Charms each minute did appear in view,                         }
    And each appointment Ravishing and New.                            }
    Fonder each hour my tender Heart became,
    And that which us’d t’ allay, increas’d my Flame.
      But on a day, oh may no chearful Ray,
    Of the Sun’s Light, bless that succeeding day!
    May the black hours from the account be torn,
    May no fair thing upon thy day be born!
    May fate and Hell appoint thee for their own,
    May no good deed be in thy Circle done!
    May Rapes, Conspiricies and Murders stay,
    Till thou com’st on, and hatch em in thy day!
    --’Twas on this day all Joyful Gay and Fair,                       }
    Fond as desire, and wanton as the Air;                             }
    _Aminta_ did with me to the blest Bower repair.                    }
    Beneath a Beechy Shade, a flowry Bed,
    Officious _Cupid’s_ for our Pleasure spred,
    Where never did the Charmer ere impart,
    More Joy, more Rapture to my ravisht Heart:
    ‘Twas all the first; ‘twas all beginning Fire!
    ‘Twas all new Love! new Pleasure! new Desire!
    --Here stop, my Soul--
    Stop thy carreer of Vanity and Pride,
    And only say,--_’.was here_ Aminta _dy’d_:
    The fleeting Soul as quickly dis-appears,
    As leaves blown off with Winds, or falling Stars;
    And Life its flight assum’d with such a pace;
    It took no farewel of her lovely Face,
    The Fugitive not one Beauty did surprize,
    It scarce took time to languish in her Eyes,
    But on my Bosom bow’d her charming Head;
    And sighing, these surprizing words she said:
    “Joy of my Soul, my faithful tender Youth,
    Lord of my Vows, and Miracle of Truth:
    Thou soft obliger--: of thy Sex the best,
    Thou blessing too Extream to be possest;
    The Angry God, designing we must part,
    Do render back the Treasure of thy Heart;
    When in some new fair Breast, it finds a room,
    And I shall ly--neglected--in my Tomb--
    Remember--oh remember--the fair she,
    Can never love thee, darling Youth, like me.”
     Then with a Sigh she sunk into my Brest,
    While her fair Eyes her last farewel exprest;
    To aiding God’s I cry’d; but they were Deaf,
    And no kind pow’r afforded me relief:
    I call her name, I weep, I rave and faint,
    And none but Eccho’s answer my Complaint;
    I Kiss and Bathe her stiffening Face with Tears,
    Press it to mine, as cold and pale as her’s;
    The fading Roses of her Lips I press,
    But no kind Word the silenc’d Pratlers will confess;
    Her lovely Eyes I kiss, and call upon,
    But all their wonted answering Rhetorick’s gone.
    Her charming little Hands in vain I ask,
    Those little Hands no more my Neck shall grasp;
    No more about my Face her Fingers play,
    Nor brede my Hair, or the vain Curls display,
    No more her Tongue beguiling Stories tell,
    Whose wonderous Wit cou’d grace a Tale so well;
    All, all is fled, to Death’s cold Mansion gone,                    }
    And I am left benighted and undone,                                }
    And every day my Fate is hasting on.                               }
    From the inchanting Bower I madly fly,
    That Bower that now no more affords me Joy.
    _Love_ had not left for me one Bliss in store,
    Since my _Aminta_ you’d dispence no more.
    --Thence to a silent Desert I advance,
    And call’d the _Desert of Remembrance_;
    A solitude upon a Mountain plac’d,
    All gloomy round, and wonderous high and vast,
    From whence _Love’s_ Island all appears in view,
    And distant Prospects renders near and true;
    Each Bank, each Bower, each dear inviting Shade,
    That to our Sacred Loves was conscious made;
    Each flowry Bed, each Thicket and each Grove,
    Where I have lain Charm’d with _Aminta’s_ Love;
    (Where e’re she chear’d the day, and blest the Night)
    Eternally are present to my Sight.
    Where e’re I turn, the Landskip does confess,
    Something that calls to mind past happiness.
    This, _Lysidas_, this is my wretched state,
    ‘Tis here I languish, and attend my Fate.
    But e’re I go, ‘twou’d wonderous Pleasure be,                      }
    (If such a thing can e’re arrive to me)                            }
    To find some Pity (_Lysidas_) from thee.                           }
    Then I shou’d take the Wing, and upwards fly,
    And loose the Sight of this dull World with Joy.

                                                  Your _Lysander_.


A TABLE.

  PAGE.

  _The Golden Age, a Paraphrase on a Translation out
  of_ French                                                         138

  _A Farewell to_ Celladon _on his going into_ Ireland               144

  _On a Juniper-Tree cut down to make Busks_                         148

  _On the Death of Mr._ Greenhill _the famous Painter_               151

  _A Ballad on Mr._ J. H. _to_ Amoret, _asking why I
  was so sad_                                                        153

  _Our Caball_                                                       156

  _The willing Mistress, a Song_                                     163

  _Love Arm’d, a Song_                                               163

  _The Complaint, a Song_                                            164

  _The Invitation, a Song_                                           165

  _A Song_                                                           165

  _To Mr._ Creech (_under the name of_ Daphnis) _on his
  Excellent Translation of_ Lucretius                                166

  _To Mrs._ W. _on her excellent Verses (writ in praise
  of some I had made on the late Earl of_
  Rochester) _written in a fit of sickness_                          171

  _The sense of a Letter sent me, made into Verse, to a
  New Tune_                                                          173

  _The Return_                                                       173

  _On a Copy of Verses made in a Dream and sent to
  me in a Morning before I was awake_                                174

  _To my Lady_ Morland _at_ Tunbridge                                175

  _Song to_ Ceres, _in the wavering Nymph or mad_
  Amyntas                                                            177

  _A Song in the same Play by the wavering Nymph_                    177

  _The Disappointment_                                               178

  _On a Locket of Hair wove in a True-lovers Knot
  given me by Sir_ R. O.                                             182

  _The Dream, a Song_                                                183

  _A Letter to a Brother of the Pen in Tribulation_                  185

  _The Reflexion, a Song_                                            186

  _A Song to_ Pesibles _Tune_                                        188

  _A Song on her loving two Equally set by Capt._ Pack               189

  _The Counsel, a Song set by the same hand_                         190

  _The Surprise, a Song set by Mr._ Farmer                           191

  _A Song_                                                           192

  _The Invitation, a Song to a New_ Scotch _Tune_                    192

  Sylvio’s _Complaint, a Song to a fine_ Scotch _Tune_               193

  _In Imitation of_ Horace                                           195

  _To_ Lysander _who made some Verses on a Discourse of Loves Fire_  196

  _A Dialogue for an entertainment at Court between_ Damon _and_
    Sylvia                                                           198

  _On Mr._ J. H. _In a fit of sickness_                              200

  _To_ Lysander _on some Verses he writ, and asking
  more for his Heart than ‘twas worth_                               202

  _To the Honourable Lord_ Howard, _on his Comedy
  called the New_ Utopia                                             204

  _To_ Lysander _at the Musick meeting_                              207

  _An Ode to Love_                                                   208

  _Love Reveng’d, a Song_                                            209

  _A Song to a New_ Scotch _Tune_                                    210

  _The Caball at Nickey Nackeys_                                     211

  _A Paraphrase on the eleventh Ode out of the first
  Book of_ Horace                                                    212

  _A Translation_                                                    212

  _A Paraphrase on_ OEnone _to_ Paris                                213

  _A Voyage to the Isle of Love_                                     223

                                FINIS.




LYCIDUS: OR, THE LOVER IN FASHION, &c.


To the EARL OF MELFORD, &c., Knight of the most Noble Order of the
Thistle.

  My Lord,

    This Epistle Dedicatory which humbly lays this Little Volume
    at your Lordships feet, and begs a Protection there, is rather
    an Address than a Dedication; to which a great many hands have
    subscrib’d, it Presenting your Lordship a Garland whose Flowers
    are cull’d by several Judgments in which I claim the least part;
    whose sole Ambition is this way to congratulate your Lordships
    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 Kings, and only fell with the most
    Illustrious of Queens, whose memory (which ought to be Establish’d,
    in all hearts can not be better preserv’d,) 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 Favor 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 vertue of your Great
    mind; a virtue not shewn 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 Tryal; like those who weighing Advantages
    by Probabilities only, and fancying the future to out-poyse the
    present, cast there their Anchor of Hope,) but a virtue built
    on so sure and steady Basis’s 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
    serv’d 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 Lordships great and weighty Employments
    in the world may seem Improper, if I did not know that the most
    Glorious of States-men 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 Lordships most humble,
                                        most oblig’d,
                                               and obedient Servant,
                                                               A. BEHN.


_To Mrs. B. on her Poems_.

    Hail, Beauteous _Prophetess_, in whom alone,
    Of all your sex Heav’ns master-piece is shewn.
    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 joyn’d,                            }
    Nothing but Goddess cou’d, you’re so refin’d,                      }
    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 spoyles,
    The Eye no tedious barren plain beguiles.
    But, like _Thessalian_ Feilds your Volumes are,                    }
    Rapture and charms o’re all the soyl appear,                       }
    _Astrea_ and her verse are _Tempe_ every where.                    }

      Ah, more than Woman! more than man she is,
    As _Phæbus_ bright; she’s too, as _Phæbus_ wise.
    The Muses to our sex perverse and coy
    _Astrea_ do’s familiarly enjoy.
    She do’s their veiled Glorys understand,
    And what we court with pain, with ease command.
    Their charming secrets they expanded lay,
    Reserv’d to us, to her they all display.
    Upon her Pen await those learned Nine.                             }
    She ne’re but like the Phosph’rus draws a line,                    }
    As soon as toucht her subjects clearly shine.                      }

    The femal Laurels were obscur’d till now,
    And they deserv’d the Shades in which they grew:
    But _Daphne_ at your call return’s her flight,
    Looks boldly up and dares the God of light.
    If we _Orinda_ to your works compare,                              }
    They uncouth, like her countrys soyle, appear,                     }
    Mean as its Pesants, as its Mountains bare:                        }
    _Sappho_ tasts 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 out-do _Ovid’s_ Art,                       }
    Loves God himself can’t subtiller 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 gayly than the Springs she decks the Bowrs
    And breaths a second _May_ to Fields and Flowrs.
    If e’re the golden Age again return
    And flash in shining Beames from’s Iron Urn,
    That Age not as it was before shall be,
    But as th’ Idea is refin’d by thee.
    That seems the common; thines the Elixir, Gold,
    So pure is thine, and so allay’d the old.

    Happy, ye Bards, by fair _Astrea_ prais’d,
    If you’r alive, to brighter life you’re rais’d;
    For cherisht by her Beams you’ll loftyer grow,
    You must your former learned selves out-do,
    Thô you’d the parts of _Thirsis_ and of _Strephon_ too.
      Hail, mighty Prophetess! by whom we see
    Omnipotence almost in Poetry:
    Your flame can give to Graves _Promethean_ fire,
    And _Greenhill’s_ clay with living paint inspire;
    For like some Mystick wand with awful Eyes
    You wave your Pen, and lo the dead Arise.

                                                       _Kendrick._


LYCIDUS:

or, the Lover in Fashion, &c.

I Have receiv’d 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 surpris’d nor griev’d, but hope to see
you the next Campagne, as absolutely reduc’d 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 handsom, finely shap’d, 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 handsom, well shap’d,
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 _Idæa_ of
past Pleasures, when rather the Injury the Jilt has done ‘em, ought
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 cozen’d 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 replenish’d with,
I have as dearly bought as any keeping Fool of ‘em all. I was Li’d
and flattered into Wit, jilted and cozen’d 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 guess 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 accompanyed 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 Inchanted
Ground; the first I saw, and lik’d, 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 blush’d, the
Ruddy Morning open’d, the Rose-buds blew, and all the Pinks and Dazies
spread; that when she sigh’d or breath’d, _Arabia’s_ Spices, driven
by gentle Winds, perfum’d all around; that when she look’d on me, all
Heaven was open’d in her Azure Eyes, from whence Love shot a thousand
pointed Darts, and wounded me all over; that when she spoke, the
Musick of the Spheres, all that was ravishing in Harmony, blest the
Adoring Listener; that when she walk’d, _Venus_ in the Mirtle Grove
when she advanced to meet her lov’d _Adonis_, assuming all the Grace
young Loves cou’d 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 Lillies,
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 lov’d; but knowing
I did Adore, I made my humble Court, and she, by all my trembling,
sighings, pantings, 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
ingage and secure me, play’d all the Woman over: She wou’d 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 tost in the Blanket of Love, sometimes up, and sometimes down,
as her Wit and Humour was in or out of tune, all which I watch’d, and
waited like a Dog, that still the oftner kick’d wou’d fawn the more.

Oh, ‘tis an excellent Art this managing of a Coxcomb, the Serpent first
taught it our Grandam _Eve_: and _Adam_ was the first kind Cully: E’re
since they have kept their Empire over Men, and we have, e’re 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, handsom
enough to do her Credit, and Fortune enough to please her Vanity and
Interest: She therefore suffer’d me to Love, and Bow among the Crowd,
and fill her Train. She gave me hope enough to secure me too, but gave
me nothing else, till she saw me languish to that degree, she feared,
to lose the Glory of my Services, by my death; only this Pleasure kept
me alive, to see her treat all my Rivals with the greatest Rigour
imaginable, and to me all sweetness, exposing their foibles; and having
taken Notice of my Languishment, she suffered me Freedoms that wholly
Ravish’d me, and gave me hopes I shou’d not be long a dying for all she
cou’d 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 believ’d and
lov’d, 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 Sun-shine; the
Island was all perpetual Spring, still flowery and green, in Bowers,
in Shades, by purling Springs and Fountains, we past our hours,
unwearied and uninterrupted. I cannot express to you the happy Life I
led, during this blessed Tranquility 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 laught at
the foolish World, who could not make their Felicity without 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 then
’.was most accurst,) 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 incountred 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 troublesom 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 incountred 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 persuing her (at my return,) I found her,
ready to take Boat to have past 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_ inviron’d round with new Lovers,
still adoring and pleasing her a thousand ways, and though none of ‘em
were so rich, so young, or so handsom as I, she nevertheless failed
not to treat ‘em with all the Smiles and Caresses ‘twas possible to
imagin; when I complain’d 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 a hundred
places, she would find such probable Excuse, and lye with such a Grace,
no mortal cou’d have accused her, so that all the whole Island took
notice that I was a baffled Cuckold, before I could believe she would
deceive me, so heartily she damn’d herself: Through all the Groves I
was the pointed Coxcomb, laught 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,
lavish’d out my Fortune, my plenteous Fortune, to make her fine to
Cuckold me. ‘Sdeath! how I scorn the Follies of my Dotage; and am
resolv’d to persue 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 prise,
      And be to Beauty true:
    And doat 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 looser hours, my Flame.
    All the Fatigues of Love I’ll hate,
      And _Phillis’s_ new Charms
    That hopeless Fire shall dissipate,
      My Heart for _Cloe_ warms.

    The easie Nymph I once enjoy’d
      Neglected now shall pass,
    Possession, that has Love destroy’d
      Shall make me pitiless.
    In vain she now attracts and mourns,
      Her moving Power is gone,
    Too late (when once enjoy’d,) she burns,
      And yeilding, 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 tast,
      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 Humor you may smile, but
with a reasonable consideration you will commend it, at least, though
you are not so wise as to persue 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 sacrific’d to my desire;
    A thousand Beauties have betray’d,
      That languish in resistless Fire.
    The untam’d Heart to hand I brought,
    And fixt the wild and wandring Thought.

    I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain
      But both, thô false, were well receiv’d.
    The Fair are pleas’d to give us pain,
      And what they wish is soon believ’d.
    And thô I talk’d of Wounds and Smart,
    Loves Pleasures only toucht my Heart.

    Alone the Glory and the Spoil
      I always Laughing bore away;
    The Triumphs, without Pain or Toil,
      Without the Hell, the Heav’n 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 hop’d she would
find Arguments to convince me she was not false; and in that Humor,
fear’d only I should not be handsomly and neatly jilted. Could she but
have dissembled well, I had been still her Cully. Could she have play’d
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
’.was 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
fixt on my declining Happiness, and almost drown’d in Tears, I saw a
Woman drest 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 lov’d Youth was slain, hasted to behold her ruin. She past
me, as I lay, with an unexpressible 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 cry’d, in passing by me, were these:

    Poor _Lycidus_, for shame arise,
    And wipe _Loves_ Errors from thy Eyes;
    Shake off the God that holds thy Heart;
    Since _Silvia_ for another burns,
    And all thy past Indurement 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 guess, to imagin, what Complaints I made, filling
the Grove, where I was laid, with my piteous Cries; sometimes I rose
and raved, and rail’d 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 dye in Peace?
    And why, too charming and too cruel Maid,
    Cou’d’.t thou not yet thy fleeting Heart have stay’d?
    And by degrees thy fickle Humor shewn,
    By turns the Enemy and Friend put on:
    Have us’d my Heart a little to thy scorn,
    The loss at least might have been easier born.
    With feigned Vows, (that poor Expence of Breath,)
    Alas thou might’st have sooth’d me to my death.
    Thy Coldness, and thy visible decays
    In time had put a period to my days.
    And lay’d me quietly into my Tomb,
    Before thy proof of Perjuries had come.
    You might have waited yet a little space                           }
    And sav’d mine, and thy, Honour this disgrace;                     }
    Alas I languish’d and declin’d apace.                              }
    I lov’d my Life too eagerly away
    To have disturb’d thee with too long a stay.
    Ah! cou’d you not my dying Heart have fed
    With some small Cordial Food, till I was dead?
    Then uncontroul’d, and unreproach’d your Charms
    Might have been render’d to my Rival’s Arms.
    Then all my right to him you might impart,
    And Triumph’d o’re a true and broken Heart.

Though I complained thus for a good while, I 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 intirely
miserable, out of too great a fear to find it true; and there were
some Moments in which I believed _Fame_ might falsly 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 rend’ring them to
her advantage. Sometimes I would excuse her ingratitude with a thousand
things that seem’d 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 loath
my own easiness, and resolve to be no longer a _Mark-out-fool_ for all
the Rhiming Wits of the Island to aim their Dogrel at. And grown, as I
imagined, brave at this thought, I resolved first to be fully convinced
of the perfidy of my Mistress, and then to rent my Heart from the
attachment that held it.

You know, that from the _Desart 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 dy’d away:
    Where the faithless suffer’d too
    All the amorous Youth cou’d 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 ravish’d Neck she twin’d
    And to his Kisses, Kisses join’d;
    Till, both inflam’d, she yeilded so
    She suffer’d all the Youth cou’d 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
rush’d upon ‘em, and have ended the Lives of the loose betrayers of
my repose, but Love stepp’d in and stay’d 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 extream Grief to find another possest of what I had
been so long, and with so much Toil in gaining: ‘Twas thus I retir’d,
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 incountred a Man, of a haughty look and meen, his Apparel rich
and glorious, his Eyes awful, and his Stature tall; the very sight of
him inspired me with coldness, which render’d me almost insensible of
the infidelity of _Silvia_. This Person was _Pride_, who looking on me,
as he past, with a fierce and disdainful Smile, over his Shoulder, and
regarding me with scorn, said;

    Why shou’d 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 accompanyed 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;

    Farewel, my little charming Boy!
      Farewel, 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 eas’d me when I did complain,
      And dry’d my falling showrs.
    When _Silvia_ frown’d still thou woud’st smile,
      And all my Cares and Griefs beguile.

    But _Silvia’s_ gone, and I have torn
      Her Witchcrafts from my Heart;
    And nobly fortify’d by scorn
      Her Empire will subvert;
    The Laws establish’d 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 accompanyed 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 Desart, 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 Meen 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
’.m, and make my Pleasure with the false One as well as the rest; for
she dissembled well, and for ought I knew, ‘twas but dissembled Love
she paid my Rivals. But I, forsooth, was too nice a Coxcomb, I cou’d
not feed as others did, and be contented with such Pleasures as she
cou’d afford, but I must ingross 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 confest I was a Fool, nor could I hinder myself
from saying a thousand times a day;

    That Coxcomb can ne’re be at ease,
      While Beauty inslaves his Soul.
    ‘Tis Liberty only can please,
      And he that’s Fetter’d is an Owl.

I found it very convenient and happy to dis-ingage from Love, and I
have wond’red a thousand times at the Follies that God has made me
commit: And though I som’times 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
lov’d her: In fine, I was so wholly recovered of my disease of Love
for _Silvia_, that I began to be uneasie 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 I natural Gayety;
insomuch, that I was seized with a Dulness, or Languishment, and so
great a fit of Melancholy, as I had never felt the like; and my Heart,
that was so accustomed to Love, was so out of Humour, that it had no
Object or Business for thought, that it lost all its Harmony and Wit;
it having nothing to excite it to Life and Motion, passing from so vast
a degree of tenderness to an unconcern equally extream. I thought it
rude, ill-bred, and idle, to live so indifferent and insignificant a
Life. And walking perpetually by myself, (or with those of my own Sex,
that could not make my diversion,) I sung all day this following Song
to a Hum-drum 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 do’s 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 ingage 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 lye;
I viewed my self in my Glass, and found myself very well recovered
from the Ruins my first Amour had made, and believed myself as fit
for Conquest, as any Sir _Fopling_, or Sir _Courtly Nice_ of ‘em all.
To this fine Person and good Meen and Shape, (as I thought,) I added
handsom 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 incountred a Woman, who, at first sight appeared very
agreeable; she had an Air easie, free, and Galliard; such as fails not
to take at first view: This was _Coquettre_, who, the very first time
she saw me, Addrest herself to me with very great Complisance 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 shewed me these Words written;

    Let Love no more your Heart inspire,
      Thô 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 Complisance.
    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_ prise:
    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 persue,
      ‘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 fatigu’d,
      A second time are ne’r again intrigu’d:
    No second Beauty e’r can move
      The Soul to that degree of Love;)
    This City built, that we might still obey,
      Thô we refus’d his Arbitrary Sway:
    ‘Tis here we find a grateful Recompence
      For all Loves former Violence;
    Tir’d 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 banish’d from the blest 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 incountred a thousand fine Persons all gloriously drest, as if
they were purposely set out for Conquest: There was nothing omitted of
Cost and Gallantry, that might render ‘em intirely Charming, and they
employ’d 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 Expence, a world of People persue ‘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 _Coquette Cupid_ presented
himself to me for a kind Instructer; 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 extreamly 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
incounter _Liberality_, a Woman of great Wit, delicate Conversation
and Complisance: 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 Pasports
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 Pasports 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 _Complisance_: This
place of so great Divertisement is re-frequented 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 Pasports 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 _Villa’s_, Gardens, or Rivers in
Chases, and a thousand things that pleas’d; and the Nights I passed
in Serenading, 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 extreamly 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, Grotto’s,
Groves and Thickets; and where all the Fair and the Gay resorted; ‘twas
here I incountred a young Beauty called _Bellinda_; she was well made,
and had an admirable meen, an Air of Gayety and Sweetness; but that
which charmed me most of all, was her Wit, which was too ingaging 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
Condescention 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 Charmes 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 extream 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 extreamly well pleas’d 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 pleas’d 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 determin 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 Gayety 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 wou’d 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 extream well pleas’d with
this days Adventure. All this Night I slept as well as if no tenderness
had toucht my Heart, and though I Lov’d 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 Gayety and Joy good liking and Wit could inspire: Nor was I
backward on my part, but addrest 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 _Bellimante_
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 tast 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 Gayety and Wit would inspire me with
good Humour; If I were over-prest 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 past my time awhile 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 urg’d this very argument _Respect_ then made me, to my _Coquet_ Love
now, who for answer return’d me nothing but loud Laughter; and when I
askt his reason, he replied, that _Respect_ did not forbid any to go
to _Declaration_, but those only who knew not how to behave themselves
well there, and who were not so well fashion’d 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 favor 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 belov’d, 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 wou’d 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 belov’d, nor ever weary of being Ador’d.
I was extreamly pleas’d 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.
    Sneeking, whining, dull Grimasses
      Pale the Appetite, they’d move;
    Only Boys and formal Asses
      Thus are Ridicul’d 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 gayly court,
      Make Love your pleasure not your pain,
    ‘Tis by wanton play and sport
      Heedless Virgins you will gain.

By this time we were arriv’d to _Declaration_, which is a very little
Village, since it is only for Passengers to pass thrô, 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
intire 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 discover’d
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 wisht end I talkt of a flame,
      Of sighing, and dying, and fire,
    I swore to her charms that my soul did submit,
    And the slave was undone by the force of her Wit.

    To fair _Bellimante_ the same tale I told,
      And I vow’d and I swore her fair Eyes
    No Heart-Ravisht mortal cou’d 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 cou’d make myself be believ’d by _Bellinda_, or gain any credit upon
her heart, she had a great deal of Wit and cou’d see farther into
the designs of her Lovers than those who had not so much, or had had
so many vows pay’d them: I perceiv’d 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 gain’d 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 oblig’d to return again to _Bellinda_, it was some
time I searcht her in vain, but at last found her at a little Village,
extreamly 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
controul, 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 to; in effect, there are as many Languages as there are 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 wou’d 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.

’.was thus I liv’d at _Intelligence_; when I understood that
_Bellimante_ was retir’d to _Cruelty_. This news afflicted me
extreamly, 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 us’d in my first Amour to do. However
I was so far concern’d that I made it my business not to lose this
insensible fair one, but making her a visit in spight of her retreat, I
reproacht 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 Armes?
      What the Lover wou’d possess
      You maintain but to oppress.
      Cease, fair Maid, your cruel sway,
    And let your Lover dy a nobler way.

Who the Devil wou’d not believe me as much in love now as I ever was
with _Silvia_: My heart had learnt then all the soft Language of
Love which now it cou’d 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 pleas’d me while I was speaking, and while I
believ’d I was gaining the vanity and pleasure of a conquest over an
unvanquisht heart. However I cou’d 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 obdurat’ness of this Maid, I went as well compos’d
however as I cou’d to _Intelligence_; and found even some pleasure in
the cruelty and charming resistance of _Bellimante_, since I propos’d
to myself an infinite happiness in softening a heart so averse to Love,
and which I knew I shou’d 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 inclin’d,
      Yet her fear a ruin sees.
    When her tears do kindly flow,
    And her sighs do come and goe.

    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 wou’d yield but can’t tell how.

    Oh! how pretty is her scorn
      When confus’d ‘twixt Love and shame,
    Still refusing (though she burn,)
      The soft pressures of my Flame.
    Her Pride in her denyal lies,
    And mine is in my Victories.

I feigned nevertheless abundance of Grief to find her still persist in
her rigorous Cruelty; and I made her believe that all my absent hours I
abandoned myself to sorrows and despairs; though _Love_ knows I parted
with all those things in _Silvia’s_ Arms. But whatever I pretended,
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 wou’d precious time improve.
      And husband well his hours,
    Let him complain and dye 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 chuse,
      To shew 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
persue it, the next day I drest myself in all the Gayety 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 dye;
    I in your Flames no longer burn,
      No more the whining Fool you fly;
      But all your Cruelty defie.

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

    Be kind or cruel every day,
      Your Eyes may wear what dress they please,
    ‘Twill not affect me either way,
      Now my fond Heart has found its Peace,
      And all my Tears and Sighings 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 spar’d no Sighs nor Floods of Tears,
      Nor any thing to move your Mind,
    With sacred Vows I fed your Cares;
      But found your rebel Heart unkind,
      And Vanity had made you blind.

    No more my Knees shall bow before
      Those unconcern’d and haughty Eyes,
    Nor be so senseless to adore
      That Saint, that all my Prayers despise:
      No, I contemn your Cruelty
      Since in a Humor not do dye.

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 past 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 toucht 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 Intreagues 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 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 Subtilty
to love more than one securely; and though this gave me some pain, it
was nevertheless an _Embarrass_ 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 Intreagues; 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 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 consol’d me for the loss
of the other, but in one day to lose all that made my happiness, put
me in such a Melancholy, I knew not for the present what to do for
myself; but _Coquet Love_ conducted me to a Village, that gave me a new
Pleasure: The scituation of it is marvellous, the Fields and the Groves
all about it the most pleasant in the World; the Meadows enamel’d 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, then perhaps they might avail.
There was reason in what he said, and I was pleas’d and calm’d; 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 Chagrins their Absence
gave me; withdrawn from the fair Eyes of _Bellimante_, and the Charming
Wit of _Bellinda_, and to give my sighing Heart a little ease; upon a
thousand Objects I formed 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 tire
myself with writing to ‘em every day; and when I did write, to save
the expence 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 seen them than have lived
at _Amusement_, but since it was necessary they should be absent, I
bore it with all the Patience I could; sometimes we were in a fit of
writing very regularly to one another, but on a sudden I received no
Letters at all; the reason of this was, they both understood I lived
at _Amusement_, and had retired themselves to the Palace of _Spight_: I
no sooner received this News, but I rendered myself there also; it is
a place where there is alwaies abundance of Tumult, Outrage, Quarrels
and Noise: And _Spight_ 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 _Spight_ obliges us to make: Thô ‘tis
sometime pleasant enough to see those we Love extreamly, 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 Lovers Rage and Jealousie
      One short moment do’s confess:
    How can they long angry be
      Whose Hearts are full of tenderness?

In this Place there wou’d 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, call’d _Right Understanding_; he brought me to _Bellinda_, whom
I found accompani’d 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 apply’d myself to _Spight_, with a design to be reveng’d 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,
cou’d reduce to the temper I had once seen her; in a rage, ten times
more than I was before, fill’d with disdain and revenge I complain’d
of this treatment to my little _Love_, who immediately led me into
a Grove, where the Beauties and the Graces us’d to walk, to consult
upon what return to make for my affront; from one place to another
we past on till we came to a little Thicket, on the other side of
which, by a little Rivulet we cou’d 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 shou’d 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 you’d put on; she was a little surprised, and blushing
at first, but I soon reconcil’d her to my conversation. I found her
handsom enough to ingage 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 spight her
former Lover, endeavor’d to be seen with me in all the publick places
she cou’d, which gave him Infinite torments of Jealousie. 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 pleas’d and in good humour; I cou’d perceive their colour
goe and come, and that they were as uneasy at this object, as my heart
you’d 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 hap’ned to be attended with her Woman
onely; she chang’d colour at my approach, and wou’d have passed me by
but I stay’d her by the Robe; and said a thousand things to her that
angry Love inspir’d me with, while she on her side did the same, till
we had talk’d 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 perswade
me that all she did was by Counsel of _Spight_.

    Oh! how soft it is to see
      The fair one we believe untrue,
    Eager and impatient be
      To be reconcil’d anew;
    When their little cheats of Love
      Shall with reasons be excus’d,
    Oh! how soft it is to prove.
      With what ease we are abus’d!

    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 reconcil’d.

I found this accommodement extreamly agreeable, and it was in these
transports the Lovely _Bellimante_ detain’d me for some days without
quitting 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 extreamly charm’d and satisfi’d, and hasted to _Bellinda_, who,
methought, was now a new Beauty; at least I found her too considerable
to lose the Glory of ingaging her intirely; ‘tis possible that both
these Ladies, being agitated with as little faith as myself, deceiv’d
me with the same design as I did them, to make their pleasure only,
and thô this very often came into my thoughts, yet it gave me no great
inquietude, they dissembl’d well, and I cou’d not see it; I had the
satisfaction and the vanity of ‘em, that was as much as I desir’d from
any of the fair since _Silvia_ toucht my heart, they both swore they
lov’d and both fear’d 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 shew’d 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 wou’d be so critically in love as not to be willing to be
so well abus’d? For my part I will not be so nice, as to penetrate
into their thoughts, to find what wou’d 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 found 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 reconcil’d.

But all these pleasures did not satisfy me, there were greater yet
behind which I had not arriv’d to with these fair charmers, and however
I liv’d at _Amusement_, making a thousand Amours with a hundred of the
most Beautiful, still I had a desire to subdue intirely to my pleasure
these two the most hard to gain, but now I was pretty well secur’d of
both their hearts and yet neither knew they were each others Rivals in
mine. They knew one another, converst, and play’d and walkt together,
yet so discreet I was in this Amour that neither was jealous of the
other, nor suspected I lov’d both with an equal Ardour; when I hap’ned
to be with ‘em both I carried myself so equally Gallant that both
commended my conduct and imagin’d I did it to hide the secret passion
I had for herself, and so many little Arts my _Coquet Love_ had taught
me I cou’d with ease manage abundance of intrigues at one and the same
time.

But as I said, this did not suffice, nor cou’d the fires that some
more willing Beauties allay’d, hinder me from wishing and burning and
persuing those two fair persons with an Ardor that had no appearance
of decay from any others goodness to me, but in my daily visits to
’.m I eternally solicited them to suffer me to accompany them to that
charming place call’d _Favors_, which is a very Beautiful Castle rais’d
in a Vally. I confest to you that my _Coquet Cupid_ advis’d me not
to go, for fear of attaching myself too much to a place so extreamly
agreeable; the Mountains, that environ this Castle, are very high
and full of hollow Rocks, which made the scituation very sullen. The
Castle itself was delicately built, and surrounded with tall Trees, so
thick that one cou’d hardly see the Edifice, nor cou’d the Sun-beams
dart throw the gloomy shade; and eternal Night seem’d 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 thô this Vally have many inhabitants, it appears to have
none at all; because they love solitude, and, banishing all Publick
society, content themselves only to be but two in company together; if
there be more they are receiv’d with a very ill welcome, for a third
Person in this place wou’d destroy the Pleasure and the harmony. The
Inhabitants of this Castle never shew 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 _Favors_; 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 obtain’d she brings
you to the Palace of intire Pleasure; which is neighbouring to the
Castle of _Favors_; but I, who wou’d very fain, at once, have brought
to this delicate place both _Bellinda_ and _Bellimante_, found myself
extream uneasy, because, as I said, only two can be well entertain’d
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 _Favors_, are oblig’d
to continue there for some time; and I found, I shou’d be extreamly
chagrin after a little with one alone; but both were obstinate and
wou’d not suffer a third: and having been so very importune with both,
I was asham’d to repent and recant all those things I had said, to
persuade them to go, thô in my heart I was very ill satisfi’d I had
not persu’d the counsel, _Love_ had given me not to go to _Favors_ at
all; he foreseeing an inconvenience in such a retreat, which I, with
all my young desires about me and fond of novelty, cou’d not, so well
as he, discern; however I had propos’d it with some ardency and wou’d
not go back, but resolv’d to make the best advantage of my voyage, and
wou’d not declare my regreet till I cou’d no longer hinder it: So that
_Bellimante_, yeilding to my Implorings, consented next day to go with
me to this retreat of _Favors_.

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 intirely happy in this place with one so young and
fair: But behold the fickleness of, Youth, and Man’s nature.

    Thô my Heart were full of Passion,
      And I found the yeilding Maid
    Give a loose to inclination
      While her Love her Flame betray’d;
    Yet thô all she did impart,
    Pain and Anguish prest my Heart.

    Thô I found her all o’r Charming,
      Fond and sighing in my Arms;
    Yet my Heart anew was warming
      For _Bellinda’s_ unknown Charms;
    Thought, if Beauty pleas’d me so,
    What must Wit and Beauty too?

And though next day I found myself a 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 learnt
to say so many kind and soft things in the time of my real Passion with
_Silvia_, that I found it easie 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 possest, and whom I long’d 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 extreamly
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 spight of all her Wit and Gayety, 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 extreamly 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 hap’ned 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 yeilding, 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 anything 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 addrest to any one of ‘em, it would have
prevailed; and I found it easie to have kept either, if I would resolve
to quit the other; but my heart not inclining to that, or if it wou’d,
not knowing which I shou’d chuse, 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 cou’d to a Village call’d _Irresolution_; and where _Coquet Love_
abandon’d 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
fantastique of the same name. She makes a Figure pleasant enough, she
never dresses herself, because she cannot determin 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 undetermin’d 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 fixt on nothing. You see her
perpetually perplext 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 shar’d my
soul, and I knew not for which I shou’d declare; nor whether the Wit
and extream 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 determin which I shou’d quit, having the same sentiments for one as
the other, and resolv’d 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 cou’d 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 perplext betwixt these two violent passions, when no
reason cou’d 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 Majestick meen, a most Divine Air, and her charms cast so
great a Lustre that I was dazzl’d with Gazing on her; she struck me
with so profound a respect at the first sight of her Glory’s, that I
cou’d 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 Majestick than
kind, she said to me in a loud voyce:

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

    Once you must Love to learn to live,
      ‘Tis the first lesson you shou’d learn;
    Useful instructions Love will give,
      If you avoid too much concern:
    Loves flame, thô in appearance bright,
    Deceives with false and glittering light.

    But, _Lysidus_, the time is come
      You must to Beauty bid adieu;
    Recal your wandering passions home.
      And only be to Glory true;
    She is a Mistress that will last
    When all Loves fires are gone and past.

Those words, repeated to me with an Air haughty and imperious, toucht
me to the very Soul, and made me blush a thousand times with shame
to behold myself in that ridiculous state, almost reduc’d 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
resolv’d to leave _Irresolution_ and follow her. I confess at first it
gave my heart som little pain to withdraw and dis-ingage it from so
long and so fond a custom, and I was more than once forc’d to parley
thus with my intractable 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 dy when er’e the charming God
    Forsak’s his old and kind abode.

    And thou, my heart, be calm and Pleas’d,
      For better hours thou now shalt see,
    Of all thy Anxious torments eas’d
      From all thy toyles and slavery free,
    From Beauties Pride and peevish scorns,
    From Wits Intregueing false returns.

    ‘Tis Honour now thou shalt persue,
      Her dictates only shalt obey;
    Yet Beauty en Passant may view
      And be with all loves Pleasures Gay,
    Quench when you please resistless fires,
    But make no business of desires.

Thus, my dear _Lysander_, following Glory, I soon arriv’d at the extent
of the Island of _Love_, and there I incounter’d a thousand Beauties,
Attractions, Graces and Agreements; all which endeavor’d anew, but in
vain, to engage me. I past by ‘em all without any regard only sight,
as I beheld ‘em with the remembrance, how once the meanest of those
Beauties wou’d have charm’d me. I lookt 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 favor Lovers, as they had a
thousand times done me. These dear remembrance, you may believe, stay’d
some time with me, yet I wou’d not for an Empire have return’d to ‘em
again, nor have liv’d that life over anew I had so long and with so
much pleasure persu’d.

After this I took a Vessel and put off from that shore, where, thô I
had met with many Misfortunes, I had also receiv’d a thousand joys:
While it was in view I found myself toucht with some regret, but being
sail’d out of sight of it, I sigh’d no more, but bid adieu to fond Love
for ever.

    All you Beauties and Attractions,
      That make so many hearts submit;
    Soft inspirers 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 votaryes to incline;
    After all your couzening _Billets_,
      Sighs and tears, but all untrue,
    To your Gilting tricks and quillets,
      I for ever bid adieu.




A MISCELLANY OF POEMS.


_On the Honourable Sir_ Francis Fane, _on his Play call’d the_
Sacrifice, _by Mrs._ A. B.

    Long have our Priests condemn’d a wicked Age,                      }
    And every little criticks sensless rage                            }
    Damn’d a forsaken self-declining stage:                            }
    Great ‘tis confest and many are our crimes,
    And no less profligate the vitious times,
    But yet no wonder both prevail so ill,
    The Poets fury and the Preachers skill;
    While to the World it is so plainly known
    They blame our faults with great ones of their own,
    Let their dull Pens flow with unlearned spight
    And weakly censure what the skilful write;
    You, learned Sir, a nobler passion shew,
    Our best of rules and best example too.
    Precepts and grave instructions dully move,
    The brave Performer better do’s improve,
    Ver’st in the truest Satyr you excel
    And shew how ill we write by writing well.
    This noble Piece which well deserves your name
    I read with pleasure thô I read with shame.
    The tender Laurels which my brows had drest
    Flag, like young Flowers, with too much heat opprest.
    The generous fire I felt in every line
    Shew’d me the cold, the feeble, force of mine.
    Henceforth I’le you for imitation chuse
    Your nobler flights will wing my Callow Muse;
    So the young Eagle is inform’d to fly                              }
    By seeing the Monarch Bird ascend the sky.                         }
    And thô with less success her strength she’l try,                  }
    Spreads her soft plumes and his vast tracks persues
    Thô far above the towring 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 plac’d
    With wit so new, and so uncommon, grac’d,
    In vain, alas! I should’st attempt to tell
    Where, or in what, your Muse do’s most excel.
    Each character performs its noble part,
    And stamps its Image on the Readers heart.
      In _Tamerlan_ you a true Hero drest,
    A generous conflict wars within his breast,
    This there the mightyest passions you have shew’d
    By turns confest the Mortal and the God.
    When e’re his steps approach the haughty fair
    He bows indeed but like a Conqueror,
    Compell’d to Love yet scorns his servial chain,
    In spight 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-lov’d charming maid,
    Nought surely cou’d but your own flame inspire
    Your happy Muse to reach so soft a fire.
    Yet with what Art you turn the pow’rful stream
    When trecherous _Ragallzan_ is the theam:
    You mix our different passions with such skill,
    We feel ‘em all and all with pleasure feel.
    We love the mischief, thô the harms we grieve,
    And for his wit the villain we forgive.
    In your _Despina_ all those passions meet,
    Which womans frailties perfectly compleat.
    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 shews a virtue so severely nice
    As has betray’d it to a pitch of vice.
    All which confess a God-like pow’r in you
    Who cou’d form woman to herself so true.

    Live, mighty Sir, to reconcile the Age
    To the first glories of the useful Stage.
    ‘Tis you her rifl’d Empire may restore
    And give her power she ne’re cou’d boast before.


_To_ Damon.


_To inquire of him if he cou’d 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 profest,
    Relieve the Pantings of my heart,
      Restore me to my wonted rest.

      Late in the _Silvian_ Grove I sat,
      Free as the Air, and calm as that;
      For as no winds the boughs opprest,
      No storms of Love were in my breast.
      A long Adieu I’d bid to that
      Ere since _Amintas_ prov’d ingrate.
      And with indifference, or disdain,
      I lookt around upon the Plain
    And worth my favor found no sighing Swain.
      But oh, my _Damon_, all in vain
        I triumph’d in security,
      In vain absented from the Plain.
        The wanton God his power to try
      In lone recesses makes us yeild,
      As well as in the open feild;
      For where no human thing was found
      My heedless heart receiv’d a wound.
      Assist me, Shepherd, or I dye,
      Help to unfold this Mystery.

    No Swain was by, no flattering Nymph was neer,
    Soft tales of Love to whisper in my Ear.
      In sleep, no Dream my fancy fir’d
    With Images, my waking wish desir’d.
      No fond Idea fill’d my mind;
    Nor to the faithless sex one thought inclin’d;
      I sigh’d 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 design’d to make.
      No snares for Lovers I had laid,
      Nor was of any snare afraid.
      But calm and innocent I sate,                                    }
      Content with my indifferent fate.                                }
      (A Medium, I confess, I hate.)                                   }
      For when the mind so cool is grown                               }
      As neither Love nor Hate to own,                                 }
      The Life but dully lingers on.                                   }

    Thus in the mid’st of careless thought,
    A paper to my hand was brought.
    What hidden charms were lodg’d within,
    To my unwary Eyes unseen,
      Alas! no Human thought can guess;
      But ho! it robb’d me of my peace.
      A Philter ‘twas, that darted pain
      Thrô every pleas’d and trembling vein.
      A stratagem, to send a Dart
      By a new way into the heart,
      Th’ Ignoble Policie of Love
      By a clandestin means to move.
      Which possibly the Instrument                                    }
      Did ne’re design to that intent,                                 }
      But only form, and complement.                                   }
      While Love did the occasion take
      And hid beneath his flowres a snake,
      O’re every line did Poyson fling,
      In every word he lurk’t a sting.
      So Matrons are, by _Demons_ charms,
      Thô harmless, capable of harms.

      The verse was smooth, the thought was fine,
      The fancy new, the wit divine.
    But fill’d with praises of my face and Eyes,
    My verse, and all those usual flatteries
      To me as common as the Air;
    Nor cou’d my vanity procure my care.
      All which as things of course are writ
      And less to shew esteem than wit.
      But here was some strange somthing more
      Than ever flatter’d me before;
      My heart was by my Eyes misled:
      I blusht and trembl’d as I read.
      And every guilty look confest
      I was with new surprise opprest.
      From every view I felt a pain
      And by the Soul, I drew the Swain.
      Charming as fancy cou’d create
    Fine as his Poem, and as soft as that.
      I drew him all the heart cou’d move,
      I drew him all that women Love.
      And such a dear Idea made
      As has my whole repose betray’d.
      _Pigmalion_ thus his Image form’d,
    And for the charms he made, he sigh’d and burn’d.

      Oh thou that know’st each Shepherds Strains                      }
      That Pipes and Sings upon the Plains;                            }
      Inform me where the youth remains.                               }
      The spightful Paper bare no name,
      Nor can I guess from whom it came,
      Or if at least a guess I found,
     ‘Twas not t’instruct but to confound.


_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’re,
      Like Songs that please (thô bad,) when new,
      But learn’d by heart neglected grew.

    In vain did Heav’n adorn the shape and face
    With Beautyes which by Angels forms it drew:
    In vain the mind with brighter Glories Grace,
    While all our joys are stinted to the space
      Of one betraying enterview,
    With one surrender to the eager will
    We’re short-liv’d 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-liv’d happiness?
      Why do we put Attraction on,
    Since either way ‘tis we must be undon?

      They fly if Honour take our part,
      Our Virtue drives ‘em o’re the field.
      We lose ‘em by too much desert,
      And Oh! they fly us if we yeild,
    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 supream
    The rest is airy Notion, empty Dream!
      Then, heedless Nymph, be rul’d by me
      If e’re your Swain the bliss desire;
      Think like _Alexis_ he may be
      Whose wisht Possession damps his fire;
      The roving youth in every shade
    Has left some sighing and abandon’d Maid,
    For ‘tis a fatal lesson he has learn’d,
    After fruition ne’re to be concern’d.


_To_ Alexis, _On his saying, I lov’d a Man that talk’d much, by Mrs._ B.

      _Alexis_, since you’ll have it so
        I grant I am impertinent.
      And till this moment did not know
        Thrô all my life what ‘twas I ment;
    Your kind opinion was th’ unflattering Glass,
    In which my mind found how deform’d 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 controul,
    Kind as a God, and gently you chastise,
    By what you hate, you teach me to be wise.

      Impertinence, my sexes shame,
        (Which has so long my life persu’d,)
      You with such modesty reclaim
        As all the Woman has subdu’d,
    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 Prid’s himself upon his prate
        And is of word, (that Nonsense,) vain;
    When in your few appears such excellence,
    They have reproacht, and charm’d me into sense.

      For ever may I listning sit,
        Thô but each hour a word be born:
      I wou’d attend the coming wit,
        And bless what can so well inform:
    Let the dull World henceforth to words be damn’d,
    I’m into nobler sense than talking sham’d.


A PASTORAL PINDARICK.


_On the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Earle of_ Dorset _and_
Middlesex, _to the Lady_ Mary Compton.

                          _A Dialogue._
                _Between_ Damon _and_ Aminta.
                       _By Mrs._ Behn.

                            _Aminta._

    Whither, young _Damon_, whither in such hast,
      Swift as the Winds you sweep the Grove,
    The Amorous God of Day scarce hy’d 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 conceal’d,
        And without speaking is reveal’d;
        For this eternal Holyday.
    A Day to place i’th’ Shepherds Kalendar,
    To stand the glory of the circling year.
    Let its blest 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 rejoyce,
    And gladness fill each heart and every voyce!

                             _Aminta._

    _Clemena!_ that bright maid for whom our Shepherds pine,
    For whom so many weeping Eyes decline!
        For whom the Echos 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 destinie of hearts and yet so young,
    She that has robb’d so many of content
    Yet is herself so Sweet, so Innocent.
        She, that as many hearts invades,
    As charming _Lysidus_ has conquer’d maids,
    Oh tell me, _Damon_, is the lovely fair
    Become the dear reward of all the Shepherds care?
    Has _Lysidus_ that prize of Glory won
    For whom so many sighing Swains must be undon?

                             _Damon._

    Yes, it was destin’d from Eternity,
        They only shou’d each other’s be,
    Hail, lovely pair, whom every God design’d
    In your first great Creation shou’d be joyn’d.

                             _Aminta._

    Oh, _Damon_, this is vain Philosophie,
      ‘Tis chance and not Divinity,
        That guides Loves 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 Soule’s by intr’est sway’d,
    And nobler passion now by fortune is betray’d;
      By sad experience this I know,
    And sigh, Alas! in vain because tis true.

                             _Damon._

    Too often and too fatally we find
      Portion and Joynture charm the mind,
    Large Flocks and Herds, and spacious Plains
      Becoms the merit of the Swains.
    But here, thô both did equally abound,
    ‘Twas youth, ‘twas wit, ‘twas Beauty gave the equal wound;
    Their Soules were one before they mortal being found.
      _Jove_ when he layd his awful Thunder by
      And all his softest Attributes put on,
      When Heav’n was Gay, and the vast Glittering Sky
    With Deities all wondering and attentive shone,
    The God his Luckyest heat to try
    Form’d their great Soules of one Immortal Ray,
    He thought, and form’d, as first he did the World,
    But with this difference, That from _Chaos_ came,
    These from a beam, which, from his God-head hurl’d
    Kindl’d 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 compleat,
    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;
    Softn’d the flame and plac’d a Chrystal Ice
        About the sacred Paradise,
        Bath’d it all or’e in Virgin Tears,
    Mixt with the fragrant Dew the Rose receives,
    Into the bosom of her untoucht leaves,
    And dry’d it with the breath of Vestal Prayers,                    }
    _Juno_ did great Majestick thought inspire                         }
    And _Pallas_ toucht it with Heroick fire.                          }

    While _Mars_, _Apollo_, _Love_ and _Venus_ sate,
    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 compleats the rest,
        Guilds it all or’e with Martial fire;
    While Love, and Wit, Beauty and War exprest
    Their finest Arts, and the bright Beings all in Glory drest.

    While each in their Divine imployments strove                      }
    By every charm these new-form’d lights t’improve,                  }
    They left a space untoucht for mightyer Love.                      }
    The finishing last strokes the Boy perform’d;
    Who from his Quiver took a Golden Dart
    That cou’d a sympathizing wound impart,
    And toucht ‘em both, and with one flame they burn’d.
    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 warm’d all hearts with his inchanting strains;                 }
    Soft were the Songs, which from his lips did flow,
    Soft as the Soul which the fine thought conceiv’d.
    Soft as the sighs the charming Virgin breath’d
    The first dear night of the chast nuptial vow.
    The noble youth even _Daphnis_ do’s excel,
    Oh never Shepherd pip’d and sung so well.

                             _Aminta._

    Now, _Damon_, you are in your proper sphear,
    While of his wit you give a character.
    But who inspir’d 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 listen’d to the wonderous Bard;
        And while he sung of things sublime
            With reverend pleasure heard.
        He soar’d to the Divine abodes
        And told the secrets of the Gods.
    And oft discours’d of Love and Sympathy;
        For he as well as thou and I
    Had sigh’t for some dear object of desire;
        But oh! till now I ne’re cou’d prove
        That secret mystery of Love;
    Ne’re saw two hearts thus burn with equal fire.

                             _Aminta._

    But, oh! what Nymph e’re saw the noble youth
    That was not to eternal Love betray’d?

                             _Damon._

    And, oh! what swain e’re saw the Lovely maid,
    That wou’d not plight her his eternal faith!
    Not unblown Roses, or the new-born day
    Or pointed Sun-beams, when they gild the skys,
    Are half so sweet, are half so bright and gay,
    As young _Clemena’s_ charming Face and Eyes!

                             _Aminta._

    Not full-blown flowrs, when all their luster’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 breez
        That whisper to the yeilding Trees,
    Nor songs of Birds that thrô the Groves rejoyce,
    Are half so sweet, so soft, as young _Clemena’s_ voyce.

                             _Aminta._

    Not murmurs of the Rivulets and Springs,
    When thrô the glades they purling glide along
    And listen when the wondrous shepherd sings,
    Are half so sweet as is the Shepherds song.

                             _Damon._

    Not young _Diana_ in her eager chase
    When by her careless flying Robe betray’d,
    Discovering every charm and every Grace,
    Has more surprising Beauty than the brighter maid.

                             _Aminta._

    The gay young Monarch of the cheerful _May_
    Adorn’d with all the Trophies he has won,
    Vain with the Homage of the joyful day
    Compar’d to _Lysidus_ wou’d be undone.

                             _Damon._

    _Aminta_, cease; and let me hast away,
      For while upon this Theam you dwell,
    You speak the noble youth so just, so well,
    I cou’d for ever listning stay.

                             _Aminta._

    And while _Clemena’s_ praise becoms thy choyce,
    My Ravisht soul is fixt upon thy voyce.

                             _Damon._

        But see the Nymphs and dancing swains
        Ascend the Hill from yonder Plains,
        With Wreathes and Garlands finely made,
    To crown the lovely Bride and Bridegrooms 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 prepar’d,
    With darling Lambs the Altars I wou’d throng;
    But I, alas! can only offer song.
    Song too obscure, too humble verse
         For this days glory to reherse,
         But _Lysidus_, like Heav’n, is kind,
    And for the Sacrifice accepts the Humble mind.
    If he vouchsafe to listen to my Ode
    He makes me happyer than a fancy’d God.


_On Desire._

                     _A Pindarick. By Mrs._ B.

      What Art thou, oh! thou new-found pain?
      From what infection dost thou spring?
    Tell me.--oh! tell me, thou inchanting thing,
           Thy nature, and thy name;
      Inform me by what subtil Art,
          What powerful Influence,
    You got such vast Dominion in a part
    Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart,
    That fame and Honour cannot drive yee thence.
    Oh! mischievous usurper of my Peace;
    Oh! soft intruder on my solitude,
      Charming disturber of my ease,
      Thou hast my nobler fate persu’d,
    And all the Glorys of my life subdu’d.

        Thou haunt’st my inconvenient hours;
    The business of the Day, nor silence of the night,
            That shou’d to cares and sleep invite,
        Can bid defyance to thy conquering powers.
        Where hast thou been this live-long Age
            That from my Birth till now,
        Thou never could’st one thought engage,
    Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage
    That made it all its humble feebles know?

        Where wert thou, oh, malicious spright,
        When shining Honour did invite?
        When interest call’d, then thou wert shy,
    Nor to my aid one kind propension brought,
        Nor wou’d’.t inspire one tender thought,
        When Princes, at my feet did lye.

    When thou cou’d’.t mix ambition with thy joy,
    Then peevish _Phantôm_ thou wer’t nice and coy,
        Not Beauty cou’d invite thee then
        Nor all the Arts of lavish Men;
    Not all the powerful Rhetorick of the Tongue
        Not sacred Wit you’d charm thee on;
        Not the soft play that lovers make,
    Nor sigh cou’d fan thee to a fire,
    Not pleading tears, nor vows cou’d thee awake,
    Or warm the unform’d somthing--to desire.
        Oft I’ve conjur’d thee to appear
        By youth, by love, by all their powrs,
        Have searcht and sought thee every where,
    In silent Groves, in lonely bowrs:
    On Flowry beds where lovers wishing lye,
        In sheltering woods where sighing maids
        To their assigning Shepherds hye,
    And hide their blushes in the gloom of shades:
        Yet there, even there, thô youth assail’d,
    Where Beauty prostrate lay and fortune woo’d,
    My heart insensible to neither bow’d,
    The lucky aid was wanting to prevail.

    In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphear
        But thou in crowds wer’t stifl’d there,
    Int’rest 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 thrô every part,
    What God, or Human power did thee create
        In my, till now, unfacil 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 peircing Beautys of _Lysanders_ 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 do’s appear,
          I faint, I dye with pleasing pain,
          My words intruding sighing break
          When e’re I touch the charming swain
          When e’re I gaze, when e’re I speak.
        Thy conscious fire is mingl’d with my love,
          As in the sanctifi’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 feaverish fits controul,
        By what strange Arts you cure the soul,
        And the fierce Calenture remove?

    Tell me, yee fair ones, that exchange desire,
        How tis you hid the kindling fire.
        Oh! wou’d you but confess the truth,
    It is not real virtue makes you nice:
    But when you do resist the pressing youth,
    ‘Tis want of dear desire, to thaw the Virgin Ice.
        And while your young adorers lye
    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 yeilding soul that wishes in your Eyes?
      While to th’admiring crow’d you nice are found;
      Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound
      Informs you, all your virtu’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.
        Thô tis a mighty power must move
      The soul to this degree of love,
    And thô with virtue I the World perplex,
    _Lysander_ finds the weakness of my sex,
    So _Helen_ while from _Theseus_ arms she fled,
    To charming _Paris_ yeilds her heart and Bed.


_To_ Amintas.

_Upon reading the Lives of some of the_ Romans. _by Mrs._ B.

    Had’st thou, _Amintas_; liv’d in that great age,
    When hardly Beauty was to nature known,
    What numbers to thy side might’st thou engage
    And conquer’d Kingdoms by thy looks alone?

    That age when valor they did Beauty name,
    When Men did justly our brave sex prefer,
    ‘Cause they durst dye, and scorn the publick shame
    Of adding Glory to the conqueror.

    Had mighty _Scipio_ had thy charming face,
    Great _Sophonisbe_ had refus’d to dye,
    Her passion o’re the sense of her disgrace
    Had gain’d the more obliging victory.

    Nor less wou’d _Massanissa_ too have done
    But to such Eyes, as to his Sword wou’d bow,
    For neither sex can here thy fetters shun,
    Being all _Scipio_, and _Amintas_ too.

    Had’st thou great _Cæsar_ been, the greater Queen,
    Wou’d trembling have her mortal Asps lay’d by,
    In thee she had not only _Cæsar_ seen,
    But all she did adore in _Antony_.

    Had daring _Sextus_ had thy lovely shape,
    The fairest Woman living had not dy’d
    But blest the darkness that secur’d the Rape,
    Suffering her Pleasure to have debauch’t her Pride.

    Nor had he stoln to _Rome_ to have quencht his fire,
    If thee resistless in his Camp he’d seen,
    Thy Eyes had kept his virtue all intire,
    And _Rome_ a happy monarchy had been.

    Had _Pompey_ lookt like thee, thô he had prov’d
    The vanquisht, yet from _Egypts_ faithless King
    He had receiv’d the vows of being belov’d,
    In stead of Orders for his murdering.

    But here, _Amintas_, thy misfortune lys,
    Nor brave nor good are in our age esteem’d,
    Content thee then with meaner victorys,
    Unless that Glorious age cou’d be redeem’d.

                                                           _A. B._


_On the first discovery of falseness in_ Amintas.

_By Mrs._ B.

    Make hast! make hast! my miserable soul,
      To some unknown and solitary Grove,
    Where nothing may thy Languishment controle
      Where thou maist never hear the name of Love.
    Where unconfin’d, and free, as whispering Air,
    Thou maist caress and welcome thy despair:

    Where no dissembl’d complisance may veil
      The griefes with which, my soul, thou art opprest,
    But dying, breath thyself out in a tale
      That may declare the cause of thy unrest:
    The toyles of Death ‘twill render far more light
    And soon convey thee to the shades of night.

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

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

    There on a Bed of Moss and new-faln leaves,
      Which the Triumphant Trees once proudly bore,
    Thô now thrown off by every wind that breaths,
      Despis’d by what they did adorn before,
    And who, like useless me, regardless lye
    While springing beautys do the boughs supply.

    There lay thee down, my soul, and breath thy last,
      And calmly to the unknown regions fly;
    But e’re thou dost thy stock of life exhaust,
      Let the ungrateful know, why tis you dye.
    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 thee approv’d.
    How soon as wisht he was thy conqueror,
      No sooner spoke of Love, but was belov’d.
    His wonderous Eyes, what weak resistance found,
    While every charming word begat a wound?

    Here thou wilt grow impatient to be gone,
      And thrô my willing Eyes will silent pass,
    Into the stream that gently glides along,
      But stay thy hasty flight, (my Soul,) alas,
    A thought more cruel will thy flight secure,
    Thought, that can no admittance give to cure.
    Think, how the prostrate Infidel now lys,
      An humble suppliant at anothers feet,
    Think, while he begs for pity from her Eyes.
      He sacrifices thee without regreet.
    Think, how the faithless treated thee last night,
    And then, my tortur’d soul, assume thy flight.


_To the fair_ Clarinda, _who made Love to me, imagin’d 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 justifie my soft complaint,
    While that may serve to lessen my constraint;
    And without Blushes I the Youth persue,
    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 wer’t sent,
    That we might Love, and yet be Innocent:
    For sure no Crime with thee we can commit;
    Or if we shou’d--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_ join’d;
    When e’r the Manly part of thee, wou’d 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.




WESTMINSTER DROLLERY, 1671.


A SONG.

    That Beauty I ador’d before,
        I now as much despise:
    ‘Tis Money only makes the Whore:
        She that for love with her Crony lies,
    _Is chaste: But that’s the Whore that kisses for prize._

    Let _Jove_ with Gold his _Danae_ woo,
        It shall be no rule for me:
    Nay, ‘t may be I may do so too,
        When I’me as old as he.
    _Till then I’le never hire the thing that’s free._

    If Coin must your affection Imp,
        Pray get some other Friend:
    My Pocket ne’re shall be my Pimp,
        I never that intend,
    _Yet can be noble too, if I see they mend._

    Since Loving was a Liberal Art,
        How canst thou trade for gain?
    The pleasure is on your part,
        ‘Tis we Men take the pain:
    _And being so, must Women have the gain?_

    No, no, I’le never farm your Bed,
        Nor your Smock-Tenant be:
    I hate to rent your white and red,
        You shall not let your Love to me:
    _I court a Mistris, not a Landlady._

    A Pox take him that first set up,
        Th’ Excise of Flesh and Skin:
    And since it will no better be,
        Let’s both to kiss begin;
    _To kiss freely: if not, you may go spin._




MISCELLANY, 1685.


To SIR WILLIAM CLIFTON.

  Sir,

I am very sensible how the ill-natur’d World has been pleased to Judge
of almost all Dedications, and when not addrest to themselves will not
let ‘em pass without the imputation of Flattery; for there is scarce
any Man so just to allow those Praises to another in which he does not
immediately share in some degree himself, nor can the Fantastic Humors
of the Age agree in point of Merit, but every Mans Vertue is measured
according to the sence another has of it, and not by its own intrinsic
value, so that if another does not see with my Eyes and judge with
my Sence, I must be Branded with the Crime of Fools and Cowards; nor
will they be undeceived in an Error that so agreeably flatters them,
either by a better knowledge of the Person commended, or by a right
understanding from any other Judgment; they hate to be convinced of
what will make no part of their satisfaction when they are so, for as
’.is natural to despise all those that have no vertue at all, so ‘tis
as natural to Envy those we find have more than our selves instead
of imitating ‘em: and I have heard a Man rail at a Dedication for
being all over Flattery, and Damn it in gross, who when it has been
laid before him, and he has been asked to answer according to his
Conscience, and upon Honour to every particular, could not contradict
one single Vertue that has been justly given there, yet angry at being
convinced has cry’d, with a peevish, uneasie tone.--YET I DON’T KNOW
HOW, NOR I DON’T KNOW WHAT-BUT ‘TIS ALL TOGETHER METHINKS A PIECE OF
FLATTERY--When indeed the business was, _he did not know how_ to afford
him so good a Character, nor _he did not know what_ other reason he had
to find fault with it, and was only now afflicted to find ‘twas all
true; whereas before he charged it all on the effects of some little
sinister end or advantage of the Author.

’.is therefore, Sir, that I have taken the Liberty here of addressing
my self to one, whose Generosity and Goodness has prevented any such
Scandal, and secured me from the imputation of Flattery by rend’ring
this, but a small part of that Duty only, which I have so long owed
you; ‘tis only, Sir, my debt of gratitude I pay, or rather an humble
acknowledgment of what I ought to pay you; for favours of that nature
are not easily returned, and one must be a great while discharging it
out of the Barren Stock of Poetry; but where my own failed, I borrowed
of my Friends, who were all ready to give me Credit for so good and
just an occasion, and we all soon agreed where first we should begin
the work of gratitude. For, Sir, your worth is every where known,
and valued; it bears the Royal stamp and passes for currant to every
ready hand; Loyalty being that standard Vertue of the Soul which finds
its price all over the World; nor is it in these our glorious days,
who bears that Rate now, but who has always done so through Fate and
Fortune; dyed in the true Grain, not to be varied with every glittering
Sun-shine, nor lost in every falling Shower, but stanch to its first
beautiful colour, endures all weathers.

Nor is it enough that where you are known, you are beloved and blest,
but you, whose Quality and Fortune elevate you above the common Crowd,
ought to have your Loyal Names fixed every where, as great and leading
Examples to the rest, as the Genius of your Country and the Star
that influences, where your Lustre shines. You, who in spight of all
the Follies we import from _France_ so much in fashion here, still
retain, and still maintain the good old _English_ Customs of Noble
Hospitality, and treat the underworld about you, even into good nature
and Loyalty; and have kept your Country honest, while elsewhere for
want of such great Patrons and Presidents, Faction and Sedition have
over-run those Villages where Ignorance abounded, and got footing
almost every where, whose Inhabitants are a sort of Bruits, that ought
no more to be left to themselves than Fire, and are as Mischievous and
as Destructive. While every great Landlord is a kind of Monarch that
awes and civilizes ‘em into Duty and Allegiance, and whom because they
know, they Worship with a Reverence equal to what they would pay their
King, whose Representative they take him at least to be if not that
of God himself, since they know no greater or more indulgent; and are
sure to be of his opinion, he’s their Oracle, their very Gospel, and
whom they’ll sooner credit; never was new Religion, Misunderstanding,
and Rebellion known in Countries till Gentlemen of ancient Families
reformed their way of living to the new Mode, pulled down their great
Halls, retrenched their Servants, and confined themselves to scanty
lodgings in the City, starved the Poor of their Parish, and rackt their
Tenants to keep the Tawdry Jilt in Town a hundred times more expensive,
but you, Sir, retain still the perfect measure of true Honour, you
understand the joys and comforts of life and blest retreat; you value
Courts tho you do not always shine there, you dare be brave, liberal,
and honest tho you do not always behold the Illustrious Pattern of all
Glorious Vertue in your King, and absent from the lavish City. You are
pleased and contented with the favour of your Monarch, tho you have
no need of his Bounty, dare serve him with your Life and Fortune, and
can find your reward in your own Vertue and Merit; this I dare avow to
all the World is your Character in short, for which your lasting Name
shall live, when the turbulent, busie hot-brain’d disturbers of their
own tranquillity and the Kingdoms Peace, shall live in fear, die in
Shame and their memory rot in the forgotten Grave, or stand to after
Ages Branded and Reproached, while we can never enough Celebrate that
Glorious one of yours; nor knew we where to fix it to render it Durable
to all Eternity so well as to lasting Verse, that out-wears Time and
Marble. If anything within can contribute to the diversion of your
Hours of least concern, ‘twill be sufficient recompence to all who beg
your Patronage here, especially

                                         Sir,
                                       Your obliged
                                         and most humble Servant,
                                                    A. BEHN.

MISCELLANY, 1685.


_On the Death of the late Earl of_ Rochester, _by Mrs._ A. B.

    Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
    The Young, the Noble _Strephon_ is no more.
    Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light,
    And ne’re shall rise from Deaths eternal Night,
    So rich a Prize the _Stygian_ Gods ne’re bore,
    Such Wit, such Beauty, never grac’d their Shore.
    He was but lent this duller World t’ improve
    In all the charms of Poetry, and Love;
    Both were his gift, which freely he bestow’d,
    And like a God, dealt to the wond’ring Crowd.
    Scorning the little Vanity of Fame,
    Spight of himself attain’d a Glorious name.
    But oh! in vain was all his peevish Pride,
    The Sun as soon might his vast Lustre hide,
    As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright,
    As suffering no vicissitudes of Night.
      Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
      The Young, the Noble _Strephon_ is no more.

    Now uninspir’d upon your Banks we lye,
    Unless when we wou’d mourn his Elegie;
    His name’s a Genius that wou’d Wit dispense,
    And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Sense.
    But all fine thought that Ravisht when it spoke,
    With the soft Youth eternal leave has took;
    Uncommon Wit that did the soul o’recome,
    Is buried all in _Strephon’s_ Worship’d Tomb;
    Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone,
    The Fop and Cully now may be undone;
    That dear instructing Rage is now allay’d,
    And no sharp Pen dares tell ‘em how they’ve stray’d;
    Bold as a God was ev’ry lash he took,
    But kind and gentle the chastising stroke.
      Mourn, Mourn, ye Youths, whom Fortune has betray’d,
      The last Reproacher of your Vice is dead.

    Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your _Cyprus_ on,
    The truest Swain that e’re Ador’d you’s gone;
    Think how he lov’d, and writ, and sigh’d, and spoke,
    Recall his Meen, his Fashion, and his Look.
    By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize,
    Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes.
    Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow’rs,
    Bedew’d with everlasting falling Show’rs;
    Fix your fair eyes upon your victim’d Slave,
    Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave.
    See where the Noble Swain Extended lies,
    Too sad a Triumph of your Victories;
    Adorn’d with all the Graces Heav’n e’re lent,                      }
    All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent                        }
    You’ve laid into his early Monument.                               }
      Mourn, Mourn, ye Beauties, your sad loss deplore,
      The Young, the Charming _Strephon_ is no more.

    Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whose Darts
    Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts;
    Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow,
    The useless Toys can do no Mischief now,
    Those Eyes that all your Arrows points inspir’d,
    Those Lights that gave ye fire are now retir’d,
    Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mothers Doves;
    Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves,
    For you the humblest Votary have lost
    That ever your Divinities could boast;
    Upon your hands your weeping Heads decline,
    And let your wings encompass round his Shrine;
    In stead of Flow’rs your broken Arrows strow,
    And at his feet lay the neglected Bow.
      Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore,
      The soft, the Charming _Strephon_ is no more.

    Large was his Fame, but short his Glorious Race,
    Like young _Lucretius_ liv’d and dy’d apace.
    So early Roses fade, so over all
    They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall,
    While all the scatter’d perfum’d leaves declare,
    How lovely ‘twas when whole, how sweet, how fair.
    Had he been to the _Roman_ Empire known,
    When great _Augustus_ fill’d the peaceful Throne;
    Had he the noble wond’rous Poet seen,
    And known his Genius, and survey’d his Meen,
    (When Wits, and Heroes grac’d Divine abodes,)
    He had increas’d the number of their Gods;
    The Royal Judge had Temples rear’d to’s name.
    And made him as Immortal as his Fame;
    In Love and Verse his _Ovid_ he’ad out-done,
    And all his Laurels, and his _Julia_ won.
      Mourn, Mourn, unhappy World, his loss deplore,
      The great, the charming _Strephon_ is no more.


SONG. _By_ A. B.

    Cease, cease, _Aminta_, to complain,
        Thy Languishment give o’re,
    Why shoud’st thou sigh because the Swain
        Another does Adore?
    Those Charms, fond Maid, that vanquish’d thee,
        Have many a Conquest won,
    And sure he could not cruel be,
        And leave ‘em all undon.

    The Youth a Noble temper bears,
        Soft and compassionate,
    And thou canst only blame thy Stars,
        That made thee love too late;
    Yet had their Influence all been kind
        They had not cross’d my Fate,
    The tend’rest hours must have an end,
        And Passion has its date.

    The softest love grows cold and shy,
        The face so late ador’d,
    Now unregarded passes by,
        Or grows at last abhorr’d;
    All things in Nature fickle prove,
        See how they glide away;
    Think so in time thy hopeless love
        Will die, as Flowers decay.


A SONG. _By Mrs._ A. B.

    While, _Iris_, I at distance gaze,
      And feed my greedy eyes,
    That wounded heart, that dyes for you,
      Dull gazing can’t suffice;
    Hope is the Food of Love-sick minds,
      On that alone ‘twill Feast,
    The nobler part which Loves refines,
      No other can digest.

    In vain, too nice and Charming Maid,
      I did suppress my Cares;
    In vain my rising sighs I stay’d,
      And stop’d my falling tears;
    The Flood would swell, the Tempest rise,
      As my despair came on;
    When from her Lovely cruel Eyes,
      I found I was undone.
    Yet at your feet while thus I lye,
      And languish by your Eyes,
    ‘Tis far more glorious here to dye,
      Than gain another Prize.
    Here let me sigh, here let me gaze,
      And wish at least to find
    As raptur’d nights, and tender days,
      As he to whom you’re kind.


A PARAPHRASE _on the_ LORDS PRAYER. _By Mrs._ A. B.

                           _OUR FATHER_,

    O Wondrous condescention of a God!
    To poor unworthy sinful flesh and blood;
    Lest the high Mistery of Divinity,
    Thy sacred Title, shou’d too Awful be;
    Lest trembling prostrates should not freely come,
    As to their Parent, to their native home;
    Lest Thy incomprehensible God-head shou’d
    Not by dull Man; be rightly understood;
    Thou deignst to take a name, that fits our sense,
    Yet lessens not Thy glorious Excellence.

                      _WHICH ART IN HEAVEN_,

    Thy Mercy ended not, when thou didst own
    Poor lost and out-cast Man to be thy Son;
    ‘Twas not enough the Father to dispense,
    In Heaven thou gav’st us an Inheritance;
    A Province, where thou’st deign’d each Child a share;
    Advance, my tim’rous Soul, thou needst not fear,
    Thou hast a God! a God and Father! there.

                      _HALLOWED BE THY NAME_,

    For ever be it, may my Pious Verse,
    That shall thy great and glorious name rehearse,
    By singing Angels still repeated be,
    And tune a Song that may be worthy thee;
    While all the Earth with Ecchoing Heav’n shall joyn,
    To Magnifie a Being so Divine.

                        _THY KINGDOM COME_,

    Prepare, my Soul, ‘gainst that Triumphant day,
    Adorn thy self with all that’s Heavenly gay,
    Put on the Garment, which no spot can stain,
    And with thy God! thy King! and Father! Reign;
    When all the Joyful Court of Heaven shall be
    One everlasting day of Jubilee;
    Make my Soul fit but there to find a room,
    Then when thou wilt, Lord let thy Kingdom come.

                        _THY WILL BE DONE_

    With all submission prostrate I resign
    My Soul, my Faculties, and Will to thine;
    For thou, Oh Lord, art Holy, Wise, and Just,
    And raising Man from forth the common dust,
    Hast set thy Sacred Image on his Soul,
    And shall the Pot the Potters hand controul?
    Poor boasting feeble Clay, that Error shun,
    Submit and let th’ Almighty’s Will be done.

                  _IN EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN_.

    For there the Angels, and the Saints rejoyce,
    Resigning all to the blest Heavenly Voice;
    Behold the Seraphins his Will obey,
    Wilt thou less humble be, fond Man, than they?
    Behold the Cherubins and Pow’rs Divine,                            }
    And all the Heavenly Host in Homage joyn;                          }
    Shall their Submission yield, and shall not thine?                 }
    Nay, shall even God submit to Flesh and Blood?
    For our Redemption, our Eternal good,
    Shall he submit to stripes, nay even to die                        }
    A Death reproachful, and of Infamy?                                }
    Shall God himself submit, and shall not I?                         }
    Vain, stubborn Fool, draw not thy ruine on,
    But as in Heav’n; on Earth God’s Will be done;

                _GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD_,

    For oh my God! as boasting as we are,
    We cannot live without thy heavenly care,
    With all our Pride, not one poor Morsel’s gain’d,
    Till by thy wondrous Bounty first obtain’d;
    With all our flatter’d Wit, our fanci’d sense,                     }
    We have not to one Mercy a pretence                                }
    Without the aid of thy Omnipotence.                                }
    Oh God, so fit my soul, that I may prove
    A pitied Object of thy Grace and Love;
    May my soul be with Heavenly Manna fed,
    And deign my grosser part thy daily bread.

                  _AND FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES_

    How prone we are to Sin, how sweet were made
    The pleasures, our resistless hearts invade!
    Of all my Crimes, the breach of all thy Laws
    Love, soft bewitching Love! has been the cause;
    Of all the Paths that Vanity has trod,
    That sure will soonest be forgiven of God;
    If things on Earth may be to Heaven resembled,
    It must be love, pure, constant, undissembled:
    But if to Sin by chance the Charmer press,
    Forgive, O Lord, forgive our Trespasses.

_AS WE FORGIVE THEM THAT TRESPASS AGAINST US_,

    Oh that this grateful, little Charity,                             }
    Forgiving others all their sins to me,                             }
    May with my God for mine attoning be.                              }
    I’ve sought around, and found no foe in view,                      }
    Whom with the least Revenge I would pursue,                        }
    My God, my God, dispense thy Mercies too.                          }

                   _LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION_

    Thou but permits it, Lord, ‘tis we go on,
    And give our selves the Provocation;
    ‘Tis we, that prone to pleasures which invite,
    Seek all the Arts to heighten vain delight;
    But if without some Sin we cannot move,
    May mine proceed no higher than to love;
    And may thy vengeance be the less severe,
    Since thou hast made the object lov’d so fair.

                    _BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL._

    From all the hasty Fury Passion breeds,
    And into deaf and blinded Error leads,
    From words that bear Damnation in the sound,
    And do the Soul as well as Honour wound,
    That by degrees of Madness lead us on
    To Indiscretion, Shame, Confusion;
    From Fondness, Lying, and Hypocrisie,
    From my neglect of what I ow to thee;
    From Scandal, and from Pride, divert my thought,
    And from my Neighbour grant I covet nought;
    From black Ingratitude, and Treason, Lord,
    Guard me, even in the least unreverend word.
    In my Opinion, grant, O Lord, I may,                               }
    Be guided in the true and rightful way,                            }
    And he that guides me may not go astray;                           }
    Do thou, oh Lord, instruct me how to know
    Not whither, but which way I am to go;
    For how should I an unknown passage find,
    When my instructing Guide himself is blind.
      All Honour, Glory, and all Praise be given
      To Kings on Earth, and to our God in Heaven.

                                                          --_Amen._


SELINDA _and_ CLORIS, _made in an Entertainment at Court. By Mrs._ A. B.

                            _Selinda._

    As young _Selinda_ led her Flock,
    Beneath the Shelter of a shaded Rock,
    The Melancholy _Cloris_ by,
    Thus to the Lovely Maid did sighing cry.

                             _Cloris._

    _Selinda_, you too lightly prize,
    The powerful Glorys of your Eyes;
    To suffer young _Alexis_ to adore,
    _Alexis_, whom Love made my slave before;
    I first adorn’d him with my Chains,                                }
    He Sigh’d beneath the rigour of my Reign;                          }
    And can that Conquest now be worth your pain?                      }
    A Votary you deserve who ne’er knew how,
    To any Altars but your own to bow.

                            _Selinda._

    Is it your Friendship or your Jealousie,
    That brings this timely aid to me?
    With Reason we that Empire quit,
    Who so much Rigour shows,
    And ‘twould declare more Love than Wit,
    Not to recall his Vows.
    If Beauty could _Alexis_ move,
    He might as well be mine;
    He saw the Errors of his Love,
    He saw how long in vain he strove,
    And did your scorn decline;
    And, _Cloris_, I the Gods may imitate,
    And humble Penitents receive, tho late.

                             _Cloris._

    Mistaken Maid, can his Devotion prove
    Agreeable or true,
    Who only offers broken Vows of Love?
    Vows which, _Selinda_, are my due.
    How often prostrate at my feet h’as lain,
    Imploring Pity for his Pain?
    My heart a thousand ways he strove to win,
    Before it let the Charming Conqueror in;
    Ah then how soon the Amorous heat was laid!
    How soon he broke the Vows he made!
    Slighting the Trophies he had won.
    And smiling saw me sigh for being undone.

                            _Selinda._

    Enough, enough, my dear abandon’d Maid,
    Enough thy Eyes, thy Sighs, thy Tongue have said,
    In all the Groves, on all the Plains,
    ‘Mongst all the Shepherds, all the Swains,
    I never saw the Charms cou’d move
    My yet unconquer’d heart, to Love;
    And tho a God _Alexis_ were,
    He should not Rule the Empire here.

                             _Cloris._

    Then from his charming Language fly;
    Or thou’rt undone as well as I;
    The God of Love is sure his Friend,
    Who taught him all his Arts,
    And when a Conquest he design’d,
    He furnish’d him with Darts;
    His Quiver, and his gilded Bow,
    To his assistance brings,
    And having given the fatal Blow,
    Lends him his fleeting wings.
    Tho not a Cottage-Slave, can be,
    Before the Conquest, so submiss as he,
    To Fold your sheep, to gather Flowers,
    To Pipe and sing, and sigh away your hours;
    Early your Flocks to fragrant Meads,
    Or cooling shades, and Springs he Leads;
    Weaves Garlands, or go seek your Lambs,
    That struggle from their bleating Dams,
    Or any humble bus’ness do,
    But once a Victor, he’s a Tyrant too.

                            _Selinda._

    _Cloris_, such little Services would prove
    Too mean, to be repaid with Love;
    A Look, a Nod, a Smile would quit that score,
    And she deserves to be undone, that pays a Shepherd more.

                             _Cloris._

    His new-blown Passion if _Selinda_ Scorn,
    _Alexis_ may again to me return.

                            _Selinda._

    Secure thy Fears, the Vows he makes to me
    I send a Present, back to thee;

                             _Cloris._

    Then we will sing, in every Grove,
    The greatness of your Mind,--

                            _Selinda._

    ... And I your Love.

                              _Both._

          And all the Day,
          With Pride and Joy,
    We’ll let the Neighb’ring Shepherds see,
          That none like us,
          Did e’er express,
    The heights of Love and Amity;
    And all the day, &c.


A PINDARIC _to Mr._ P. _who sings finely_. _By Mrs._ A. B.

    _Damon_, altho you waste in vain
      That pretious breath of thine,
    Where lies a Pow’r in every strain,
      To take in any other heart, but mine;
    Yet do not cease to sing, that I may know,
      By what soft Charms and Arts,
    What more than Humane ‘tis you do,
      To take, and keep your hearts;
    Or have you Vow’d never to wast your breath,
      But when some Maid must fall a Sacrifice,
    As _Indian_ Priests prepare a death,
      For Slaves t’addorn their Victories,
    Your Charm’s as powerful, if I live,
      For I as sensible shall be,
    What wound you can, to all that hear you, give,
      As if you wounded me;
    And shall as much adore your wondrous skill,
    As if my heart each dying Note cou’d kill.

    And yet I should not tempt my Fate,
      Nor trust my feeble strength,
    Which does with ev’ry softning Note abate
      And may at length
    Reduce me to the wretched Slave I hate;
    Tis strange extremity in me,
    To venture on a doubtful Victory,
    Where if you fail, I gain no more,
    Than what I had before;
    But ‘twill certain comfort bring,
      If I unconquer’d do escape from you;
    If I can live, and hear you sing,
    No other Forces can my Soul subdue;
    Sing, _Damon_, then, and let each Shade,
    Which with thy Heavenly voice is happy made,
    Bear witness if my courage be not great,
    To hear thee sing, and make a safe retreat.


_On the Author of that Excellent Book Intituled The Way to Health, Long
Life, and Happiness._

                          _By Mrs._ A. B.

    Hail, Learned Bard! who dost thy power dispence,
    And show’st us the first State of Innocence
    In that blest golden Age, when Man was young,
    When the whole Race was Vigorous and strong;
    When Nature did her wond’rous dictates give,
    And taught the Noble Savage how to live;
    When Christal Streams, and every plenteous Wood
    Afforded harmless drink, and wholsom food;
    E’er that ingratitude in Man was found,
    His Mother Earth with Iron Ploughs to wound;
    When unconfin’d, the spacious Plains produc’d
    What Nature crav’d, and more than Nature us’d;
    When every Sense to innocent delight
    Th’ agreeing Elements unforc’d invite;
    When Earth was gay, and Heaven was kind and bright,
    And nothing horrid did perplex the sight;
    Unprun’d the Roses and the Jes’min grew,                           }
    Nature each day drest all the World anew,                          }
    And Sweets without Mans aid each Moment grew;                      }
    Till wild Debauchery did Mens minds invade,
    And Vice, and Luxury became a Trade;
    Surer than War it laid whole Countrys wast,
    Not Plague nor Famine ruins half so fast;
    By swift degrees we took that Poison in,
    Regarding not the danger, nor the sin;
    Delightful, Gay, and Charming was the Bait,
    While Death did on th’ inviting Pleasure wait,
    And ev’ry Age produc’d a feebler Race,                             }
    Sickly their days, and those declin’d apace,                       }
    Scarce Blossoms Blow, and Wither in less space.                    }
    Till Nature thus declining by degrees,
    We have recourse to rich restoratives,
    By dull advice from some of Learned Note,
    We take the Poison for the Antidote;
    Till sinking Nature cloy’d with full supplys,
    O’er-charg’d grows fainter, Languishes and dies.
      These are the Plagues that o’er this Island reign,
    And have so many threescore thousands slain;
    Till you the saving Angel, whose blest hand
    Have sheath’d that Sword, that threatned half the Land;
    More than a Parent, Sir, we you must own,
    They give but life, but you prolong it on;
    You even an equal power with Heav’n do shew,
    Give us long life, and lasting Vertue too:
    Such were the mighty Patriarchs, of old,
    Who God in all his Glory did behold,
    Inspir’d like you, they Heavens Instructions show’d,
    And were as Gods amidst the wandring Croud;
    Not he that bore th’ Almighty Wand cou’d give
    Diviner Dictates, how to eat, and live.
    And so essential was this cleanly Food,
    For Mans eternal health, eternal good,
    That God did for his first-lov’d Race provide,
    What thou by Gods example hast prescrib’d:
    O mai’st thou live to justifie thy fame,
    To Ages lasting as thy glorious Name!
    May thy own life make thy vast Reasons good,
    (Philosophy admir’d and understood,)
    To every sense ‘tis plain, ‘tis great, and clear,
    And Divine Wisdom does o’er all appear;
    Learning and Knowledge do support the whole,
    And nothing can the mighty truth controul;
    Let Fools and Mad-men thy great work condemn,
    I’ve tri’d thy Method, and adore thy Theme;
    Adore the Soul that you’d such truths discern,
    And scorn the fools that want the sense to learn.


_Epitaph on the Tombstone of a Child, the last of Seven that died
before. By Mrs._ A. B.

    This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
    Contains all that was sweet and innocent;
    The softest pratler that e’er found a Tongue,
    His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song;
    Which now each List’ning Angel smiling hears,
    Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;
    Wanton as unfledg’d Cupids, ere their Charms
    Had learn’d the little arts of doing harms;
    Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,
    And tho translated could not be refin’d;
    The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
    Toil’d here on Earth, retir’d to rest in Heaven;
    Where they the shining Host of Angels fill,
    Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.


_Epilogue to the Jealous Lovers._

                  _By Mrs._ Behn, _in_ 1682.

    And how, and how, _Mesieurs_! what do you say
    To our good Moderate, Conscientious Play?
    Not Whig, nor Tory, here can take Offence;
    It Libels neither _Patriot_, _Peer_, nor _Prince_,
    Nor _Shrieve_, nor _Burgess_, nor the Reverend _Gown_.             }
    Faith here’s no Scandal worth eight hundred pound;                 }
    Your Damage is at most but half-a-Crown.                           }
    Only this difference you must allow,                               }
    ‘Tis you receive th’ Affront and pay us too,                       }
    Wou’d Rebell WARD had manag’d matters so.                          }
    Here’s no Reflections on Damn’d Witnesses,                         }
    We scorn such out-of-Fash’on’d Things as These;                    }
    They fail to be believ’d, and fail to please.                      }
    No _Salamanca_ Doctor-ship abus’d,
    Not a Malicious _States-man_ here accus’d;
    No Smutty Scenes, no intrigues up Stairs,
    That make your _City_ Wives in Love with _Players_.
    But here are fools of every sort and Fashion,                      }
    Except State-Fools, the Tools of _Reformation_,                    }
    Or Cullys of the Court--_Association_.                             }
    And those Originals decline so fast
    We shall have none to Copy by at last;
    Here’s _Jo_, and _Jack_ a pair of whining Fools,
    And _L[e]igh_ and _I_ brisk Lavish keeping Fools,
    He’s for Mischief all, and carry’s it on
    With Fawne and Sneere as Jilting _Whigg_ has done.
    And like theirs too his Projects are o’rethrown.


A PASTORAL _to Mr._ Stafford, _Under the Name of_ SILVIO _on his
Translation of the Death of_ Camilla: _out of_ VIRGIL. _By Mrs._ Behn.


THIRSIS _and_ AMARILLIS.

                            _Thirsis._

    Why, _Amarillis_, dost thou walk alone,
    And the gay pleasures of the Meadows shun?
    Why to the silent Groves dost thou retire,
    When uncompell’d by the Suns scorching fire?
    Musing with folded Arms, and down-cast look,
    Or pensive yield to thy supporting _Hook_:
    Is _Damon_ false? and has his Vows betray’d,
    And born the Trophies to some other Maid?

                           _Amarillis._

    The Gods forbid I should survive to see
    The fatal day he were unjust to me.
    Nor is my Courage, or my Love so poor                              }
    T’ out-live that Scorn’d, and miserable hour;                      }
    Rather let _Wolves_ my new-yean’d Lambs devour,                    }
    Wither ye Verdant Grass, dry up ye Streams,
    And let all Nature turn to vast extreams:
    In Summer let the Boughs be cale and dry,                          }
    And now gay Flowers the wandring Spring supply,                    }
    But with my _Damons_ Love, Let all that’s charming die.            }

                            _Thirsis._

    Why then this dull retreat, if he be true,
    Or, _Amarillis_, is the change in you?
    You love some Swains more rich in Herds and Flocks,
    For none can be more powerful in his looks;
    His shape, his meen, his hair, his wondrous face,
    And on the Plaines, none _dances_ with his Grace;
    ‘Tis true, in _Piping_ he does less excell.

                           _Amarillis._

    The Musick of his _Voice_ can Charm as well,
    When tun’d to words of Love, and sighs among,
    With the soft tremblings of his bashful tongue,
    And, _Thirsis_, you accuse my Faith in vain,
    To think it wavering, for another Swain;
    ‘Tis admiration now that fills my soul,
    And does ev’n love suspend, if not controul.
    My thoughts are solemn all, and do appear
    With wonder in my Eyes, and not despair!
    My heart is entertain’d with silent Joys,
    And I am pleas’d above the Mirth of Noise.

                            _Thirsis._

    What new-born pleasure can divert you so?
    Pray let me hear, that I may wonder too.

                           _Amarillis._

    Last night, by yonder purling stream I stood,
    Pleas’d with the murmurs of the little Flood,
    Who in its rapid glidings bore away
    The Fringing Flow’rs, that made the Bank so gay,
    Which I compar’d to fickle _Swains_, who invade
    First this, then that deceiv’d, and yielding _Maid_:
    Whose flattering Vows an easie passage find,                       }
    Then unregarded leave ‘em far behind,                              }
    To sigh their Ruin to the flying Wind.                             }
    So the soild flow’rs their rifled Beaut[i]es hung,
    While the triumphant Ravisher passes on.
    This while I sighing view’d, I heard a voice
    That made the Woods, the Groves, and Hills rejoyce.
    Who eccho’d back the charming sound again,                         }
    Answering the Musick of each softning strain,                      }
    And told the wonder over all the Plain.                            }
    Young _Silvio_ ‘twas that tun’d his happy Pipe,
    The best that ever grac’d a Shepherds Lip!
    _Silvio_ of Noble Race, yet not disdains
    To mix his harmony with Rustic _Swains_,
    To th’ humble Shades th’ _Illustrious Youth_ resorts,              }
    Shunning the false delights of gaudy Courts,                       }
    For the more solid happiness of Rural sports.                      }
    Courts which his _Noble Father_ long pursu’d,
    And Serv’d till he out-serv’d their gratitude.

                            _Thirsis._

    Oh _Amarillis_, let that tale no more
    Remembred be on the _Arcadian_ Shore,
    Lest Mirth should on our Meads no more be found,
    But _Stafford’s_ Story should throughout resound,
    And fill with pitying cryes the Echoes all around.

                           _Amarillis._

    _Arcadia_, keep your peace, but give me leave,
    Who knew the _Heroes Loyalty_, to grieve;
    Once, _Thirsis_, by th’ _Arcadian_ Kings Commands,
    I left these Shades, to visit foreign Lands;
    Imploy’d in public toils of State Affairs,
    Unusual with my Sex, or to my Years;
    There ‘twas my chance, so Fortune did ordain,
    To see this great, this good, this God-like Man:
    Brave, Pious, Loyal, Just, without constraint,
    The Soul all _Angell_, and the Man a _Saint_;
    His temper’d mind no Passion e’er inflam’d,
    But when his _King_ and _Countrey_ were profan’d;
    Then oft I’ve seen his generous blood o’er spread
    His awful face, with a resenting Red,
    In Anger quit the Room, and would disdain
    To herd with the Rebellious _Publican_.
    But, _Thirsis_, ‘twould a worship’d Volume fill,
    If I the _Heroes_ wondrous Life should tell;
    His Vertues were his Crime, like _God_ he bow’d
    A necessary Victim to the frantick Croud;
    So a tall sheltring _Oak_ that long had stood,
    The mid-days shade, and glory of the _Wood_;
    Whose aged boughs a reverence did command,
    Fell lop’d at last by an Ignoble hand:
    And all his branches are in pieces torn,
    That _Victors_ grac’d, and did the Wood adorn.
    --With him young _Silvio_, who compos’d his Joys,
    The darling of his Soul and of his Eyes,
    Inheriting the Vertues of his _Sire_,
    But all his own is his Poetic fire;
    When young, the _Gods_ of _Love_, and _Wit_ did grace
    The pointed, promis’d Beautys of his face,
    Which ripening years did to perfection bring,
    And taught him how to _Love_, and how to _Sing_.

                            _Thirsis._

    But what, dear _Amarillis_, was the Theam
    The Noble _Silvio_ Sung by yonder Stream?

                           _Amarillis._

    Not of the _Shepherds_, nor their Rural _Loves_.
    The Song was Glorious tho ‘twas sung in Groves!
    _Camilla’s_ Death the skilful _Youth_ inspir’d,
    As if th’ Heroic _Maid_ his Soul had fir’d;
    Such life was in his Song, such heat, such flight,
    As he had seen the Royal _Virgin_ fight.
    He made her deal her wounds with Graceful Art,                     }
    With vigorous Air fling the unfailing Dart,                        }
    And form’d her Courage to his own great heart.                     }
    Never was fighting in our _Sex_ a Charm,
    Till _Silvio_ did the bright _Camilla_ Arm;
    With Noble Modesty he shews us how
    To be at once _Hero_ and _Woman_ too.
    Oh Conquering _Maid_! how much thy Fame has won,                   }
    In the _Arcadian_ Language to be sung,                             }
    And by a Swain so soft, so sweet, so young.                        }

                            _Thirsis._

    Well hast thou spoke the noble _Silvio’s_ Praise,
    For I have often heard his charming lays;
    Oft has he blest the Shades with strains Divine,
    Took many a _Virgins_ heart, and Ravish’d mine.
    Long may he sing in every Field and Grove,
    And teach the Swains to Pipe, the _Maids_ to Love.

                           _Amarillis._

    _Daphnis_, and _Colin_ Pipe not half so well,
    E’en _Dions_ mighty self he does excell;
    As the last Lover of the _Muses_, blest,
    The last and young in Love are always best;
    And _She_ her darling Lover does requite
    With all the softest Arts of Noblest _Wit_.

                            _Thirsis._

    Oh may he dedicate his Youth to her!
    Thus let ‘em live, and love upon the square,
    But see _Alexis_ homeward leads his Flock,
    And brouzing Goats descend from yonder Rock;
    The Sun is hasting on to _Thetis_ Bed,
    See his faint Beams have streak’d the Sky with Red.
    Let’s home e’er night approach, and all the way
    You shall of _Silvio_ sing, while I will play.




GILDON’S MISCELLANY, 1692.


VENUS _and_ CUPID.

                             _Venus._

    _Cupid_, my darling _Cupid_, and my Joy,
    Thy Mother _Venus_ calls, come away, come away.

                             _Cupid._

    Alas! I cannot, I am at Play.

                             _Venus._

    Fond Boy, I do command thee, haste;
    Thy precious Hours no longer waste:
    In Groves and Cottages you make abode,
    Too mean a Condescention for a God!
      On barren Mountains idly play,
      For shame thou Wanton, come away, come away!

    All useless lies thy Bow and Darts,
    That should be wounding heedless Hearts:
    The Swain that guards his Dove,
    Alas! no Leisure has for Love:
      His Flocks and Heards are all his Joy,
      Then leave the Shades and come away, come away.

                             _Cupid._

    Alas! what would you have me do?
    Command and I’ll Obedience shew.

                             _Venus._

    Hye then to Cities and to Court,
    Where all the Young and Fair resort;
    There try thy Power, let fly thy Darts,
    And bring me in some noble Hearts,
    Worthy to be by thee undone,
    For here’s no Glory to be won.

                             _Cupid._

    Mistaken Queen, look down and see,                                 }
    What Trophies are prepar’d for thee,                               }
    What glorious Slaves are destin’d me.                              }

                             _Venus._

    Now, by my self, a Noble Throng;
    How Fair the Nymphs, the Swains how Young!
    No wonder if my little Loves
    Delight and play in Shades and Groves.

                             _Cupid._

    Then, Mother, here I’ll bend my Bow,
    And bring you wounded Hearts enough.

                             _Venus._

    My pretty Charming Wanton, do.

                             _Chorus._

    ‘Tis thus we over Mortals reign,
    And thus we Adoration gain
    From the proud Monarch to the humble Swain.


_Verses design’d by Mrs._ A. Behn _to be sent to a fair Lady, that
desir’d she would absent herself to cure her Love. Left unfinish’d._

    In vain to Woods and Deserts I retire,                             }
    To shun the lovely Charmer I admire,                               }
    Where the soft Breezes do but fann my Fire!                        }
    In vain in Grotto’s dark unseen I lie,
    Love pierces where the Sun could never spy.
    No place, no Art his _God-head_ can exclude,
    The _Dear_ Distemper reigns in Solitude:
    Distance, alas, contributes to my Grief;
    No more, of what fond Lovers call, Relief
    Than to the wounded Hind does sudden Flight
    From the chast Goddesses pursuing Sight:
    When in the Heart the fatal Shaft remains,
    And darts the Venom through our bleeding Veins.
    If I resolve no longer to submit
    My self a wretched Conquest to your Wit,
    More swift than fleeting Shades, ten thousand Charms
    From your bright Eyes that Rebel Thought disarms:
    The more I strugl’d, to my Grief I found
    My self in _Cupid’s_ Chains more surely bound:
    Like Birds in Nets, the more I strive, I find
    My self the faster in the Snare confin’d.


_Verses by Madam_ Behn, _never before printed_.

_On a Conventicle_.

    Behold that Race, whence _England’s_ Woes proceed,
    The Viper’s Nest, where all our Mischiefs breed,
    There, guided, by _Inspiration_, Treason speaks,
    And through the Holy Bag-pipe _Legion_ squeaks.
    The Nation’s Curse, Religion’s ridicule,
    The Rabble’s _God_, the Politicians _Tool_,
    _Scorn_ of the Wise, and _Scandal_ of the Just,
    The Villain’s _Refuge_, and the Women’s Lust.




GILDON’S CHORUS POETARUM, 1694.

_By Madam_ Behn.


                                  1.

    The Gods are not more blest than he,
    Who fixing his glad eyes on thee,
    With thy bright Rays his senses chears,
    And drinks with ever thirsty Ears,
    The charming Musick of thy Tongue
    Does ever hear and ever long,
    That sees with more than humane Grace
    Sweet smiles adorn thy Angel Face.

                                   2.

    So when with kinder Beams you shine,
    And so appear much more Divine,
    My feebled Sense and dazzled Sight                                 }
    No more support the glorious Light,                                }
    And the fierce torrent of Delight.                                 }
    O then I feel my Life decay,
    My ravish’d Soul then flies away;
    Then Faintness does my Limbs surprize,
    And Darkness swims before my Eyes.

                                   3.

    Then my Tongue fails, and from my Brow
    The Liquid Drops in Silence flow;
    Then wand’ring Fires run thro my Blood,
    Then Cold binds up the languid Flood;
    All Pale and Breathless then I lie,
    I sigh, I tremble, and I die.




MUSES MERCURY, _June, 1707_.


_The Complaint of the poor_ Cavaliers.

                                   I.

    Give me the Man that’s hollow
      Since he is the only Fellow,
    For Honesty’s out of Date;
    And he’s the only Gallant
    That shew’d himself so Valiant,
      To cut off his Master’s Pate.
    These--these be the Men that flaunt,
    As if they were Sons of Gaunt,
        And ev’ry Knave
        Is Fine and Brave,
    While the poor _Cavalier’s_ in want.

                                  II.

    The Man that chang’d his Note,
    And he who has turn’d his Coat,
      Shall now have a good Reward;
    He’s either made a Knight,
    Or else by this good Light,
      A very Reverend Lord:
    And let him be so for me,
    I’m as gay and as good as he.

                                  III.

    Hang Sorrow, why should we repine,
    We’ll drive down our Grief with good Wine,
      Not caring for those that rise;
    For had they been but true Men,
    They never had been new Men,
      And we had ne’er been wise.
    The Blockhead that merits most,
    That has all his Fortune lost,
        Must now be turn’d out
        And a new-found Rout,
    Of Courtiers rule the Roast.

The next Verses are so tender, that one may see the Author writ ‘em
with no affected Passion. And indeed she had no need to affect what was
so natural to her.


_On a Pin that hurt_ Amintas’ _Eye_.

    Injurious Pin, how durst thou steal so nigh?
    To touch, nay worse, to hurt his precious Eye.
    Base Instrument, so ill thou’st play’d thy part,
    Wounding his Eye, thou’st wounded my poor Heart,
    And for each pity’d Drop his Eye did shed,
    My sympathizing Heart a thousand bled:
    Too daring Pin, was there no Tincture good,
    To bath thy Point, but my _Amintas’. Blood?

    Cou’d thy Ambition teach thee so to sin?
    Was that a Place for thee to revel in?
    ‘Twas there thy Mistress had design’d to be,
    And must she find a Rival too in thee?
    Curs’d Fate! that I shou’d harbour thee so long,
    And thou at last conspire to do me wrong:
    Tho well I knew thy Nature to be rude,
    And all thy Kin full of Ingratitude,
    I little thought thou wouldst presume so far,
    To aim thy Malice at so bright a Star.

    Now all the Service thou canst render me
    Will never recompense this Injury.
    Well, get thee gone--for thou shalt never more
    Have Power to hurt what I so much adore.
    Hence from my Sight, and mayst thou ever lie
    A crooked Object to each scornful Eye.


_To Mrs._ Harsenet, _on the Report of a Beauty, which she went to see
at Church._

    As when a Monarch does in Triumph come,
    And proudly leads the vanquish’d Captive home,
    The joyful People swarm in ev’ry Street,
    And with loud Shouts the glorious Victor meet.

    But others whom Misfortune kept away
    Desire to hear the Story of the Day,
    How brave the Prince, how brave his Chariot was,
    How beautiful he look’d, with what a Grace;
    How rich his Habit, if he Plumes did wear,
    Or if a Wreath of Bays adorn’d his Hair:
    They think ‘twas wondrous fine, and long much more,
    To see the Conqu’ror than they did before.

    So when at first by Fame I only knew
    The Charms so much admir’d and prais’d in you;
    How many Slaves your conqu’ring Eyes had won,
    And how the wond’ring Crowd did gazing throng;
    I wish’d to see, and half a Lover grew,
    Of so much Beauty, tho my Rival too.

    I came, I saw you, and I must confess,
    I wish’d my Beauty greater, or yours less;
    Alas! My whole Devotion you betray’d,
    I only thought of you, and only pray’d,
    That you might all your jealous Sex out-do
    In Cruelty as well as Beauty too.
    I call’d _Amintas_ faithless Man before,
    But now I find ‘tis just he should adore.
    Not to love you, if such a Sin could be,
    Were greater than his Perjury to me;
    Thus while I blame him, I excuse him too,
    Who can be innocent that looks on you?

    But, lovely _Chloris_, you too meanly prize
    The Treasures of your Youth, and of your Eyes;
    Ne’re hear his Vows that he to others swore,
    Nor let him be your Slave, that was a Slave before;
    He oft has Fetters worn, and can with Ease
    Admit them, or dismiss them, as he please.
    A Virgin Heart you merit, that ne’re found
    It could receive, till from your Eyes, a Wound,
    The Soul that nothing but their Force could fear,
    As great, if that can be, as you are fair.


_For_ Damon, _being ask’d a Reason for his Love_.

                                   I.

    You ask me, _Phillis_, why I still pursue,
        And court no other Nymph but you;
    And why with Looks and Sighs I still betray
        A Passion which I dare not say.
    ‘Tis all, Because I do: you ask me why,
    And with a Woman’s Reason, I reply.

                                  II.

    You ask what Argument I have to prove,
        That my _Unrest_ proceeds from Love,
    You’ll not believe my Passion till you know,
        A better Reason why ‘tis so.
    Then, _Phillis_, let this Reason go for one,
    I know I love because my Reason’s gone.

                                  III.

    You say a Love like mine must needs declare
        The Object so belov’d not fair;
    That neither Wit nor Beauty in her dwell,
        Whose Lover can no Reason tell,
    What ‘tis that he adores, and why he burns:
    _Phillis_, let those give such that have returns.

                                  IV.

    And by the very Reasons that you use,
        _Damon_ might justly you accuse;
    Why do you Scorn, and with a proud Disdain
        Receive the Vow, and slight the Swain?
    You say you cannot Love, you know no Cause:
    May I not prove my Love by your own Laws?

                                   V.

    Am not I Youthful, and as gay a Swain,
        As e’er appeared upon the Plain?
    Have I not courted you with all th’ Address
        An am’rous Shepherd cou’d profess?
    And add to this, my Flocks and Herds are great,
    But _Phillis_ only can my Joy compleat.

                                  VI.

    Yet you no Reason for your Coldness give,
        And ‘tis but just you shou’d believe
    That all your Beauties unadorn’d by Art,
        Have hurt and not oblig’d my Heart.
    Be kind to that, my hearty Vows return
    And then I’ll tell you why, for what I burn.




FAMILIAR LETTERS, 1718.


_A Letter to the Earl of_ Kildare, _dissuading him from marrying_ Moll
Howard.

        My Lord,
    We pity such as are by Tempest lost,
    And those by Fortune’s blind Disposal crost;
    But when Men see, and may the Danger shun,
    Yet headlong into certain Ruin run:
    To pity such, must needs be Ridicule;
    Do not (my Lord) be that unpity’d Fool.

    There’s a report, which round the Town is spread,                  }
    The fam’d _Moll Howard_ you intend to Wed;                         }
    If it be true, my Lord, then guard your Head:                      }
    Horns, Horns, by wholesale, will adorn your Brows,
    If e’r you make that rampant Whore your Spouse.
    Think on the lewd Debauches of her Life;
    Then tell me, if she’s fit to be your Wife.
    She that to quench her lustful, hot Desire,                        }
    Has Kiss’d with Dukes, Lords, Knights, and Country Squire;         }
    Nay, Grooms and Footmen have been claw’d off by her.               }

    Whoring has all her Life-time been her Trade,
    And _D----set_ says, she is an exc’lent Baud:
    But finding both will not defray Expence,
    She lately is become an _Evidence_;
    Swears against all that won’t her Lust supply,
    And says, they’re false as Hell to Monarchy.

    You had a Wife; but, rest her Soul, she’s dead,
    By whom your Lordship by the Nose was led:
    And will you run into that Noose again,
    To be the greatest Monster among Men?
    Think on the Horns that will adorn your Head,
    And the Diseases that will fill your Bed:
    Pox upon Pox, most horrid and most dire!
    And Ulcers filled with Hell’s Eternal Fire.

    Forbear therefore, and call your Senses home;
    Let Reason Love’s blind Passion overcome:
    For, if you make this base Report once true,
    You’ll wound your Honour, Purse, and Body too.


_To Mrs._ Price.

  My Dear,

In your last, you admir’d how I cou’d pass my Time so long in the
Country: I am sorry your Taste is so deprav’d, as not to relish a
Country-Life. Now I think there’s no Satisfaction to be found amidst an
Urban Throng (as Mr. _Bayes_ calls it).

    The peaceful Place where gladly I resort,
    Is freed from noisy Factions of the Court:
    There joy’d with viewing o’er the rural Scene,
    Pleas’d with the Meadows ever green,
    The Woods and Groves with tuneful Anger move,
    And nought is heard but gentle Sighs of Love:
    The Nymphs and Swains for rural Sports prepare,
    And each kind Youth diverts his smiling Fair.
    But if by Chance is found a flinty Maid,
    Whose cruel Eyes has Shepherds Hearts betray’d,
    In other Climes a Refuge she must find,
    Banish’d from hence Society of Kind.
    Here gentle _Isis_, with a Bridegroom’s Haste,
    Glides to o’ertake the _Thame_, as fair, as chaste;
    Then mixt, embracing, they together flie;
    They Live together, and together Die.
    Here ev’ry Object adds to our Delight,
    Calm is our Day, and peaceful is our Night.
    Then, kind _Æmilia_, flie that hated Town,
    Where’s not a Moment thou canst call thy own:
    Haste for to meet a Happiness divine,
    And share the Pleasures I count only mine.


_P. S._ A SONG.

                                   1.

    ‘Tis not your saying that you love,
    Can ease me of my Smart;
    Your Actions must your Words approve,
    Or else you break my Heart.

                                   2.

    In vain you bid my Passion cease,
    And ease my troubled Breast;
    Your Love alone must give me Peace,
    Restore my wonted Rest.

                                   3.

    But, if I fail your Heart to move,
    And ‘tis not yours to give;
    I cannot, wonnot cease to love,
    But I will cease to live.

                                                         _A. Behn._




PROLOGUE _to_ ROMULUS,

_Spoken by Mrs._ Butler.

_Written by Mrs._ Behn.


    How we shall please ye now I cannot say;
    But, Sirs, ‘Faith here is _News from Rome_ to day;
    Yet know withal, we’ve no such PACKETS here,
    As you read once a week from Monkey CARE.
    But ‘stead of that Lewd Stuff (that cloys the Nation)
    Plain Love and Honour; (tho quite out of Fashion;)
    Ours is a Virgin ROME, long, long, before
    Pious GENEVA Rhetorick call’d her Whore;
    For be it known to their Eternal Shames,
    Those Saints were always good at calling Names;
    Of _Scarlet Whores_ let ‘em their Wills devise,
    But let ‘em raise no other _Scarlet Lies_;
    LIES that advance the _Good Old Cause_, and bring
    Into Contempt the PRELATES with the KING.
    Why shou’d the _Rebel Party_ be affraid?
    They’re _Ratts_ and _Weazles_ gnaw the _Lyon’s_ Beard,
    And then in IGNORAMUS Holes they think,
    Like other Vermin, to lie close, and stink.
    What have ye got, ye _Conscientious Knaves_,
    With all your _Fancy’d Power_, and _Bully Braves_?
    With all your standing to’t; your _Zealous Furies_;
    Your _Lawless Tongues_, and _Arbitrary Juries_?
    Your _Burlesque Oaths_, when one _Green-Ribbon-Brother_
    In Conscience will be _Perjur’d for another_?
    Your PLOTS, _Cabals_, your _Treats_, _Association_,
    Ye shame, ye very Nusance of the Nation,
    What have ye got but one poor Word? Such Tools
    Were _Knaves_ before; to which you’ve added _Fools_.
    Now I dare swear, some of you _Whigsters_ say,
    _Come on, now for a swinging_ TORY PLAY.
    But, Noble _Whigs_, pray let not those _Fears_ start ye,
    Nor fright hence any of the _Sham Sheriff’s Party_;
    For, if you’ll take my censure of the Story,                       }
    It is as harmless as e’re came before ye,                          }
    And writ before the times of _Whig_ and _Tory_.                    }




EPILOGUE _to the Same_.

_Spoken by the Lady_ SLINGSBY.


    Fair Ladies, pity an unhappy Maid,
    By Fortune, and by faithless Love betray’d.
    Innocent once--I scarce knew how to sin,
    Till that unlucky Devil entring in,
    Did all my Honour, all my Faith undo:
    LOVE! like _Ambition_ makes us Rebels too:
    And of all Treasons, mine was most accurst;
    Rebelling ‘gainst a KING and FATHER first.
    A Sin, which Heav’n nor Man can e’re forgive;
    Nor could I _Act_ it with the Face to live.
    My Dagger did my Honours cause redress;
    But Oh! my blushing Ghost must needs confess,
    Had my young Charming Lover faithful been,
    I fear I dy’d with unrepented Sin.
    There’s nothing can my Reputation save
    With all the _True_, the _Loyal_ and the _Brave_;
    Not my Remorse, or Death can expiate
    With them a Treason ‘gainst the KING and _State_.
    Some Love-sick Maid perhaps, now I am gone,
    (Raging with Love, and by that Love undone,)
    May form some little _Argument_ for me,
    T’ excuse m’ _Ingratitude_ and _Treachery_.
    Some of the Sparks too, that infect the _Pit_,
    (Whose Honesty is equal to their Wit,
    And think _Rebellion_ but a petty Crime,
    Can turn to all sides Int’rest does incline,)
    May cry ‘_I gad I think the Wench is wise;_
    _’.ad it prov’d Lucky, ‘twas the Way to rise._
    _’.he had a_ Roman _Spirit, that disdains_
    _’.ull Loyalty, and the Yoke of Sovereigns._
    _’. Pox of Fathers, and Reproach to come;_
    _’.he was the first and Noblest_ Whig _of_ Rome.
        But may that Ghost in quiet never rest,
        Who thinks it self with Traytors Praises blest.




_Mrs._ Behn’s _Satyr on_ Dryden.

(_On Mr._ Dryden, _Renegate_.)

    Scorning religion all thy life time past,
    And now embracing popery at last,
    Is like thyself; & what thou’st done before
    Defying wife and marrying a whore.
    Alas! how leering Hereticks will laugh
    To see a gray old hedge bird caught with chaffe.
    A Poet too from great heroick theames
    And inspiration, fallen to dreaming dreams.
    But this the priests will get by thee at least
    That if they mend thee, miracles are not ceast.
    For ‘tis not more to cure the lame & blind,
    Than heal an impious ulcerated mind.
    This if they do, and give thee but a grain
    Of common honesty, or common shame,
    ‘Twill be more credit to their cause I grant,
    Than ‘twould to make another man a saint.
    But thou noe party ever shalt adorn,
    To thy own shame & Nature’s scandall borne:
    All shun alike thy ugly outward part,
    Whilest none have right or title to thy heart.
    Resolved to stand & constant to the time,
    Fix’d in thy lewdness, settled in thy crime.
    Whilest Moses with the Israelites abode,
    Thou seemdst content to worship Moses’ God:
    But since he went & since thy master fell,
    Thou foundst a golden calf would do as well.
    And when another Moses shall arise
    Once more I know thou’lt rub and clear thy eyes,
    And turn to be an Israelite again,                                 }
    For when the play is done & finisht clean,                         }
    What should the Poet doe but shift the scene.                      }




VALENTINIAN.


_Prologue spoken by Mrs._ Cook _the first Day._

_Written by Mrs._ Behn.

[Sidenote: The Fair on the _Thames_ so called.]

    With that assurance we to day address,
    As standard Beauties, certain of Success.
    With careless Pride at once they charm and vex,
    And scorn the little Censures of their Sex.
    Sure of the unregarded Spoyl, despise
    The needless Affectation of the Eyes,
    The softening Languishment that faintly warms,
    But trust alone to their resistless Charms.
    So we secur’d by undisputed Wit,
    Disdain the damning Malice of the Pit,
    Nor need false Arts to set great Nature off,
    Or studied tricks to force the Clap and Laugh.
    Ye wou’d-be-Criticks, you are all undone,
    For here’s no Theam for you to work upon.
    Faith seem to talk to _Jenny_, I advise,
    Of who likes who, and how Loves Markets rise.
    Try these hard Times how to abate the Price;
    Tell her how cheap were Damsels on the Ice.
    ‘Mongst City-Wives, and Daughters that came there,
    How far a Guinny went at _Blanket-Fair_.
    Thus you may find some good Excuse for failing
    Of your beloved Exercise of Railing.
    That when Friend cryes--How did the Play succeed?
    Deme, I hardly minded--what they did.
    We shall not your Ill-nature please to day,
    With some fond Scribblers new uncertain Play,
    Loose as vain Youth, and tedious as dull Age,
    Or Love and Honour that o’re-runs the Stage.
    Fam’d and substantial Authors give this Treat,
    And ‘twill be solemn, Noble all and Great.
    Wit, sacred Wit, is all the bus’ness here;
    Great _Fletcher_, and the greater _Rochester_.
    Now name the hardy Man one fault dares find,
    In the vast Work of two such Heroes joyn’d.
    None but Great _Strephon’s_ soft and pow’rful Wit
    Durst undertake to mend what _Fletcher_ writ,
    Different their heav’nly Notes; yet both agree
    To make an everlasting Harmony.
    Listen, ye Virgins, to his charming Song,
    Eternal Musick dwelt upon his Tongue.
    The Gods of Love and Wit inspir’d his Pen,
    And Love and Beauty was his glorious Theam.

    Now, Ladies, you may celebrate his Name,
    Without a scandal on your spotless Fame.
    With Praise his dear lov’d Memory pursue,
    And pay his Death, what to his Life was due.




_To_ Henry Higden, _Esq.; on his Translation of the_ Tenth Satyr _of_
Juvenal.


                                   I.

    I know you, and I must confess
        From Sence so Celebrated, and so True,
          _Wit_ so Uncommon, and so New,
          As that which alwaies shines in You;
              I cou’d expect no less.
        ‘Tis _Great_, ‘tis _Just_, ‘tis _Noble_ all!
        Right Spirit of the _Original_;
        No scatter’d Spark, no glimmering Beams,
        As in some Pieces here and there,
    Through a dark Glade of _Duller Numbers_ gleams.
    But ‘tis all Fire! all Glittering every where
    _Grateful Instruction_ that can never fail,
        To Please and Charm, even while you Rail.
        By _Arts_ thus Gentle and Severe
    The _Powers Divine_ first made their Mortals Wise;
    The soft Reproach they did with Reverence bear;
    While they Ador’d the GOD that did Chastize,

                                  II.

    Perhaps there may be found some _Carping Wit_,
        May blame the Measures of thy _Lines_,
    And cry,--Not so the _Roman_ Poet writ;
    Who drest his _Satyr_ in more lofty Rhimes.
    But thou for thy Instructor _Nature_ chose,
    That _first_ best Principle of _Poetry_;
    And to thy Subject didst thy _Verse_ dispose,
    While in Harmonious Union both agree.
    Had the _Great Bard_ thy _Properer Numbers_ view’d,
    He wou’d have lay’d his stiff Heroicks by,
    And this more _Gay_, more _Airy_ Path pursu’d,
    That so much better leads to _Ralliery_.
    Wit is no more than _Nature_ well exprest;
        And he fatigues and toyles in vain
        With _Rigid Labours_, breaks his Brain,
    That has _Familiar Thought_ in lofty Numbers drest.

                                  III.

    True to his _Sense_ and to his _Charming Wit_,
    Thou every where hast kept an equal Pace:
        All his Brisk Turns exactly hit,
    Justly maintain’d his Humour and his Grace:
    And with the _Language_ hast not chang’d the Face:
        Great _Juvenal_ in every Line,
        True _Roman_ still o’re all does shine;
    But in the _Brittish_ Garb appears most fine.

                                  IV.

    Long did the _Learned Author_ search to find
    The Vice and Vanity of Humane-kind:
    Long he observ’d, nor did observe in vain;
        In every differing Humour found
        Even there where _Virtue_ did abound,
            Some mortal Frailties reign.
        _Philosophers_ he saw were Proud
        Of dull-affected Poverty:
        Senators cringing to the Crowd
        For trifling Popularity:
    The Judge reviles the Criminal at _Bar_,
        And now because old Ages Ice
    Has chill’d the Ardour of his willing Vice,
    Snarles at those _Youthful Follies_ which he cannot shun.
    From the vain-keeping _’.quire_, and Cully’d _Lord_;
    The fawning _Courtier_, _States-man’s_ Broken Word:
    Down to the flattering, Jilting _Curtizan_,
    And the more faithless couzening _Citizen_,
    The Tricks of _Court_ and _State_ to him were known;
    And all the Vices veil’d beneath the _Gown_,
    From the Sharp _Pulpit_ to the Blunted _Stall_,
    He knew, and gently did reproach them all.

                                   V.

    If _Rome_ that kept the lesser World in awe,
    Wanted a _Juvenal_ to give them Law,
    How much more we who stockt with _Knave_ and _Fool_,
    Have turn’d the Nation into _Ridicule_.
    The dire Contagion spreads to each degree
              Of Wild _Debauchery_.
          The mad Infected Youth make haste
    To day their _Fortunes_, _Health_, and _Reason_ waste:
          The _Fop_, a tamer sort of _Tool_
          Who dresses, talks, and loves, by Rule;
    Has long for a _Fine Person_ past.
    _Blockheads_ will pass for _Wits_, and Write,
    And some for _Brave_, who ne’r could Fight.
    Women for _Chaste_, whose knack of _Cant_
    Boasts of the _Virtues_ that they want:
    Cry _Faugh_--at Words and Actions Innocent,
    And make that naughty that was never meant:
    That vain-affected _Hypocrite_ shall be
    In Satyr sham’d to _Honest Sense_ by Thee.
    ‘Tis Thou, an _English Juvenal_, alone,
    To whom all _Vice_, and every _Vertue’s_ known:
    Thou that like _Judah’s_ King through all hast past,
    And found that all’s but _Vanity_ at last;
    ‘Tis you alone the _Discipline_ can use,
    Who dare at once be _bold_, _severe_, and _kind_;
    Soften rough Satyr with thy gentler _Muse_,
    And force a _Blush_ at least, where you can’t change the Mind.

                                                         _A. Behn._




_On the Death of_ E. Waller, _Esq._;

_By Mrs._ A. Behn.


    How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring
    (Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering?
    I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become
    Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb?
    While every soft, and every tender Strain
    Is ruffl’d, and ill-natur’d grown with Pain.
    But, at thy Name, my languisht _Muse_ revives,
    And a new _Spark_ in the dull _Ashes_ strives.
    I hear thy tuneful _Verse_, thy _Song_ Divine,
    And am Inspir’d by every charming Line.
    But, Oh!----
    What Inspiration, at the second Hand,
    Can an _Immortal Elegie_ command?
    Unless, like _Pious Offerings_, mine should be
    Made Sacred, being Consecrate to thee.
    Eternal, as thy own Almighty Verse,
    Should be those _Trophies_ that adorn thy _Hearse_.
    The _Thought_ Illustrious, and the _Fancy_ young;                  }
    The _Wit_ Sublime, the _Judgment_ Fine and Strong;                 }
    Soft, as thy _Notes_ to _Sacharissa_ sung.                         }
    Whilst mine, like Transitory _Flowers_, decay,
    That come to _deck_ thy Tomb a short-liv’d Day.
    Such _Tributes_ are, like _Tenures_, only fit
    To shew from whom we hold our _Right_ to _Wit_.
    Hail, wondrous _Bard_, whose Heav’n-born _Genius_ first
    My Infant _Muse_, and Blooming _Fancy_ Nurst.
    With thy soft _Food_ of _Love_ I first began,
    Then fed on nobler _Panegyrick_ Strain,
    Numbers _Seraphic_! and at every View,
    My Soul extended, and much larger grew:
    Where e’re I Read, new Raptures seiz’d my Blood;
    Me thought I heard the Language of a God.
      Long did the untun’d World in Ign’rance stray,                   }
    Producing nothing that was Great and Gay,                          }
    Till taught by thee, the true Poetick way.                         }
    Rough were the _Tracts_ before, Dull and Obscure;
    Nor Pleasure, nor Instruction could procure.
    Their thoughtless Labour could no _Passion_ move;
    Sure, in that _Age_, the Poets knew not _Love_:
    That Charming _God_, like Apparitions, then,
    Was only talk’d on, but ne’re seen by Men:
    Darkness was o’re the _Muses_ Land displaid,
    And even the _Chosen Tribe_ unguided straid.
    ‘Till, by thee rescu’d from th’ _Egyptian_ Night,                  }
    They now look up, and view the God of Light,                       }
    That taught them how to _Love_, and how to _Write_;                }
    And to Enhance the Blessing which Heav’n lent,
    When for our great _Instructor_ thou wert sent,
    Large was thy Life, but yet thy Glories more;                      }
    And, like the _Sun_, didst still dispense thy Pow’r,               }
    Producing something wondrous ev’ry hour:                           }
    And in thy _Circulary Course_, didst see
    The very _Life_ and _Death_ of _Poetry_.
    Thou saw’st the _Generous Nine_ neglected lie,
    None listning to their Heav’nly _Harmony_;
    The World being grown to that low _Ebb_ of Sense
    To disesteem the noblest Excellence;
    And no Encouragement to _Prophets_ shown,
    Who in past _Ages_ got so great Renown.
    Though _Fortune_ Elevated thee above
    Its _scanty Gratitude_, or _fickle Love_;
    Yet, _sullen_ with the World, untir’d by Age,
    Scorning th’ unthinking _Crowd_, thou quit’st the _Stage_.




A PINDARIC POEM _to the Reverend Doctor_ Burnet, _on the Honour he did
me of Enquiring after me and my_ MUSE.

_By Mrs._ A. Behn.


                                  (1)

    When Old _Rome’s_ Candidates aspir’d to Fame,
      And did the Peoples Suffrages obtain
    For some great Consul, or a _Cæsar’s_ Name;
      The Victor was not half so Pleas’d and Vain,
    As I, when given the Honour of your Choice,
    And Preference had in that one single Voice;
        That Voice, from whence Immortal Wit still flows;
    Wit that at once is Solemn all and Sweet,
        Where Noblest Eloquence and Judgment shows
    The Inspiring Mind Illustrious, Rich, and Great;
    A Mind that can inform your wond’rous Pen
        In all that’s Perfect and Sublime:
    And with an Art beyond the Wit of Men,
        On what e’re Theam, on what e’re great Design,
    It carries a Commanding Force, like that of Writ Divine.

                                  (2)

    With Pow’rful Reasoning drest in finest Sence,
        A thousand ways my Soul you can Invade,
    And spight of my Opinions weak Defence,
        Against my Will, you Conquer and Perswade.
    Your Language soft as Love, betrays the Heart,
    And at each Period fixes a Resistless Dart,
        While the fond list’ner, like a Maid undone,
        Inspir’d with Tenderness she fears to own;
    In vain essays her Freedom to Regain:
    The fine Ideas in her Soul remain,
    And Please, and Charm, even while they Grieve and Pain.

                                  (3)

    But yet how well this Praise can Recompense
    For all the welcome Wounds (before) you’d given!
        Scarce any thing but You and Heaven
        Such Grateful Bounties can dispense,
    As that Eternity of Life can give;
    So fam’d by you my Verse Eternally shall live:
    Till now, my careless Muse no higher strove
    T’inlarge her Glory, and extend her Wings;
        Than underneath _Parnassus_ Grove,
    To Sing of Shepherds, and their humble Love;
    But never durst, like _Cowly_, tune her Strings,
    To sing of Heroes and of Kings.
    But since by an Authority Divine,
    She is allow’d a more exalted Thought;
    She will be valu’d now as Currant Coyn;
    Whose Stamp alone gives it the Estimate,
    Tho’ out of an inferiour Metal wrought.

                                  (4)

        But oh! if from your Praise I feel
        A Joy that has no Parallel!
        What must I suffer when I cannot pay
        Your Goodness, your own generous way?
    And make my stubborn Muse your Just Commands obey.
        My Muse that would endeavour fain to glide
    With the fair prosperous Gale, and the full driving Tide,
    But Loyalty Commands with Pious Force,
        That stops me in the thriving Course,
    The Brieze that wafts the Crowding Nations o’re,
        Leaves me unpity’d far behind
        On the Forsaken Barren Shore,
    To Sigh with Echo, and the Murmuring Wind;
    While all the Inviting Prospect I survey,
    With Melancholy Eyes I view the Plains,
    Where all I see is Ravishing and Gay,
    And all I hear is Mirth in loudest Strains;
    Thus while the Chosen Seed possess the Promis’d Land,
        I like the Excluded Prophet stand,
        The Fruitful Happy Soil can only see,
        But am forbid by Fates Decree
    To share the Triumph of the joyful Victory.

                                  (5)

    ‘Tis to your Pen, Great Sir, the Nation owes
    For all the Good this Mighty Change has wrought;
    ‘Twas that the wondrous Method did dispose,
    E’re the vast Work was to Perfection brought.
    Oh Strange effect of a Seraphick Quill!
        That can by unperceptable degrees
    Change every Notion, every Principle
        To any Form, its Great Dictator please:
    The Sword a Feeble Pow’r, compar’d to That,
        And to the Nobler Pen subordinate;
    And of less use in _Bravest_ turns of State:
    While that to Blood and Slaughter has recourse,
    This Conquers Hearts with soft prevailing Force:
    So when the wiser _Greeks_ o’recame their Foes,
    It was not by the Barbarous Force of Blows.
    When a long Ten Years Fatal War had fail’d,
    With luckier Wisdom they at last assail’d,
    Wisdom and Counsel which alone prevail’d.
    Not all their Numbers the Fam’d Town could win,
    ‘Twas Nobler Stratagem that let the Conquerour in.

                                  (6)

        Tho’ I the Wond’rous Change deplore,
        That makes me Useless and Forlorn,
        Yet I the great Design adore,
        Tho’ Ruin’d in the Universal Turn.
    Nor can my Indigence and Lost Repose,
    Those Meagre Furies that surround me close,
        Convert my Sense and Reason more
      To this Unpresidented Enterprise,
      Than that a Man so Great, so Learn’d, so Wise,
    The Brave Achievement Owns and nobly Justifies.
      ‘Tis you, Great Sir, alone, by Heaven preserv’d,
      Whose Conduct has so well the Nation serv’d,
        ‘Tis you that to Posperity shall give
        This Ages Wonders, and its History.
    And Great NASSAU shall in your Annals live
        To all Futurity.
      Your Pen shall more Immortalize his Name,
    That even his Own Renown’d and Celebrated Fame.

                                FINIS.




NOTES.


NOTES ON THE TEXT.


LA MONSTRE (1686).

p. 4, l. 1 _To Peter Weston, Esq._ This Epistle Dedicatory and the five
complimentary poems which follow are only in the editio princeps, 1686.

p. 12, l. 1 _La Monstre_. Only in 1686.

p. 12, l. 9 _dare_. 1697 ‘dae’. 1735 ‘do’.

p. 13, l. 14 _you will not_. 1735 ‘will you not’.

p. 15, l. 5 _Worships_. 1735 ‘Worship’.

p. 17, l. 25 _never_. 1735 ‘ever’.

p. 19, l. 30 _To give_. 1735 ‘That give’.

p. 20, l. 11 _dear Object_. 1735 omits ‘dear’.

p. 20, l. 18 _to the Hour_. 1735 omits ‘to’.

p. 21, l. 25 _so much Goodness_. 1686 ‘Goodness enough’, 1697 ‘Goodness
enough to write you enough’. I follow 1735 here as the repetition of
’.nough ... enow (enough)’ is very harsh.

p. 22, l. 13 _Evidences_. 1697, 1735 ‘Evidence’.

p. 23, l. 7 _Lover_. 1697, 1735 ‘Lovers’.

p. 24, l. 18 _a Heart_. 1735 ‘the Heart’, and punctuates with no comma
after _Heart_ but after _Damon_, comma.

p. 29, l. 9 _sets_. 1735 ‘set’.

p. 29, l. 10 _idle_. 1735 omits.

p. 29, l. 12 _Melinda_. 1686, 1697 ‘Milinda’.

p. 31, l. 8 _shall_. 1697, 1735 ‘should.’

p. 35, l. 26 _Sense and_. 1735 omits.

p. 35, l. 27 _to purchase_. 1686, 1697 omit ‘to’.

p. 37, l. 4 _that_. 1697, 1735 ‘the’.

p. 37, l. 22 _never_. 1735 ‘ever’.

p. 40, l. 29 _such a sort_. 1697, 1735 omit ‘such’.

p. 47, l. 9 _grow_. 1697, 1735 ‘strow’.

p. 49, l. 29 _more_. 1697, 1735 ‘most’.

p. 49, l. 30 _Glist’ring_. 1697, 1735 ‘Glitt’ring’.

p. 50, l. 19 _recollected_. 1735 ‘collected’.

p. 53, l. 2 _Incertainty_. 1735 ‘Uncertainty’.

p. 53, l. 11 _Answers_. 1735 ‘Answer’.

p. 53, l. 19 _impossible_. 1735 ‘possible’, a very patent error.

p. 59, l. 15 _the_. 1735 ‘thy’.

p. 65, l. 3 _won_. 1735 misprints ‘now’.

p. 65, l. 7 _and_. 1735 ‘tho’.

p. 65, l. 16 _unreasonably_. 1697, 1735 ‘unreasonable’.

p. 66, l. 3 _happen you_. 1735 ‘happen that you’.

p. 67, l. 8 _and Mall_. 1735 ‘the Mall’.

p. 68, l. 26 _on me_. 1735 ‘of me’.

p. 70, l. 21 _rack_. 1686, 1697 ‘wreck’.

p. 70, l. 23 _subvert_. 1735 ‘pervert’.

p. 70, l. 24 _To the most tort’ring Jealousy_. 1686, 1697 ‘To tort’ring
Jealousie’.

p. 73, l. 4 _vanisht_. 1735 ‘banish’d’.

p. 73, l. 21 _a Peace_. 1735 omits ‘a’.

p. 74, l. 17 _Imaginations_. 1735 ‘Imagination’.

p. 75, l. 27 _unimitable_. 1735 (here and elsewhere) ‘inimitable.’

p. 75, l. 32 _Katharine_. 1735 ‘Catharine’.

p. 75, l. 34 _Heighth_. 1735 ‘Height’.

p. 75, l. 35 _Meads_. 1735 ‘Meadows.’

p. 76, l. 29 _Morland_. 1735 ‘Moreland’.

p. 76, l. 30 _Gorden_. 1735 ‘Gordon’.

p. 81, l. 23 _toucht_. 1735 ‘taught’.

p. 82, l. 34 _to tie_. 1697 ‘to die’.

p. 83, l. 14 _believ’d_. 1735 ‘believe’.

p. 86, l. 11 _it_. 1735 ‘they’.

p. 88, l. 13 _never_. 1735 ‘ever’.

p. 89, l. 3 _Odour_. 1686, 1697 ‘Ardour’.

p. 91, l. 8 _Fundamentals_. 1735 ‘Foundations’.

p. 94, l. 4 _Sent from Damon to Iris_. 1697, 1735 both omit this. 1697
on separate title reads: ‘The Whole Art of Charming.’

p. 95, l. 18 _Iris’s_. 1697, 1735 ‘The Lady’s’.

p. 95, l. 32 _its_. 1735 ‘their’.

p. 98, l. 29 _of it weaves a Chain, not easily_ ... 1697 ‘if it weaves
a Chain, not easily ...’ 1735 ‘if it weaves a Chain, ‘tis not
easily ...’

p. 100, l. 2 _Monarchs_. 1735 ‘Monarch’, 1697 ‘Monarchs guest’.

p. 105, l. 11 _softest_. 1697, 1735 ‘softer’.

p. 106, l. 25 _Wit and Youth!_ 1735 ‘Wit and Truth!’

p. 106, l. 26 _Love and Truth_. 1735 ‘Love and Youth’.


POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS (1684).

p. 115, l. 3 _Viscount Cramborn and Baron of Islington_. So 1684; but
’.ramborn’ should be ‘Cranborn’, and for ‘Islington’ we should read
’.ssingdon.’ Possibly Mrs. Behn sent the Dedicatory Epistle to press as
an afterthought at the last moment and did not see a proof. Though she
was frequently careless, such mistakes as ‘Cramborn’ and ‘Islington’
would seem to be chargeable to her printers.

p. 125, l. 32. _Forsake their Kinds_. Query ‘their Kids’.

p. 130, l. 33. _E’er they’re_. 1684 ‘E’er their’.

p. 139, l. 5. _The Gray-Plum’d Natives of the Shades_. So 1684, but we
should doubtless read ‘Gay-Plum’d’. cf. l. 2 of sixth stanza: ‘little
Gay-wing’d Loves.’

p. 144, l. 11 _The Sun and Spring receive but our short Light_. This,
the reading of 1684, is clearly corrupt but can be easily mended by
changing ‘receive’ to ‘revive’.

p. 147, l. 8 _the rushing of the wind-blown leaves_. On p. 171, l. 23,
we have ‘Whispering Gales Sigh through the Rushing Leaves.’ Mrs. Behn
uses ‘rushing’ in the sense of ‘rustling’.

p. 150, l. 17 _From Active Joyes with some they hast_. The words ‘with
some’ are meaningless and corrupt. Query ‘eftsoon’.

p. 154, l. 25 _Like Pan, a Majesty_. 1684 ‘Like Panna, Majesty’.

p. 177, l. 15 _Gold and Grain_. Probably a misprint for ‘Golden Grain’.

p. 181, l. 21 _Priapus_. 1684 ‘Priapas’.

p. 182, l. 11 _All that the Gods e’er made, if Fair_. Query ‘e’er made
of Fair’.

p. 183, l. 28 _Astrae_. Misprint: the old copy rightly gives ‘Astrea.’

p. 183, l. 30 _I slept. Muses Mercury_ (May, 1707), ‘I saw last night a
pretty sight’.

p. 183, l. 32 _Stars_. M.M. ‘Eyes so bright’.

p. 186, l. 5 _are_. Misprint: read, with the old copy, ‘art.’

p. 194, l. 31 _Not add_. Query ‘Not au’ (i.e. Not all).

p. 200, l. 17 _were throng_. Query ‘were throng’d’.

p. 206, l. 20 _decry_. Misprint: read, with 1684, ‘descry’.

p. 207, l. 12 _and Kill_. 1684 ‘a Kill’.

p. 218, l. 1 _we part_. 1684 ‘me part’.

p. 219, l. 14 _thee and I_. The bad grammar has not been changed, as it
may be due to Mrs. Behn’s carelessness.

p. 222, l. 2 _Hadst_. 1684 ‘Hads’.

p. 224, l. 25 _That, best instructs_. 1684 ‘instruct’. (The comma
after ‘that’ is unnecessary, but Mrs. Behn used it to emphasise the
word--here and in the following line.)

p. 225, l. 12 _ne’er to visit more_. 1684 ‘near to visit more’.

p. 227, l. 4 _whether_. i.e. (as frequently) ‘whither’.

p. 230, l. 28 _barely wishing_. Query ‘dearly wishing’.

p. 230, l. 33 _Love gives_. 1684 ‘give’.

p. 231, l. 18 _treads_. 1684 ‘tread’.

p. 232, l. 32 _Kisses_. 1684 ‘Kiss’.

p. 233, l. 13 _Mad_. 1684 ‘Made’.

p. 235, l. 17 _In modest Speech, as might well subdue_. Corrupt. Query
’.odest in Speech, such as might well subdue.’

p. 247, l. 2 _Says_. 1684 ‘Say’.

p. 250, l. 5 _replies_. 1684 ‘reply’.

p. 251, ll. 1-2 _the dumb and silent languishes, Are predic’d, which so
well explain the Heart_. The word ‘predic’d’ is very suspicious. Taking
’.anguishes’ as a substantive (and deleting the comma), we might change
’.redic’d’ to ‘produc’d’ (with the accent on the first syllable).

p. 253, l. 3 _Winter_. 1684 ‘Winters’.

p. 253, l. 7 _All bleek and cale_. In a _Pastoral to Mr. Stafford_, (p.
383), we have: ‘In summer let the Boughs be _cale_ and dry.’

p. 258, ll. 1-2 _who’s lovely Face Disdain’d the Beauties of the common
race_. So 1684; but ‘Disdain’d’ may be a misprint for ‘Distain’d’
(outshone).

p. 272, l. 28 _And let her Feet weep my neglect away_. Corrupt. We
should doubtless read ‘And at her Feet weep my neglect away’.

p. 273, l. 10 _hear_. 1684 ‘here’.

p. 278, l. 5 _hallow’d_. 1684 ‘hollow’d’.

p. 280, l. 10 _wear_. 1684 ‘were’.

p. 284, l. 7 _Inspiring Love, inciting_. 1684 ‘Inspiring my Love
inciting.’

p. 285, l. 28 _soft breath’d_. 1684 ‘oft breath’d’.


LYCIDUS (1688).

p. 302, l. 35 _no one place could continue her_. So 1688; but
’.ontinue’ may be a misprint for ‘contain’.

p. 327, l. 4 _Now_. 1688 ‘How’.

p. 344, l. 18 _This there_. 1688, but query ‘’.is there’.

p. 345, l. 19 _wert_. 1688 ‘wers’t’.

p. 352, l. 23 _’.was youth, ‘twas wit, ‘twas Beauty_. 1688 ‘was Beauty’.

p. 360, l. 12 _Amintas_. M.M. (April, 1707), ‘Amyntas,’ and throughout.

p. 360, l. 15 _conquer’d_. M.M. ‘conquer’.

p. 361, l. 5 _stoln_. M.M. ‘stole’.

p. 361, l. 27 _with which_. M.M. ‘wherewith’.

p. 361, l. 29 _That may declare_. M.M. ‘which may disclose’.

p. 362, l. 2 _Lovers_. M.M. ‘shepherds’.

p. 362, l. 4 _softer_. M.M. ‘ruder’.

p. 362, l. 5 _By the sad purling_ ... M.M. ‘There, there, my Soul, by
some still Rivulet’.

p. 362, l. 7 _That_. M.M. ‘Which’.

p. 362, l. 8 _melancholy_. M.M. ‘solitary’.

p. 362, l. 10 _stream the shade forsakes_. M.M. ‘Streams the Shades
forsake’.

p. 362, l. 12 _Trees_. M.M. ‘Boughs’.

p. 362, l. 13 _Thô_. M.M. ‘But’.

p. 362, l. 20 _ungrateful know, why tis_. M.M. ‘Ingrate know how and
why’.

p. 362, l. 22 _Thy_. M.M. ‘The’.

p. 362, l. 27 _what weak resistance_. M.M. ‘no opposition’.

p. 362, l. 28 _every charming word_. M.M. ‘For ev’ry dangerous Smile
begot ...’

p. 362, l. 30 _willing ... will_. M.M. ‘weeping ... wouldst’.

p. 362, l. 32 _But stay thy hasty fight_. M.M. ‘But stay, my hasty
Soul, Alas! Alas!’

p. 363, l. 5 _Think how the faithless_. M.M. ‘Then think how ill he’.

p. 363, l. 6 _And then my tortur’d soul_. M.M. ‘And in that Sigh, my
Soul’.

p. 364, l. 17 (_Westminster Drollery_, 1671.) _if I see they mend_.
Query ‘thee mend’.

p. 366, l. 18 (_Miscellany_, 1685.) _Ignorance_. 1685 ‘Igrance’.

p. 375, l. 6 _So fair_. 1685 ‘so far’.

p. 375, l. 27 _be given_. 1685 ‘be gived’.

p. 379, l. 5 _Indian Priests_. 1685 ‘Indian Priest’.

p. 382, l. 28 _intrigues_. Unless we are to pronounce this as a
trisyllable a word must have dropped out of this line.

p. 383, l. 18 _Damon false?_ 1685 ‘Damon safe?’ (The use of the long
’.’ led to much misprinting.)

p. 384, l. 31 _soild_. 1685 ‘solid’.

p. 386, l. 5 _tall_. 1685 ‘tale’.

p. 391, l. 3 _wand’ring Fires run_. In _Poems on Affairs of State, II_
(1703), this is: ‘wandring Fire runs.’

p. 402, l. 12 _Deme_. i.e. ‘Demme’ (damn me).


NOTES: CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY.


LA MONSTRE.

p. 4 _Peter Weston, Esq._ Peter Weston, the second son of a Cheshire
clergyman, was born in 1665. He matriculated at Brasenose College,
Oxford, and afterwards proceeding to the Inner Temple (1683) was
called to the Bar in 1697. He attained considerable eminence in his
profession. Foster, _Alumni Oxon_. has: ‘Weston, Peter s. Tho. of
Chester (city) cler. Brasenose Coll. matric. 10 June 1681 aged 16;
bar. at law Inner Temple, 1697.’ The Inner Temple _Admission Register_
gives: ‘Petrus Weston. Generosus filius secundus Thome Weston nuper de
Christalton in Comitatu Cestrie Sacre Theologie Professoris generaliter
Admissus est in Societatem istius Comitive in consideracione Trium
librarum Sex solidorum etc. etc. Septimo die Februarii Anno Domini 1683
(i.e. 1683/4).’ In the Inner Temple _Records_, amongst the Bench Table
Orders, is noted, 27-9 January, 1696-7: ‘that Peter Weston be called to
the bar’, and again 31 January following, we have: ‘Peter Weston’s call
to the bar respited.’ Doubtless Weston was a friend of Hoyle, and by
him introduced to the circle which surrounded Mrs. Behn.

p. 7 _Charles Cotton_. Charles Cotton was born at Ovingdean (Sussex),
28 April, 1630. Upon coming into his estate he found it heavily
encumbered, and probably as much from necessity as from natural
inclination turned to literary work. He produced a large number of
poems, translations, panegyrics, prominent amongst which is his
_Scarronides, or Virgil Travestie_ (1664). He will be remembered by his
best lyrics, his Second Part of the _Compleat Angler_, and his version
of Montaigne. Cotton, who seems to have been continually harassed with
pecuniary difficulties, was a gay liver, albeit an intimate of Isaak
Walton. He died 1687.

p. 7 _two Orinda’s_. ‘The matchless Orinda’ was Mrs. Katherine Philips
(_née_ Fowler), précieuse and poetess (1631-64). After marriage the
lady divided her time between London and her husband’s house at
Cardigan, where she was the centre of a circle of admirers and friends
who adopted various fanciful names, e.g. Silvander (Sir Edward Dering),
Antenor (her husband). Her verses and a translation of Corneille’s
_Pompée_ (Dublin, 1663) became famous. At the height of her popularity
she died of smallpox at a house in Fleet Street, 22 June, 1664. For an
excellent account of her see Gosse, _Seventeenth Century Studies_.

p. 8 _N. Tate_. Nahum Tate, born in Dublin, 1652, was educated at
Trinity College. He does not appear to have followed any definite
profession. Coming to London he produced much miscellaneous literary
work, and was even entrusted by Dryden with a portion of the second
part of _Absalom and Achitophel_ (1682), the master himself enriching
it with some two hundred lines. Tate succeeded (24 December, 1692)
Shadwell in the laureateship which he did not hold till his death (12
August, 1715) as Rowe was appointed to that post, 1 August, 1715. His
plays are perhaps not so mediocre as they are often judged to be,
but they have been damned by his outrageous mangling of King Lear
(1681), which, none the less, persevered on the stage for many a long
decade.[6] Perhaps he is chiefly known for this, and a version of the
Psalms (the first twenty appeared in 1695) written in conjunction with
Nicholas Brady (1696).

[6] The Fool was not restored until the time of Macready, when (25
January, 1838), under his Covent Garden management, the rôle was
entrusted to Miss Priscilla Horton (Mrs. German Reed), who, it is
recorded, achieved great success.

p. 9 _G. J._ George Jenkins, who, it will be remembered, edited Mrs.
Behn’s posthumous play, _The Widow Ranter, vide_ Vol. IV, p. 215, and
note p. 415 on G. J. (p. 222).

p. 18 _cock, and comb_. Cock = set his hat jauntily. For comb (his
wig), cf. Dryden’s prologue to _The Conquest of Granada, II_ (1670):--

          when Vizard Masque appears in Pit,
    Straight every Man who thinks himself a Wit
    Perks up; and, managing his Comb with grace,
    With his white Wigg sets off his Nut-brown Face.

And Shadwell’s _The Humorists_ (1671), Act v, where Briske says: ‘No
man appears better upon a Bench in the Play-House; when I stand up
to expose my Person between the Acts, I take out my Comb and with a
_bonne mien_ comb my Perriwig to the Tune the Fiddles Play: Thus, look
you; fa, la, la, la.’ Also Congreve, _The Way of the World_, iii, xii
(1700): ‘The gentlemen stay but to comb, madam, and will wait on you.’
The phrase is frequent.

p. 20 _Scrutore_. cf. Vol. V, p. 73, _The Fair Jilt_: ‘Scrutore
perpetually employ’d,’ and note on that passage (p. 519).

p. 75 _Varrio_. Antonio Verrio, the celebrated Neapolitan painter,
was born at Lecce, in the Terra di Otranto, about 1639. His earliest
pictures were done for ecclesiastics--the Jesuits College, Naples, the
high altar in the Carmelite Church, Toulouse. His facility of execution
and rich colouring gained him fame, and Charles II appointed him to
direct the royal tapestry works at Mortlake. Soon, however, Verrio was
transferred to Windsor to paint the walls and ceilings. Under Charles
II and his successor Verrio was in high favour. At the Revolution he
threw up his office of surveyor of the royal gardens (a sinecure) and
refused to employ his pencil for William of Orange. He had, however,
many commissions from nobles and private persons. His sight failing,
Queen Anne bestowed on him a pension of £200 a year. He died 1707. A
list of Verrio’s ceilings will be found in Jesse’s _Eton and Windsor_.
Pope, _Windsor Forest_, has a couplet (307-8):--

        from her roofs when Verrio’s colours fall,
    And leave inaminate the naked wall.

p. 75 _Gibbon_. Grinling Gibbons, the celebrated sculptor in wood, was
born at Rotterdam, 4 April, 1648. He came to London in 1667. He was
first brought into notice by Evelyn, who introduced him to the King.
Charles II gave Gibbons a place in the board of works. Besides being
employed at Windsor, Gibbons decorated other of the royal palaces in
marble sculpture as well as wood. His exquisite carvings are to be
found in many noble houses. They are unrivalled for their presentment
of foliage, fruit, flowers; of a marvellous delicacy and beauty. In
1714 he was appointed master carver to George I. He died at his house
in Bow Street, 3 August, 1721.

p. 76 _noble Clifdon_. Evelyn, 23 July, 1679, writes: ‘To Court:
after dinner I visited that excellent painter, Verrio, whose works in
_fresco_ in the King’s palace, at Windsor, will celebrate his name as
long as those walls last.... I went to Clifden, that stupendous natural
rock, wood, and prospect, of the Duke of Buckingham’s, buildings of
extraordinary expense. The grots in the chalky rock are pretty: it is
a romantic object, and the place altogether answers the most poetical
description that can be made of solitude, precipice, prospect, or
whatever can contribute to a thing so very like their imaginations. The
stand somewhat like Frascati as to its front, and, on the platform,
is a circular view to the utmost verge of the horizon which, with
the serpenting of the Thames, is admirable. The staircase is for its
materials singular; the cloisters, descents, gardens, and avenue
through the wood, august and stately; but the land all about wretchedly
barren, and producing nothing but fern. Indeed, as I told his Majesty
that evening (asking me how I liked Clifden) without flattery, that it
did not please me so well as Windsor for the prospect and park, wch is
without compare; there being but one only opening and that narrow, wch
led one to any variety, whereas, that of Windsor is everywhere great
and unconfined.’

Pope’s reference is quoted to triteness:--

        Cliveden’s proud alcove
    The bow’r of wanton Shrewsbury and love.

                                      --_Moral Essays_, iii, 307-8.

p. 76 _Sir Samuel Morland, or Sir Robert Gorden_. Sir Samuel Morland,
the celebrated inventor and projector, was born in 1625. Having served
the Commonwealth, he turned royalist, and on Cromwell’s death joined
the King at Breda. He was rewarded at the Restoration with a baronetcy,
a pension, and the appointment of Master of Mechanics to the King. He
devoted himself to practical science, and his house was long the resort
of the curious to view his models, inventions, &c. In a MS. (Harleian)
treatise he shows an accurate knowledge of steam power and explains
how it can be employed to work cylinders in raising water, a subject
to which he had paid particular attention, having brought water from a
considerable distance to the top of Windsor Castle. He died blind and
in penury, 30 December, 1695.

_Sir Robert Gordon_, Bart. was born 7 March, 1647. He became famous
for his scientific pursuits, and in the neighbourhood of Gordonstown
(Elginshire), his birthplace, he was long known as ‘Sir Robert the
Warlock’. A MS. account of the family says: he was ‘particularly
skilled in mechanics and chemistry.... He contrived a curious machine
or pump for raising water, wch was tried in the Fleet and highly
approved of, and found far to exceed anything of that kind then
known, both for the facility of working and the quantity of water it
discharged.’ Gordon sat in the Scotch parliament, and seems to have
been a favourite with James II, who was interested in his experiments.
He died 1704.

p. 79 _l’heure du Bergere_. cf. ‘the hour of the Berjere’. _The Feign’d
Curtezans_, iii, 1 (Vol. II, p. 346), and note on that passage (p. 441).


POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS (1684).

p. 115 _To the Right Honourable, James_. James Cecil, 4th Earl of
Salisbury, Viscount Cranbourn, was the eldest son of James, 3rd Earl of
Salisbury, and Margaret, daughter of John Manners, Earl of Rutland. He
married Frances, one of the three daughters and coheiresses of Simon
Bennet of Beechampton, Bucks, when she was only thirteen years old. A
firm Tory, he was in 1688-9 committed to the Tower as a recusant, but
the prosecution was waived. His name was forged by Robert Young to a
document purporting to be that of an Association to seize the Prince
of Orange, and declare for King James. On this account he was a second
time committed to the Tower, 7 May, 1692, but as nothing could be
proved his bail was soon formally discharged in the Court of King’s
Bench. He died 25 October, 1693, leaving an only son, three years old,
who succeeded him. He was buried at Hatfield, 29 October.

p. 117 _Ogs and Doegs reign’d_. Shadwell is scarified as Og by Dryden,
_Absalom and Achitophel, II_ (1682), Elkanah Settle as Doeg.

p. 117 _Baxter’s zeal_. This ardent Presbyterian divine was
considerably harassed during the reign of Charles II. He had bidden
farewell to the Church of England in the great Blackfriars church, 16
May, 1662, three days before the Act of Uniformity was passed, but
he still held forth with unabated zest and vigor in meeting-houses
and conventicles whenever opportunity offered. He was imprisoned 28
February, 1684-5 on a charge of libelling the Church in his _Paraphrase
of the New Testament_ (1685). His sermons, devotional and other
writings amount to nearly two hundred.

p. 119 _J. Cooper, Buckden_. John Cooper (who doubtless wrote the
following lines initialled J. C.), was a contributor to Dryden’s
_Miscellany_, at the end of which (Vol. I) is advertised: ‘Poems upon
Several Occasions; written by Mrs. _Behn_; are now in the Press, and
will be published this Term.’ Cooper was also the translator of the
_OEnone to Paris_ epistle in the _Heroides_ ‘By Several Hands’ (1680).

Buckden is a village and parish some sixty-one miles from London, and
four miles south-west from Huntingdon.

p. 120 _Orinda. vide_ note _supra_ (on p. 7), ‘two _Orinda’s_’.

p. 120 _No dying Swan_. cf. Ovid, _Heroides_, vii, 1-2:--

    Sic, ubi fata vocant, udis abiectus in herbis,
        Ad vada Mæandri concinit albus olor.

and _Metamorphoseon_ v. 386-7:--

              non illo plura Caystros
    Carmina cycnorum labentibus audit in undis.

p. 121 _J. Adams_. John Adams was a member, and afterwards a Fellow
of King’s College, Cambridge. He proceeded B.A. 1682, M.A. 1686,
and is mentioned as a Professor of Theology, whence we infer that
he took Orders. In 1712 he was ‘Collegii Regalis Praepositus’. He
prefixed a copy of complimentary verses (1 January, 1682), to Creech’s
_Lucretius_, and was also a contributor to Dryden’s _Miscellany_.

John Adams, the celebrated topographer, who in 1680 laboriously drew
up the _Index Villaris_, a gazetteer dedicated to Charles II, was a
barrister of the Inner Temple, and must be carefully distinguished from
the Cambridge litterateur.

p. 123 _T. C._ i.e. Thomas Creech, who was born at Blandford, Dorset,
1659. In Lent Term, 1675, he was admitted as a commoner at Wadham
College, Oxford. Having studied hard he graduated M.A. 13 June, 1683
(B.D. 18 March, 1696), and was elected a Fellow of All Souls, 1
November, 1683. For two years (1694-6) he was headmaster of Sherborne,
and then returned to Oxford. Melancholia, however, grew upon him, and
after accepting the college living of Welwyn (where he never resided)
he committed suicide, his body being discovered (June, 1700), in
a garret in his lodging at the house of an apothecary named Ives.
Creech’s translation of _Lucretius_ was printed at Oxford, 1682.
It is of value, and Munro in his edition of the poet speaks of his
predecessor as ‘a man of sound sense and good taste’, no mean praise
from so great a scholar.

p. 125 _her Pen Can be instructed_. An obvious allusion to the rumour
that Mrs. Behn was assisted in her work by Hoyle.

p. 127 _the learned Daphnis_. Thomas Creech.

p. 128 _barbarous Getans_. Ovid in exile cries:--

    Nec te mirari, si sint vitiosa, decebit
      Carmina, quae faciam paene poeta Getes.

                                  --_Ep. ex Ponto_, IV, xiii, 17-8.

p. 129 _Achitophels_. Achitophel==the Earl of Shaftesbury.

p. 129 _murmuring Shimei’s_. Shimei, Slingsby Bethel, by poll chosen
one of the sheriffs for the City of London on Midsummer day, 1680,
was a factious fanatic, who had formerly been one of the committee
of safety. Burnet says that his miserable way of living and extreme
miserliness rendered him disagreeable to everybody, even his own party.
Dryden very justly lashes him, _Absalom and Achitophel_, I, 585-629.

p. 133 _In an Azure Mantle_. This phrase is very nearly equivalent to
Ovid’s ‘purpureus Amor’ (Amorum, ii, I, 38); and Hieronymus Angerianus
in his _Erotopaignion_, repeats the same expressive adjective:
’.urpureus lumina pandit Amor.’

p. 137 _H. Watson_. Henry Watson was a member of Christ’s College,
Cambridge.

p. 138 _Groves appear’d_. Martinus Scriblerus (Pope) #PERI BATHOUS;#
_or, The Art of Sinking in Poetry: written in the Year_ MDCCXXVII,
chap. xii, has: ‘1. The Florid Style than which none is more proper to
the Bathos, as flowers, which are the lowest of vegetables, are most
gaudy, and do many times grow in great plenty at the bottom of ponds
and ditches.

A fine writer in this kind presents you with the following posie:

    The groves appear all drest with wreaths of flowers,
    And from their leaves drop aromatic showers,
    Whose fragrant heads in mystic twines above
    Exchange their sweets, and mix’d with thousand kisses
    As if the willing branches strove
    To beautify and shade the grove,--

(which, indeed, most branches do).’ Pope, as often, is not a little
unfair in his critique.

p. 144 _Eternal Night_.

    Soles occidere, et redire possunt:
    Nobis, cum semel occidit brevis lux,
    Nox est perpetua una dormienda.

                                          --Catullus, _Ad Lesbiam_.

p. 148 _On a Juniper-Tree_. This poem is also to be found in the
following editions of Rochester’s Works: _Poems on Several Occasions by
the Rt. Hon. the Earl of R----. Printed at Antwerpen_. [London.] 1680?
In _The Works of the Earls of Rochester, Roscommon, Dorset_, 1712;
1718; 1731; 1739 (in which year there were two several and slightly
divergent editions); 1752; 1800? It must not, however, be for a moment
supposed that the Earl of Rochester has any claim to the authorship of
this piece. Unscrupulous booksellers collected songs, poems, satires of
every kind under his name and included them amongst his oft-reprinted
works without explanation or discrimination. With the opening lines of
this poem cf. Horace, _Sermonum_, i, viii:--

    Olim truncus eram ficulnus, inutile lignum,
    cum faber, incertus scammum faceretne Priapum,
    maluit esse deum.

p. 148 _Busks_. A Busk is ‘A strip of wood, whalebone, steel, or
other rigid material passed down the front of a corset and used to
stiffen and support it’. _N.E.D._ which quotes, inter alia, 1688, R.
Holme, _Armoury_, in, 94/2: ‘A Busk ... is a strong peece of Wood, or
Whalebone thrust down the middle of the Stomacker.’

p. 151 _Mr. Grinhil_. John Greenhill, the famous portrait-painter, was
born at Salisbury about 1644. He was the eldest son of the registrar
of the diocese of Salisbury. About 1662 he migrated to London and
became a pupil of Sir Peter Lely. Almost instant success awaited him,
and his progress proved so rapid as to excite the master’s jealousy.
He married early, and was at first industrious. After a few years,
however, he became a boon companion of the free-living theatrical and
literary circles of the day, and fell into irregular habits. 19 May,
1676, whilst returning from the Vine Tavern, Greenhill fell into the
gutter in Long Acre, was carried to his lodging in Lincoln’s Inn Fields
where he died that same night. He is buried in St. Giles-in-the-Fields.
Amongst his portraits, which are highly esteemed, are those of Charles
II; James, Duke of York; Shaftesbury; Locke; Davenant; Cowley; William
Cartwright, the actor. This Poem on Greenhill’s death has been included
amongst _Poems on Several Occasions by the Rt. Hon. the Earl of R----
Printed at Antwerpen_. [London.] 1680? And again, in _Poems on Several
Occasions by the R. H. the E. of R. London_. 1712.

p. 153 _Mr. J. H._ i.e. Mr. John Hoyle.

p. 156 _Our Cabal_. Considerable research has unhappily failed to
identify most of the personages whose initials appear in this poem.
Mr. J. H., however, is John Hoyle, Mrs. Behn’s well-known intimate, to
whom so many of her poems are addressed. In _The Muses Mercury_ for
January, 1708, the verses for Mr. E. B. and Mrs. F. M. are given with
this note: ‘The following poem was written by Mrs. _Behn_ on one Mr.
_Edward Butler_ and Mrs. _Masters_, and is a Description of the Success
of their Passion, in a little Journey took into the Country, with
many more Gentlemen and Ladies of that Time, whom we shall speak of
hereafter’. a promise which was never fulfilled.

p. 163 _The Willing Mistriss_. This song was reprinted in _The Muses
Mercury_, December, 1707, when it is termed ‘A Song for _J. H._’ with
this note prefixed: ‘The following Verses are call’d, _A Song_ by the
late Mrs. _Behn_; we have a Copy of them in her own Hand Writing, as
well as of many others never printed, except in our Mercuries; and by
her putting her _Nom de Guerre_ Astræa to them, we find they were made
upon her Self and her very good Friend Mr. _Hoyle_.’ At the end of the
third stanza we have: ‘As Amorous as these Verses may be thought, they
have been reduc’d to bring them within the Rules of Decency, which all
Writers ought to observe, or instead of a _Diversion_ they will become
a _Nuisance_.’

p. 165 _Song. When Jemmy_. This was reprinted in _The Muses Mercury_,
September, 1707: as ‘On Capt. ---- going to the Wars in Flanders’, _A Song.
To a Scotch Tune_, and signed Astræa. _The Muses Mercury_ adds the
following note: ‘Tho this Poetess’s true Name was _Apharra_, yet she
in her Amours and Poetical Characters, assum’d the _Nomme de Guerre_
of _Astræa_: And thus we find this Song subscrib’d by her self, which
shews it came from her Heart, however imperfect it may be otherwise.’
Surely, so dainty and, indeed, pathetic a little song can need no plea
for admittance into any poetical collection.

p. 166 _To Mr. Creech_. This poem appears as ‘To The Unknown Daphnis
on his Excellent translation of _Lucretius_’, dated ‘_London_. Jan.
25, 1682’, and signed ‘_A. Behn_’ in the second edition of Creech’s
translation of _Lucretius_ (Oxford, 1683), there are also commendatory
verses prefixed to this edition by Waller, Evelyn, Otway, Tate, Duke
and others.

p. 168 _The Learned Thirsis_ is Thomas Sprat (1635-1713), the famous
Bishop of Rochester and Dean of Westminster, who matriculated from
Wadham, 12 November, 1651, and 25 September, 1652, was elected a
scholar. He graduated B.A. 25 June, 1654, M.A. three years later. He
took his B.D. and D.D. 3 July, 1669. From 30 June, 1657 to 24 March,
1670 (when he resigned), he held a Wadham fellowship. Cowley, in his
_Ode to the Royal Society_, had praised Sprat’s _History of the Royal
Society of London_ (1667), and when Cowley died, in 1667, Sprat wrote
_An Account of the Life of Mr. Abraham Cowley._

p. 169 _Strephon the Great_ is John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
(1647-80), who was admitted a fellow commoner at Wadham, 18 January,
1659-60. He was created M.A. 9 September, 1661, when little more than
fourteen. The four silver pint pots he presented to his college are
still preserved.

p. 171 _To Mrs. W._ i.e. Anne Wharton, born in Oxfordshire about
1632, second daughter and coheiress of Sir Henry Lee, third baronet
of Ditchley, by Anne, daughter of Sir John Danvers of Cornbury;
16 September, 1673, she married as his first wife Thomas Wharton
(afterwards first Marquis of Wharton), to whom she brought £10,000
dowry and £2,500 a year. The match proved childless and unhappy, and it
was only owing to Burnet’s persuasions that she did not separate from
her husband in 1682. She died at Adderbury, 29 October, 1685, and was
buried at Winchendon on 10 November following. Anne Wharton’s _Elegy
on the Death of the Earl of Rochester_, which may be found in _Examen
Miscellaneum_ (1702), drew a poem from Waller in which he says that she

        Shews that still in her he lives.
    Her Wit is graceful, great, and good,
    Ally’d in Genius, as in Blood.

The earl’s mother was aunt to Mrs. Wharton’s father, Sir Henry Lee.
Rochester died 26 July, 1680. On p. 242 of _The Temple of Death_, a
miscellany (1695), may be read Mrs. Wharton’s ‘To Mrs. A. Behn, on what
she Writ of the Earl of Rochester’. Various other of her poems have
appeared in similar collections.

p. 173 _The Return_. The first two stanzas of this poem appear in _The
Muses Mercury_, August, 1707, as ‘To _J. Hoyle_, Esq.’

p. 175 _my Lady Morland_. Mrs. Behn is here complimenting her friend
Carola, daughter of Sir Roger Harsnett, Knight, and second wife of Sir
Samuel Morland, whom she married in Westminster Abbey, 26 October,
1670. Lady Morland died 10 October, 1674, aged twenty-two.

For an account of the Queen’s visit to Tunbridge Wells (’.he place of
all Europe the most rural and simple, and yet, at the same time, the
most entertaining and agreeable’., see Grammont’s _Memoirs_. Rochester
has a famous satire, _Tunbridge Wells_. Burr’s _History of Tunbridge
Wells_ will be found to give a very full account of that fashionable
watering-place.

p. 177 _Song to Ceres_. _The Wavering Nymph; or, Mad Amyntas_ was the
name given to a Restoration revival of Randolph’s beautiful and truly
poetic _Amyntas or The Impossible Dowry_. The title of the editio
princeps runs thus: _Amyntas or The Impossible Dowry. A Pastoral Acted
before the King and Queen at Whitehall. Written by Thomas Randolph_.

        _Pastorem, Tityre, pingues_
    _Pascat oportet oves, diductum dicere Carmen._

_Oxford, Printed by Leonard Lichfield for Francis Bordman_, 1638.

In the pastoral, Ceres, by an obscure oracle, has announced the dowry
to be given to Urania, the daughter of her priest. Amyntas, conceiving
it impossible to bestow this required dowry, has lost his wits. The
wavering nymph is Laurinda. Eventually the divine riddle is happily
solved.

There is no record of the revival for which Mrs. Behn wrote these two
songs, but the play was undoubtedly put on at the Duke’s house. It
was probably acted in 1682-3, when a large number of the older plays
were staged, especially such as gave scope for scenic effects and the
introduction of musical interludes. In the spring of 1703, _Amyntas_,
reduced to three acts as _The Fickle Shepherdess_, was produced at
Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Mrs. Bracegirdle acted Amyntas, and Mrs. Barry,
Clorinda (Laurinda).

p. 178 _The Disappointment_. This poem, which was extremely popular,
was sent by Mrs. Behn to John Hoyle, her friend, with a letter in which
she anxiously urges him to give the lie to various scandals of a grave
nature that were current concerning his private life. The letter and
the poem are both to be found in the various editions of _Familiar
Letters of Love, Gallantry, &c._ This poem was also printed in _Poems
on Several Occasions by the Rt. Hon. the Earl of R---- Antwerpen._
[London.] 1680(?) And in _Poems on Several Occasion by the R. H. the
E. of R._ London. (1712). Under the title _The Insensible_ it is to
be found in the following editions of Rochester, 1718; 1731; 1739 (in
which year there were two several and slightly divergent editions);
1752; 1800 (?); and in a selected reprint _circa_ 1884. In these
editions which contain _The Insensible_, _The Disappointment_ is the
title given to a different poem seemingly based on Ovid, _Amorum_,
iii, vii. The whole subject has frequently been treated by poets and
amorists of all time. Also cf. _supra_ note on a _Juniper-Tree_.

Mr. G. Thorn Drury has drawn my attention to the fact that the original
of Mrs. Behn’s _The Disappointment_, entitled _Sur une Impuissance_
is to be found in _Recueil de Diverses Poesies Choisies Non encore
Imprimées_. A Amsterdam, 1661. A full translation of the French verses
(Mrs. Behn’s is only of part), appears in _Wit and Drollery_ (1682),
under the title _The Lost Opportunity recovered_. This poem is not
given in _Wit and Drollery_ (1661).

p. 182 _Sir R. O._ Either Sir Rowland Okeover, of Okeover, Staffs.,
knighted by the King, May (April?), 1665; or Sir Richard Osbaldeston of
Hunmanby, York, knighted 12 August, 1681.

p. 183 _The Dream_. This song appears in _The Muses Mercury_, May,
1707, as _Cupid in Chains_. For variants see Textual Notes, p. 183.

p. 185 _A Letter to a Brother_. There is nothing to indicate to whom
these satirical lines are addressed. [Ravenscroft?] For ‘Sweating-Tub’
cf. the Epilogue to _The Lucky Chance_: ‘Tubs must cure your pain’
(Vol. III, p. 279), and note on that passage (p. 492).

p. 185 _Pusillage_. cf. _The Feign’d Curtezans_, i, ii: ‘Thou shalt
part with thy Pusilage’ (Vol. II, p. 320), and note on that passage,
(p. 440).

p. 188 _To Pesibles Tune_. James Paisible, flautist and composer, who
set this charming song to music, was born about 1656. He came to
England _circa_ 1680, and soon found patrons, the chief of whom was the
Duchess de Mazarin, who, with the help of St. Evremond, continually
gave exquisite but elaborate concerts at Paradise Row, Chelsea. In a
little drawing-room scena Paisible is actually mentioned by name. He is
said to have won great favour owing to his easy manners and fluent wit.
4 December, 1686, he procured a licence for his marriage with one Mary
Davis. About 1691 he began to supply overtures and musical interludes
for the theatres, and from 1703 to 1714 he set the tunes to Isaac’s
dances performed at court on birthdays and other gala occasions. He
lived in the parish of S. Martin’s-in-the-Fields, and died August,
1721. Much of his work has been published and some yet remain in MS.
His are the overture and interludes to Southerne’s _Oroonoko_.

p. 189 _Set by Captain Pack_. Captain Pack was an exceedingly popular
and prolific musician of the day. The British Museum possesses four
songs of his in one volume (MS.). Some of his compositions may be
found in Playford’s _Choice Ayres_ (1675); in _The Theatre of Music_
(1685-7); in _The Banquet_ (1688). Amongst other pieces he composed
incidental music for D’Urfey’s _Don Quixote, I_ and _II_ (1694), both
the first two parts of which play were received with great applause.

p. 191 _Set by Mr. Farmer_. Thomas Farmer, Mus. Bac., was originally
one of the Waits of London. He graduated at Cambridge in 1684. He
composed much instrumental music for the theatre, and contributed some
songs to the second edition of Playford’s _Choice Ayres_ (1675), to
_The Theatre of Music_ (1685-7), and to D’Urfey’s _Third Collection of
Songs_ (1685). His is the music to Lee’s drama _The Princess of Cleve_
(1682), and various other compositions, including _A Consort of Musick_
(1686), of which work a second part followed a year or two after, bear
his name. As Purcell composed an elegy, the words by Nahum Tate, for
his funeral, Farmer must have died before 1695.

p. 195 _In Imitation of Horace_. An altered expansion of and no very
close parallel to

    Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
    perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
        grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
          cui flavam religas comam,
    simplex munditiis?--_Carminum, I_, 5.

p. 198 _A Dialogue_. There is nothing to show when or for what
entertainment this little Pastoral was written.

p. 200 _Mr. J. H._ i.e. Mr. John Hoyle.

p. 204 _To the Honourable Edward Howard_. _The Six Days Adventure; or,
The New Utopia_ was produced at the Duke’s Theatre in 1671, and printed
quarto the same year. Although the best of Edward Howard’s comedies
it was received with scant favour, and the author vindicates himself,
pretty sharply rebuking both actors and audience, in a long preface.

Sir Grave Solymour, about to enter the bed of the chaste Celinda, finds
himself in the embraces of a black-a-moor, whilst his friends rush in
and jeer the precise old knight, whose ‘night-hag’ eventually proves
to be Celinda’s sooty page. The ‘braver _Heroins_’ of Howard, Serina,
Crispina, Eugenia, Petilla, wish to assume and usurp all the privileges
of the bolder sex. The scene lies in Utopia. Peacock, created by the
low comedian Angel, is a silly fribbling fop.

When the play was printed commendatory verses were prefixed by
Ravenscroft and Mrs. Behn, both of whom adopted Pindarics; by J. T.;
and by Sam Clyat.

In Mrs. Behn’s _Miscellany_ of 1685 is included ‘_A Pindaric by the
Honourable_ Edward Howard _to Mrs._ B. _Occasioned by a Copy she made
on his Play, called the New_ Eutopia’. The piece is fluent and not
ungraceful, concluding with a pretty compliment.

Mrs. Behn’s Pindarick is reprinted in the _Muses Mercury_, October,
1707, with this note: ‘The following Paper of Verses was written by
Mrs. _Behn_, to a Poet, who being damn’d, declar’d he wou’d write no
more: However out of Affection to his Brother Poets, he left Rules for
them to write; which she seems to judge kinder of than they deserve;
since both the Rules and the Critick are already entirely forgot. The
Reader will perceive that Mrs. _Behn_ had no Notion of a Pindarick
Poem, any farther than it consisted of irregular Numbers, and sav’d
the Writer the Trouble of even Measure; which indeed is all our common
Pindarick Poets know of the Matter.’

_Shee who late made the Amazons so Great_ refers to Howard’s
tragicomedy, _The Women’s Conquest_ (4to 1671), the scene of which lies
in Scythia, where we meet with several pseudo-classical Amazons.

For a detailed account of Edward Howard _vide_ the present editor’s
edition of _The Rehearsal_ (pp. 76-9).

p. 207 _the Musick-Meeting_. cf. Southerne’s _The Wives Excuse; or,
Cuckolds make Themselves_ (1692), Act i, i: ‘the outward Room to the
Musick-Meeting,’ which gives a very lively picture of these fashionable
assemblies. An Italian and then an English song--(’.hich won’t oblige a
Man to tell you he has seen an _Opera_ at _Venice_ to understand’.--are
sung.

p. 210 _Song_. This song, with six additional verses (certainly not the
work of Mrs. Behn), is found in a broadside, which version is given in
Vol. IV. of the _Roxburghe Ballads_ (pp. 656-9), issued by the Ballad
Society. In a similar way the song ‘Ah Jenny gen your Eyes do kill’,
sung in the _City Heiress_ (_vide_ Vol. II, p. 253), was in another
broadside amplified to no less than eighty lines, and dubbed ‘The Loves
of Jockey and Jenny’. Ebsworth in his note on this song (_Roxburghe
Ballads_, VI, pp. 176-80) refers to Mrs. Behn and says: ‘it is less her
handiwork than that of her friend Tom D’Urfey, who considered himself
_facile princeps_ in the writing of Anglo-Scotch ditties’. Similar
treatment was accorded the ‘Song made by a Gentlemen’ in _Sir Patient
Fancy_, iii, i (Vol. IV, p. 44). For the ballad writer’s additions
to this _vide_ _Roxburghe Ballads_, VI (46-9). It is noticeable that
these four stanzas (’.oung Jemmy was a Lad’. under the title _Jemmey_
appear in _Female Poems on Several Occasions_. ‘Written by Ephelia. The
Second Edition, with large Additions’ (1682). They are not in the first
edition (1679) of these Poems. Jemmy is, of course, Monmouth, and in
the line ‘But oh he dances with a Grace’ we have an allusion to his
skill in dancing. Evelyn speaks of him as ‘an excellent dancer’.

p. 211 _Nickey Nackeys_. This song is sung in _The Roundheads_ (_vide_
Vol. I, p. 397). Nickey Nackey is the name which the old senator
Antonio (a satire on Shaftesbury) gives to the Greek courtezan
Aquilina, _Venice Preserv’d_, iii, i. There may be an allusion to some
mistress of that debauched Machiavel.

p. 212 _A Paraphrase on the Eleventh Ode_.

    Tu ne quaesieris scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi
    finem di dederint, Leuconöe, nec Babylonios
    tentaris numeros--Horatii, _Carminum, I_, xi.

p. 212 _A Translation_. This charming poem,

    Lydia, bella puella candida,
    Quae bene superas lac et lilium,
    Albamque simul rosam rubidam,
    Aut expolitum ebur Indicum....

twenty-five lines in length, was often but quite erroneously ascribed
to Cornelius Gallus. _vide_ Scaliger _Poëtices_, Lib. VI. It has very
frequently been rendered. The versions of Rochester, of Nott, and of
Elton are all particularly graceful.

p. 213 _A Paraphrase_. As this is not even claimed to be an exact
translation from the Heroides we must not too strictly judge any
divergence from the original.


LYCIDUS (1688).

p. 295 _The Earl of Melford, &c. Knight of the most Noble Order of
the Thistle_. John Drummond, first Earl and titular Duke of Melford
(1649-1714) was the second son of James, third Earl of Perth. He filled
various posts of importance in Scotland, for which country he was in
1684 appointed Secretary of State. Converted to Catholicism, with his
brother (Lady Anne Gordon, their mother, had been a staunch Catholic),
the two are said practically to have ruled Scotland for three years’
space. A firm follower of James II, he accompanied him to exile and
supported all his measures. During this period he was busy with many
intrigues, and was attainted in 1695. He died at Paris after a long
illness in the year 1714.

p. 296 _Thessalian Feilds_. A forced conceit. Lucius travelling through
Thessaly traverses ‘ardua montium et lubrica vallium et roscida
cespitum et glebosa camporum’.--Apuleius, _Metamorphoseon_ (I, ii).
Again, he is ‘anxius alioquin ... reputansque me media Thessaliae loca
tenere, quo artis magicae nativa cantamina totius orbis consono ore
celebrentur.’--(II, i.)

p. 297 _Sappho_. Ephelia, the authoress of _Female Poems on Several
Occasions_. ‘Written by Ephelia.’ 1679. In 1682 appeared ‘The Second
Edition, with large Additions’. This contains a poem ‘To Madam _Bhen_’.

p. 297 _of Thirsis and of Strephon_. _vide_ note _supra_ (on p. 166).

p. 298 _Kendrick_. Daniel Kenrick or Kendrick, physician and poet,
was born about 1652. 31 March, 1666, he entered Christ Church, Oxon,
as a servitor, and proceeded M.A. 1674. He was much esteemed in his
native town of Worcester (where he practised as a doctor) as ‘a man
of wit and a jolly companion.’ Several poems of his appear in _The
Grove, or a Collection of Original Poems_ (1721), before which date,
however, he was dead. The preface to this book highly praises him, and
he appears to have been on terms of intimacy with the great Purcell
as well as with Mrs. Behn. Dr. Kenrick is stated ‘to have taken his
degrees both in divinity and physic, and being a person of vivacity and
wit, entertain’d his leisure hours in poetical compositions.’ He may be
identical with Daniel Kenrick, D.D., who preached the assize sermon at
Worcester, in 1688.

p. 313 _any Sir Fopling, or Sir Courtly Nice._ cf. Vol. III, p. 278,
Epilogue to _The Lucky Chance_, ‘Nice and Flutter’, and note (p. 492)
on that passage.

p. 313 _Galliard_. Lively, cf. Shadwell’s _The Humorists_ (1671), Act
iii, where Briske says to Theodosia: ‘Come Madam, let’s be frolick,
Galliard, and extraordinary Brisk, fa, la, la, la!’

p. 342 _quillets_. A variation of ‘quip’, a play upon words; or an
evasive retort, cf. _Love’s Labour Lost_, iv, 111:--

    O! some authority how to proceed;
    Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil.

p. 343 _On the Honourable Sir Francis Fane._ Sir Francis Fane (died
1690?) was the eldest son of Sir Francis Fane, K.B., F.R.S., of
Fulbeck, Lincolnshire, and Aston, Yorkshire. He was created a K.B. at
the coronation of Charles II. During the latter part of his life he
retired to his country estate at Henbury, Glos., where he died. His
will is dated 14 November, 1689, and was proved 15 September, 1691.
He is the author of a comedy, a masque, and a tragedy. _Love in the
Dark; or The Man of Business_ (4to, 1675), was produced at the Theatre
Royal with Lacy, Jo Haines, Mohun, Kynaston and Mrs. Boutel in the
cast. The scene is laid at Venice in Carnival time, and Intrigo, a
good character, was not forgotten by Mrs. Centlivre when she composed
_The Busy Body_. The Masque was written at Rochester’s request for
his alteration of _Valentinian_. It may be found in Tate’s _Poems by
Several Hands_ (8vo, 1685). _The Sacrifice_ (4to, 1689), was never
acted, and would hardly have succeeded on the stage. The scene lies in
’. Revolted Fort in China’. It concludes with numerous deaths including
that of Tamerlane the Great. _Irene_ is his daughter belov’d by
_Axalla_ ‘General to Tamerlane’. _Despina_ is the wife of the Emperor
Bajazet. _Ragalzan_ is pithily designated a Villain, and he well merits
the description. There is a copy of prefatory verses ‘To The Author’
by Nahum Tate, but neither prologue nor epilogue. Fane’s plays are
not without merit, but yet do not occupy a noteworthy rank in our
theatrical library.

p. 348 _To Alexis in Answer_. This poem was written in answer to a copy
of verses (which in _Lycidus_, 1688, immediately precede it), entitled
’.A Poem against fruition--written on the reading in_ Mountains Essay:
_By_ Alexis’.

p. 350 _A Pastoral Pindarick._ On the Marriage of the Right Hon.
the Earle of Dorset and Middlesex to the Lady Mary Compton. Charles
Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, sixth Earl of Dorset and Earl of Middlesex
(1638-1706), wit, courtier, poet, debauchee, married his second wife
Mary, daughter of James Compton, third Earl of Northampton, in 1685.
Lady Mary Compton, who became lady of the bedchamber to Queen Mary II,
was celebrated for her beauty and understanding. She died 6 August
1691. Walpole says of Sackville that he was the finest gentleman of the
voluptuous court of Charles II. It has been well observed that after
1668 we hear little of his debaucheries, much of his munificence to and
patronage of men of letters.

p. 359 _Calenture._ A tropical fever and delirium, especially
incidental to sailors in torrid climes. Hence used very widely for any
glow, passion, ardour, cf. Donne, _Poems_: ‘Knowledge kindles Calenture
in some.’ Jeremy Taylor speaks of ‘Calentures of primitive devotion’.

p. 360 _To Amintas._ To Amintas, _upon reading the Lives of some of
the_ Romans. The _Muses Mercury_ reprints this poem, April, 1707, as
’.o Mr. H----le, being belov’d by both Sexes. Upon Reading the Lives
of the Romans. By Mrs. _A. Behn_.’ In the British Museum copy of this
number an old hand has supplied the omitted letters ‘oy’ and we have
Mr. Hoyle.

p. 361 _On the first discovery._ This poem appeared in the _Muses
Mercury_, March, 1707, with the following note: ‘If it were proper to
make publick what we have learnt of the Story of the Author of the
following Verses, ‘twould be an unquestionable Proof of their being
_genuine_. For they are all Writ with her own Hand in a Person’s Book
who was very much her Friend; and from thence are now transcrib’d for
the _Mercury_. There are Fifteen or Sixteen Copies of Verse more, which
will in due time be printed in this Collection. There’s no Man who
knows any thing of Mrs. _Behn’s_ way of Writing, but will presently
see, that this Poem was written by her Self; and the rest are of the
same Character.’ The _Muses Mercury_, as a fact, gave eleven other
poems beside the present verses. Eight of these had already been
printed: _On the first discovery of falseness in Amintas_ (p. 361)
appears March, 1707, as _The Disoblig’d Love_. _To Amintas_ (p. 360)
appears April, 1707, as _To Mr. H----le, being belov’d by both Sexes.
Upon reading the Lives of the Romans_. _The Dream_ (p. 183) appears
May, 1707, as _Cupid in Chains_. _Of The Return_ (p. 173) the first two
stanzas appear August, 1707, as ‘To J. Hoyle, Esq.’ _Song_ (_When Jemmy
first_) (p. 165) appears September, 1707, as _On Capt. ---- going to the
War in Flanders_. _To the Honourable Edward Howard_ (p. 204) appears
October, 1707, as _To the Author of a new Eutopia, A Pindarick_. _The
Willing Mistriss_ (p. 163) appears December, 1707, as _A Song for J.
H._ _Mr. E. B. and Mrs. F. M._ (p. 159) appears January, 1708, as _The
Loves of Mirtillo and Phillis_. From their notice and the reprinting of
so many pieces it would seem that the editors of the _Muses Mercury_
were not very well acquainted with Mrs. Behn’s published Poems.

p. 364 _Westminster Drollery._ This song has been here included
from _Westminster Drollery_ (1671), on the authority of Ebsworth.
It cannot, however, originally be Mrs. Behn’s since it appears in
a fuller form as _To his Whore who askt money of him_ (_Wit and
Drollery_, 1656). There are other variants. It will be remembered that
in _The Rover, II_, v, 1 (Vol. I, p. 195), Willmore jestingly sings the
fifth verse to La Nuche.


MISCELLANY, 1685.

p. 365. _Sir William Clifton_. Sir William Clifton, Bart., of Clifton,
Notts, the only surviving son of Sir Clifford Clifton, Knight, and
Frances his wife, daughter of Sir Heneage Finch, Knight, Recorder
of London, succeeded to the baronetcy on the death of his uncle Sir
Gervase Clifton, 14 January, 1675. Sir William Clifton died unmarried,
leaving two sisters, coheirs.

p. 368 _On the Death of the late Earl of Rochester._ John Wilmot,
second Earl of Rochester, libertine, poet, wit, died from a
complication of ailments due to his profligacies on 26 July, 1680,
at the High Lodge, Woodstock Park, whither he had journeyed in
the preceding April. During the last three months of his life he
shewed signs of a sincere penitence. He was much comforted by the
ministrations of his chaplain, Robert Parsons, and on 25 June he wrote
to Gilbert Burnet to come and receive his death-bed repentance. Burnet
arrived 20 July, and stayed four days, spending the time in consolatory
exhortations and prayer. Parsons’ funeral sermon giving an account
of Rochester’s death and penitence is well known, but Burnet’s book,
_Some Passages of the Life and Death of John, Earl of Rochester_ (1680,
8vo), has been even more constantly re-issued. The Earl was buried
in the north aisle of Spelsbury church, Oxfordshire, but without any
inscription or monument to mark the grave.

p. 369 _Cyprus._ A fine transparent stuff now called crape, cf.
_Winter’s Tale_, iv, iv (first folio):--

    Cypresse black as ere was Crow.

Palsgrave, _Lesclarcissement de la Langue Françoyse_, has: ‘Cypres for
a woman’s necke--_crespe_’. and Cotgrave, _Fr. Dict._, ‘Crespe: m.
Cipres; also Cobweb Lawne’. The etymology of the word has given rise to
much discussion. Skinner, _Etymol. Angl._, regards it as a corruption
of the French _crepes_, but suggests that it may be derived from the
island of Cyprus where it was first manufactured. This is almost
certainly the case, cf. arras; cashmere; dimity; dornick; muslin, and
many more. Wheatley in his notes on _Every Man in His Humour_ suggests
that Cyprus is derived from ‘the plant _Cyperus textilis_, which is
still used for the making of ropes and matting.’ One of the English
names of this plant was ‘cypress’. Gerarde in his _Herbal_ (1597) says:
’.yperus longus is called ... in English, Cypresse and Galingale.’ Mr.
Wheatley’s suggestion is ingenious but impossible. There is, moreover,
ample evidence in favour of the derivation from the isle Cyprus.

p. 372 _A Paraphrase on the Lord’s Prayer._ One may compare with this
Paraphrase of the Pater by Mrs. Behn that by Poliziano--#Proseuchê
pros ton Theon#--written in 1472 when the poet was eighteen years old.
Waller has sixteen lines _OF the Paraphrase on the Lord’s Prayer,
written by Mrs. Wharton_. cf. also _Some Reflections of his upon the
Several Petitions in the Same Prayer_.

p. 378 _To Mr. P. who sings finely_. Perhaps Henry Purcell, whose voice
was a counter-tenor, or possibly a relative of the great musician, a
bass, who sang in the choir of the Abbey at the coronation of James II.

p. 379 _On the Author of that Excellent Book._ _The Way to Health,
Long Life and Happiness_ was published (4to, 1682), as _Health’s
Grand Preservative; or, the Women’s Best Doctor_ ... shewing the
Ill-Consequences of drinking Distilled Spirits and smoking Tobacco ...
with a Rational Discourse on the excellency of Herbs (2nd edition,
1691, 8vo, under the first-named title; 3rd edition 1697). It is the
work of Thomas Tryon (1634-1703), ‘Pythagorean’, mystic, economist.
This remarkable man, of whom a full account may be found in the _Dic.
Nat. Biog._, was long a fervent follower of Jacob Behmen, and forms
an interesting link between this enthusiast and the early quakers. In
_The Way to Health_ he advocates a vegetable diet, complete abstinence
from alcohol, tobacco, and indeed all luxuries. This, however, is
done without fanaticism, and he has many pages of sound common sense.
The manual is in the highest degree interesting, and in spite of much
quaint detail his hygiene was excellent. Tryon died at Hackney, 21
August, 1703. This same poem appears prefixed to _The Way to make
All People Rich: or Wisdom’s Call to Temperance and Frugality_, by
Philotheos Physiologus. [T. Tryon]. 12mo, 1685.

p. 382 _Epilogue to the Jealous Lovers_. _The Jealous Lovers_, which is
by many considered Randolph’s best play, was originally acted before
the King and Queen at Cambridge by the students of Trinity. It was
printed quarto, 1632, with nine copies of English, and seven of Latin,
verses. The revival of this comedy at the Duke’s house in 1682 met
with extraordinary success, and is mentioned by Langbaine. Nokes, who
spoke this epilogue, acted Asotus the prodigal, and _Leigh_, Ballio the
pimp. _Jo_ and _Jack_ are Joseph Williams and John Bowman who sustained
Tyndarus and Pamphilus.

_Rebell Ward_ is a sharp hit at Sir Patience Ward (1629-1696),
the ultra-protestant lord mayor of London, to which office he was
elected on Michaelmas day, 1680, entering on to his duties 29 October
following. He was a violent upholder of the city against the court, and
in 1683 was tried for perjury in connection with the action brought
by the Duke of York against Sir Thomas Pilkington for _scandalum
magnatum_. On being found guilty he escaped to Holland but returned at
the Revolution. He died 10 July, 1696, and is buried in the chancel
of St. Mary Abchurch. This fanatic incurred much odium early in his
Mayoralty by having an additional inscription engraved on the Monument
to the effect that the Great Fire had been caused by the Catholics. A
similar inscription was placed on the house in Pudding Lane where the
fire began. Tom Ward (1652-1791), in his _England’s Reformation_ (1710,
canto iv, p. 100), jeering at Titus Oates and his fictions has the
following lines:--

    That sniffling whig-mayor, _Patience Ward_,
    To this damn’d lie had such regard,
    That he his godly masons sent
    T’engrave it round the Monument.
    They did so; but let such things pass:
    His men were fools, and he an ass.

Roscommon, _The Ghost of the old House of Commons_ ... (1681), dockets
’.he _Bethels_ and the _Wards_’ together as

    Anti-Monarchic--Hereticks of State.

_Your Damage is at most but half-a-Crown._ half-a-Crown was the price
of admittance to the Pit. _vide_ note, vol. I, p. 450.

p. 383 _A Pastoral to Mr. Stafford._ John Stafford, the translator of
the Camilla episode (Dryden’s _Sylvae: or, the Second Part of Poetical
Miscellanies_, 1685, p. 481), is the same person who translated other
parts of Virgil and Horace in the same Miscellany, Vols. I and II.
In the 3rd edition of Vol. II he is called ‘the Honourable Mr. John
Stafford.’ Stafford is also the author of the Epilogue (sometimes
erroneously printed as Dryden’s) to Southerne’s _The Disappointment;
or, The Mother in Fashion_ (1684, and 4to, 1684).

p. 383 _cale._ This excessively rare adjective, which the _N.E.D._
fails to include, is an Irish word = hard.

p. 390 _Gildon’s Chorus Poetarum._ ‘Adequately to translate Sappho’
says J. A. Symonds in _The Greek Poets_ ‘was beyond the power of even
Catullus: that love-ode, which Longinus called “not one passion, but a
congress of passions,” and which a Greek physician copied into his book
of diagnoses as a compendium of all the symptoms of corroding emotion,
appears but languid in its Latin dress of “Ille mi par.” Far less has
any modern poet succeeded in the task: Rossetti, who deals so skilfully
with Dante and Villon, is comparatively tame when he approaches
Sappho.’ This rendering of _The Ode to Anactoria_ (as tradition names
it) #Phainetai moi kênos isos theoisin#, first appears under Mrs.
Behn’s name in Gildon’s _Chorus Poetarum_, 1694. In _State Poems_,
Vol. II (1703), it is printed with the title _On Madam_ Behn, a very
different matter. If the lines are Mrs. Behn’s she must have versified
them from a translation given her by Hoyle or some other friend. In
any case they are graceful and far better than the versions of Ambrose
Philips (1711), or Smollett (1748). But, indeed, it is impossible to
translate these lines which are so truly ‘mixed with fire’ as Plutarch
has it. For various attempts and a literal prose version see Wharton’s
_Sappho_.

p. 391 _Complaint of the poor Cavaliers._ The _Muses Mercury_, June
1707, prefixes the following to this poem: ‘All the World knows Mrs.
_Behn_ was no _Whig_, no _Republican_, nor _Fanatick_; her Zeal lay
quite on the other Side: And tho her Manners was no Honour to any,
yet her Wit made her acceptable to that which she espous’d. She was
a _Politician_, as well as a Poet: for we find in the short Account
of her Life, printed with those of other _Poets_, she was employ’d by
_Charles II._ in the Discovery of the Dutch Intrigues in the Dutch War;
which she was the better qualifi’d to do by her knowledge of their
Language, she having liv’d a long time in _Surinam_, a Colony where
there were many Dutch Merchants; and not long after she left it ‘twas
surrendered to that Republic by King _Charles_. ‘Tis well known, that
the Gentlemen she speaks of in the following Poem, had too much reason
to complain; and that the very Men, who had been so much instrumental
in keeping King _Charles_ the II. out of his Dominions, were most
caress’d after his _Restoration_.’

p. 393 _Mrs. Harsenet._ Carola, daughter of Sir Roger Harsnett, knight.
These verses are a variation of ‘_To my Lady_ Morland _at_ Tunbridge.’
_vide_ p. 175.

p. 395 _A letter to the Earl of Kildare._ John FitzGerald, 18th Earl
of Kildare, lived in St. James’ Square, and in 1648 married, as his
second wife, Elizabeth, eldest daughter of Charles Jones, 1st Earl of
Ranelagh (’. fortune of £10,000.’. She died in 1758 at the great age of
ninety-three. She was extremely beautiful, and either she or one of her
unmarried sisters was a mistress of the King.

The Lady Mary Howard, sister to the Earl of Carlisle, died in the last
week of October, 1694. She was notorious for her intrigues, and the
satires of the time accuse her of being little better than a procuress
both for King Charles II and the Earl of Dorset. cf. Rochester’s _The
Royal Angler_

    My Lady _Mary_ nothing can design
    But feed her lust with what she get’s for thine,

and the Earl of Dorset’s _Lamentation for Moll Howard’s absence_
(Harleian MSS.), which ends

    Oh Love! Oh Love! Ye Pow’rs above
        Intriguing _Moll_ restore,
    The best Interpreter of Love,
        That ever message bore.

Amongst her lovers were Harry Lumley, Hungerford, Howe. It is
noticeable that the lampoons inevitably refer to her in the grossest
terms.

    All the World can’t afford
    Such a Bitch as Mall Howard,

writes one versifier, and in _Rochester’s Ghost addressing itself to
the Secretary of the Muses_ she is found bracketed with seven other
ladies of the most dubious repute,

    And here, would time permit me, I could tell,
    Of Cleveland, Portsmouth, Crofts, and Arundel,
    Mol. Howard, Su[sse]x, Lady Grey, and Nell,
    Strangers to good, but bosom Friends to ill,
    As boundless in their lusts as in their will.

When Lady Mary Howard was received into the Church in 1685, the wits
(as was often the case on these conversions) seized the opportunity to
flood the town with their pasquils, e.g. _The Ladies March_.

p. 397 _an Urban Throng_ (_as Mr._ Bayes _calls it_). cf. _The
Rehearsal_, iii, v, the scene of Prince Volscius ‘going out of Town’.

      _Vols._ _Harry_, my Boots; for I’l go rage among
    My Blades encamp’d, and quit this _Urban_ throng.

p. 398 _Prologue to Romulus._ _vide_ Vol. I, pp. xlii-iii.

p. 399 _Green-Ribbon-Brother._ The green ribbon was the badge of
Shaftesbury’s party, as a red ribbon was of the Tories. North
(_Examen_) gives the following account of the green ribbon fraternity:
’.his was the club originally called the King’s Head Club. The
gentlemen of that worthy society held their evening sessions
continually at the King’s Head Tavern, over against the Inner Temple
Gate. But upon occasion of the signal of a green ribbon agreed to
be worn in their hats, in the days of street-engagements, like the
coats of arms of valiant knights of old, whereby all the warriors
of that society might be distinguished, and not mistake friends for
enemies; they were called also the Green Ribbon Club. Their seat was
in a sort of car-four at Chancery-lane-end; a centre of business and
company most proper for such anglers of fools. The house was double
balconied in the front, as may be yet seen, for the clubsters to issue
forth in _fresco_, with hats and no perruques; pipes in their mouths,
merry faces, and diluted throats, for the vocal encouragement of the
_canaglia_ below, at bonfires, on usual and unusual occasions.’ The
Green Ribbon is frequently alluded to. cf. Otway, _The Poet’s Complaint
of His Muse_ (4to, 1680), xv:--

      He gain’d authority and place:
    By many for preferments was thought fit,
    For talking treason without fear or wit:
      For opening failings in the state:                               }
    For loving noisy and unsound debate,                               }
    And wearing of a mystical green ribband in his hat.                }

p. 400 _Mrs. Behn’s Satyr on Dryden._ This acrid attack upon the great
laureate is ungenerous to a degree, and Mrs. Behn’s jibes are the
more surprising, inasmuch as she had always been Tory to the backbone
and a particular partisan of King James II. No doubt continued ill
health and a hard struggle are largely responsible for her bad temper.
There can be no question that Dryden’s conversion was absolutely
conscientious, and his line of action at the Revolution amply proves
his sincerity. Few, if any, critics would to-day venture to echo
Macaulay’s discredited pronouncements, doubly dangerous that they
are from the vigour and charm of their expression. Burnet’s partisan
libels and denunciation of Dryden can be dismissed as impertinent and
groundless. It is not to be supposed that on such an occasion the
whole horde of waspish Lilliputians, who hated the genius of glorious
John, would not pour forth a very torrent of venom and slime. Such
impotent pasquils as _The Renegado Poet_, and _To Mr._ Dryden _upon
his declaring himself a Roman Catholic_ abound. Dryden, so far as we
know, had always shown himself kindly to Mrs. Behn. He included her
paraphrase of Ovid’s _OEnone to Paris_ in the translation of Ovid’s
Epistles ‘by several Hands’ (1680), and took care to pay her a graceful
compliment in the preface. Further, he allowed a prologue of his own to
be used at the production of her posthumous play, _The Widow Ranter_,
in 1690. His letter of advice to Corinna (Mrs. Thomas), which, with
an acknowledgement of the freedom of some of his own scenes, bids her
refrain from following the carelessness of the illustrious Astrea, was
written with reference to the mitigated taste of the last years of the
seventeenth century when Collier had already penned his diatribe of
decorum, rather than as a rebuke of, or a reflection upon Mrs. Behn.

I owe the present copy of this satire, which has never before been
printed, to the kindness of G. Thorn Drury, Esq., K.C., who generously
transcribed the lines, thirty-one in number, from a MS. in his
possession, which he copied from Haslewood, who writes ‘From an old MS.
in my Port Folio’.[7] _The Historical MSS. Commission Third Report_
(1872) _Appendix_ gives amongst the MSS. in the custody of the Bishop
of Southwark, _On Mr. Dryden renegate_, by Mrs. Behn, 1 leaf, 33 lines.
Fr. Cunningham, the Southwark archivist, whom I take this opportunity
of most heartily thanking for the trouble he was put to in the matter,
finds that this leaf was one of a number of MSS. restored by Bishop
Danell in October, 1875, to the two sources whence they had been
borrowed by the Rev. Mark Tierney. These were the Archivium of the late
Cardinal Manning, and the Stonyhurst collection. Fr. Cyril Martindale,
S.J., informs me that the poem is not to be found at Stonyhurst
College. Nor can it be traced at Westminster. The unfortunate
conclusion is that it has been irretrievably lost. A couplet would
appear to have dropped out in the present copy.

[7] In line twenty-four the MS. has ‘constant to worship’, but as Mr.
Thorn Drury pertinently points out, ‘content’ is clearly the right word.

p. 401 _Valentinian._ For Rochester’s _Valentinian_ see Vol. III, _The
Lucky Chance_, Preface (p. 186), and note on that passage (p. 484).
This alteration was printed quarto, 1685, with a vigorous defence of
Rochester, ‘a Preface concerning the Author and his Writings. _By one
of his Friends._’ (i.e. Robert Wolseley, son of Sir Charles Wolseley.)
It is curious to note that two publishers divided the risk of
publication, and on the title pages of different 4tos we have different
names. Mrs. Sarah Cook, who spoke this Prologue the first day, was an
actress of no little eminence and beauty. Her origin was humble (her
mother is said to have kept a tiny shop), and she early joined the
Nursery. In 1677 we find her cast for Gillian, when Leanard’s wholesale
plagiarism of Brewer’s _Country Girl_ entitled _Country Innocence; or,
The Chambermaid turn’d Quaker_, was produced during Lent by the younger
part of the Theatre Royal Company, with help from such experienced
performers as Haynes, Lydal, Goodman, Mrs. Marshall and Mrs. Knipp. The
following year Mrs. Cook acted Flora in _The Rambling Justice_, another
Nursery play, also put on in Lent. Langbaine ascribes this comedy to
Leanard, and much of it is stolen in his style. Amongst Mrs. Cook’s
many rôles after she had joined the King’s Company as a regular actress
were:--1681, Livia, in D’Urfey’s _Sir Barnaby Whig_; 1682, Semanthe, in
Southerne’s _The Loyal Brother_; The Countess of Rutland in Banks’ _The
Unhappy Favourite_. After the Union of the Companies (first performance
16 November, 1682), Mrs. Cook, who had already taken a high place,
acted parts of great importance. We find that she spoke the Epilogue
to Dryden and Lee’s _The Duke of Guise_ (December, 1682), and in 1683
she appears as Spaconia in a notable revival of _A King and No King_.
The same year she possibly acted the Countess in Ravenscroft’s _Dame
Dobson_. In 1684 she played Serena in Lee’s _Constantine the Great_;
Erminia in Southerne’s _The Disappointment_; Portia, in a revival of
_Julius Cæsar_; 1685, Aminta in D’Urfey’s _The Commonwealth of Women_;
Edith, in a revival of _Rollo, Duke of Normandy_; 1686, Lady Lovemore
in Jevon’s farce, _A Devil of A Wife_; Donna Elvira in D’Urfey’s _The
Banditti_; 1687, Letitia in Mrs. Behn’s _The Lucky Chance_; Quisara
in Tate’s poor alteration of _The Island Princess_; Elaria, in Mrs.
Behn’s farcical _The Emperor of the Moon_. Genest who records this as
her last rôle says that she quitted the stage at this time. It has been
stated that she died in the winter of 1687. At any rate her name no
longer appears, and her place was amply filled by the advent of Mrs.
Bracegirdle. Mrs. Cook was celebrated for speaking saucy and political
epilogues, e.g. that to _The Duke of Guise_, and, again, Dryden’s
brilliant epilogue to _Constantine the Great_. A MS. (Harleian) _Satire
on the Players_ (c. 1682-3) coarsely vilipends her thus:--

    Impudent _Sarah_ thinks she’s praised by all,
    Mistaken Drab, back to thy Mother’s stall,
    And let true Savin whom thou hast proved so well;                  }
    ‘Tis a rare thing that belly will not swell,                       }
    Though swived and swived and as debauched as hell.                 }

On the Second Day of _Valentinian_ a second prologue was spoken by Mrs.
Cook. They are clever verses, and with regard to the critics who gird
at Rochester, some ‘for his want of Wit’, and others because ‘he too
obscenely writ’, it is said:--

    Like _Falstaffe_ let ‘em conquer Heroes dead,
    And praise _Greek_ Poets they cou’d never read.

The third ‘Prologue intended for _Valentinian_, to be spoken by _Mrs.
Barrey_’ contains the famous lines with reference to the dead author:--

    Some Beauties here I see--
    Though now demure, have felt his pow’rful Charms,
    And languish’d in the circle of his Arms.

p. 402 _Jenny._ A well-known orange wench to whom there are allusions
in the satires of the day. ‘Jenny’ is sometimes also a generic name for
a mask.

p. 402 _Blanket Fair._ Evelyn, 6 January, 1684, notes ‘the river quite
frozen’, and on the 9th writes: ‘I went across the Thames on the ice,
now become so thick as to bear not only streets of booths, in which
they roasted meat, and had divers shops of wares, quite across as in a
town, but coaches, carts and horses passed over.’ On subsequent days
he notes the continuance of this frost, and on 24 January has a famous
description of the Thames fair with its ‘sleds, sliding with skates,
a bull-baiting, horse and coach-races, puppet-plays and interludes,
cooks, tippling, and other lewd places, so that it seemed to be a
bacchanalian triumph, or carnival on the water’. A printing press was
even set up and cards printed, one of which is given, dated 5 February,
in a note by Bray, _Evelyn’s Diary_, II (p. 192) (1850).

p. 403 _To Henry Higden._ Henry Higden, to whose translation of
Juvenal’s tenth satire Mrs. Behn prefixed these complimentary verses,
was a well-known wit of the day. A Yorkshireman, a member of the Middle
Temple, he moved in the best and gayest society. In 1686 he published
_A Modern Essay on the Thirteenth Satyr of Juvenal_ (Licensed 11
November, 1685), and in 1687 followed this up by _A Modern Essay on
the Tenth Satyr of Juvenal_. With Mrs. Behn’s Poem are also printed
verses by Dryden and Settle. Higden is the author of a good comedy,
_The Wary Widdow: or, Sir Noisy Parrat_ (4to, 1693). Sir Charles Sedley
wrote the prologue, there are six copies (one by Tom Brown in Latin),
of complimentary verses, and the play is dedicated to the Earl of
Dorset and Middlesex. A legend exists that the author ‘had introduced
so much punch-drinking into it that the actors got intoxicated before
the end of the third act, and the house separated in confusion’. This
seems to me dubious at the least, and if true the actors must have
begun in a singularly mellow condition. Sir Noisy, indeed (Act i),
declares ‘we must banish _Venus_ out of our Calender, Jolly _Bacchus_
shall rejoyce our hearts, and be our Dominical Letter,’ yet in Act ii,
sc. iii, he toasts Clarinda’s health but once and that in ‘Wine and
Colour’d water’. whilst Act iii, sc. vi, ‘_the_ Rose Tavern’ where Sir
Noisy gets drunk with Scaredevil and Fulham is somewhat quiet for a
toping of the period. In Act iv Nantz is quaffed on shipboard, but all
the rest of the play is temperate enough, and the tradition (repeated
ad nauseam), must indubitably be dismissed as pure fiction. Higden in
his Preface ascribes the doom of _The Wary Widdow_ to those ‘Sons of
_Zeruiah_’, the ‘murmuring _Israelites_’ and ‘Pagans of the Pits’ who
’.issing, mimicking, ridiculing, and Cat-calling’ utterly ‘vanquished
the stage’, and dumbfounded the unfortunate performers. No doubt a
braying clique damned the piece. It may be noted that in his Preface
Higden takes occasion to gird at the recent success of Congreve’s _The
Old Bachelor_.

p. 405 _On the Death of E. Waller, Esq._ Edmund Waller died at Hall
Barn, 21 October, 1687, and on 26 October was buried in Beaconsfield
churchyard. This elegy of Mrs. Behn’s was first printed in a collection
entitled _Poems to Memory of that Incomparable Poet Edmund Waller,
Esquire_. ‘By Several Hands.’ 1688. The volume (27 pages), contains
poems by Sir John Cotton, Bart.; Sir Tho. Higgons; T. Rymer; Monsieur
St. Evremon (six lines in French, with an English translation by T.
R.); George Granville; Bevill Higgons; A. Behn; an Anonymous Poem; and
’.o Mr. Riley, Drawing Mr. Waller’s Picture’, signed T. R. The letter
accompanying these lines sent by Mrs. Behn to Waller’s daughter-in-law,
will be found in the Memoir (Vol. I, pp. l-li).

p. 407 _A Pindaric Poem._ For the occasion of this Poem _vide_ Vol. I,
p. liii. From stanza 4 it would appear that Dr. Burnet had suggested
to Mrs. Behn that she should write a Pindaric or some similar poem
on William of Orange and his consort. To her credit she refused. The
verses _To Her Sacred Majesty Queen Mary_ are more than ample on such
themes.




INDEX OF FIRST LINES.


                                   A
                                                              VOL.  PAGE
  A Constancy in Love I’ll prise                                 vi  304

  A Curse upon that faithless Maid                              iii  396

  A Den where Tygers make the passage good                       vi  252

  A Lady lovely, with a charming Meen                            vi  261

  A Lovers Rage and Jealousie                                    vi  330

  A Neighbouring Villa which derives its name                    vi  237

  A Palace that is more uneasy far                               vi  269

  A Pox of the States-man that’s witty                  i  397;  vi  211

  A Pox upon this needless Scorn                        i  188;  vi  190

  A thousand Martyrs I have made                                 vi  305

  After our showing Play of mighty Pains                         ii  192

  After these Debates of Love                                    vi   73

  Ah! charming Object of my wishing Thought!                     vi   19

  Ah! Charmion! shroud those killing Eyes                        iv  386

  Ah! cruel Love! when will thy Torments cease?                  vi  307

  Ah! false Amyntas, can that Hour                                i  273

  Ah hapless sex! who bear no charms                             vi  348

  Ah! he who first found out the way                             vi   25

  Ah, Jenny, gen your Eyes do kill                               ii  253

  Ah, Sylvia! if I still pursue                                  vi  198

  Ah! what can mean that eager Joy                               vi  192

  Ah! wonder not if I appear                                     vi   46

  Alas! and must the Sun decline                                 vi   61

  Alexis, since you’ll have it so                                vi  349

  All Joy to Mortals, Joy and Mirth                             iii  457

  All Trembling in my Arms Aminta lay                            vi  241

  All you Beauties and Attractions                               vi  342

  Aminta, fear not to confess                                    vi   38

  Amyntas, that true hearted Swaine                   iii  321;  vi  164

  Amyntas, if your Wit in Dreams                                 vi  174

  Amyntas led me to a Grove                             i  255;  vi  163

  Amyntas, whilst you                                            vi  173

  And how, and how, Mesieurs! what do you say                    vi  382

  And sighing said, ah Gods! have you                            vi  258

  And tho’ I do not speak, alas                                  vi  251

  As Country Squire, who yet had never known                    iii    5

  As free as wanton Winds I liv’d                                vi   56

  As Rivals of each other jealous prove                          iv  319

  As when a Conqu’ror does in Triumph come                       vi  175

  As when a Monarch does in Triumph come                         vi  393

  As young Selinda led her Flock                                 vi  375

  At last, dear Lysidas, I’l set thee Free                       vi  224

                                   B

  Beauty like Wit, can only charm when new                       ii  106

  Beneath the kind protecting Laurel’s shade                     vi   63

  Beyond the Merit of the Age                                    vi  204

  Blest Age! when ev’ry Purling Stream                           vi  138

  By Heaven ‘tis false, I am not vain                            vi   43

                                   C

  Cease, cease, Aminta, to complain                              vi  370

  Cease, cease, that vain and useless scorn                      vi  326

  Cease to defend your Amorous Heart                             vi  319

  Cease your Wonder, cease your Guess                           iii  233

  Celinda, who did Love Disdain                       iii   55;  vi  209

  Ceres, Great Goddess of the bounteous Year                     vi  177

  Cold as my solid Chrystal is                                   vi   99

  Come, my fair Cloris, come away                                vi  156

  Come, my Phillis, let us improve                               vi  192

  Crudo Amore, Crudo Amore                                       ii  361

  Cupid, my darling Cupid, and my Joy                            vi  387

                                   D

  Damon, altho you waste in vain                                 vi  378

  Damon, I cannot blame your Will                      ii  111;  vi  165

  Damon, if you’d have me true                                   vi   36

  Damon, if your Heart and Flame                                 vi   27

  Damon, if your Love be true                                    vi   31

  Damon, my Watch is just and new                                vi   79

  Damon, the young, the am’rous, and the true                    vi   96

  Darling of Mars! Bellona’s Care!                               vi   78

  Dear Silvia, let’s no farther strive                           vi  212

  Dull Love no more thy Senceless Arrows prize                   vi  208

                                   E

  Enough kind Heaven! to purpose I have liv’d                    vi  171

                                   F

  Fain I would have leave to tell                                vi  102

  Fair Goddess of my just Desire                                 vi   81

  Fair Ladies, pity an Unhappy Maid                              vi  399

  Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be                          vi  363

  Fair Nymph, remember all your Scorn (_J. Wright_)              ii  183

  Faithful Lisander, I your Vows approve                         vi  259

  Farewel, my little charming Boy!                               vi  310

  Farewell the Great, the Brave and Good                         vi  144

  Farewel the World and mortal Cares                             ii  394

  Fly, Lysidus, this hated Place                                 vi  340

  Fond Love thy pretty Flatteries cease                          vi  267

  For far less Conquest we have known                            vi   87

                                   G

  Gallants, our Poets have of late so us’d ye                   iii  285

  Gallants, you have so long been absent hence          ii   6;  iv  309

  Give me the Man that’s hollow                                  vi  391

  Go, happy Lovers, perfect the desires                          vi  282

                                   H

  Had’st thou, Amintas, liv’d in that great age                  vi  360

  Hail, Beauteous Prophetess, in whom alone (_Kendrick_)         vi  296

  Hail, Learned Bard! who dost thy power dispence                vi  379

  Hang Love, for I will never pine                              iii  309

  Heav’n for Sovereignty has made your Form                      vi   98

  Heaven save ye, Gallants; and this hopeful Age
    (_Dryden_)                                                   iv  223

  Here at your Feet, we tribute pay                               i  280

  Her mourning languid Eyes are rarely shown                     vi  265

  He that would have the Passion be                              vi   73

  He that wou’d precious time improve                            vi  326

  Him whom you see so awful and severe                           vi  235

  Hiss ‘em, and cry ‘em down, ‘tis all in vain                    i  329

  Honour’s a mighty Phantom! which around                        vi  278

  How shall a Lover come to know                                 vi   51

  How strangely does my Passion grow                            iii  160

  How strongly does my Passion flow                              vi  189

  How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring                       vi  405

  How vain have prov’d the Labours of the Stage (_Otway_)        ii  201

  How we shall please ye now I cannot say                        vi  398

                                   I

  I am the Ghost of him who was a true Son                        i  341

  I Come not a Petitioner to sue                                iii  175

  If when the God of Day retires                                 vi  200

  I here and there o’erheard a Coxcomb cry                       iv  115

  In a Cottage by the Mountain                                   iv  189

  I know You, and I must confess                                 vi  403

  Injurious Pin, how durst thou steal so nigh?                   vi  392

  I Never mourn’d my Want of Wit, ‘till now (_Cotton_)           vi    6

  In Phillis all vile Jilts are met                              ii  260

  In the Blooming Time o’th’ year                                vi  193

  In vain, dear Youth, you say you love                          vi  196

  In vain I have labour’d the Victor to prove          iv  153;  vi  173

  In vain to Woods and Deserts I retire                          vi  389

  In vain we labour to reform the Stage                           i  115

  Iris, to keep my Soul entire and true                          vi   42

  Iris, to spare what you call Flattery                          vi   94

  Its Torrent has no other source                                vi  253

  It was too much, ye Gods, to see and hear                      vi  207

                                   K

  Keep, lovely Maid, the Softness in your Eyes                   vi  101

  Know all ye Whigs and Tories of the Pit                       iii   99

                                   L

  Ladies, the Prince was kind at last                            iv  212

  Let murmuring Lovers no longer repine                         iii  454

  Let Love no more your Heart inspire                            vi  314

  Long, and at vast Expence, th’ industrious Stage              iii  393

  Long has Wit’s injur’d Empire been opprest (_J. Cooper_)       vi  117

  Long have we turn’d the point of our just Rage
    (_A Person of Quality_)                                     iii  278

  Long have our Priests condemn’d a wicked Age                   vi  343

  Love in Fantastique Triumph sat                       ii   9;  vi  163

  Love is a God, whose charming Sway                             vi   34

  Love, of all Joys, the sweetest is                             vi   54

  Love ought alone the Mystick Knot to tie                       vi   82

  Love when he Shoots abroad his Darts                           vi  230

  Lovers, if you wou’d gain a Heart                              vi   24

  Lydia, Lovely Maid, more fair                                  vi  212

                                   M

  Make haste, Amintas, come away                                 ii   35

  Make hast! make hast! my miserable soul                        vi  361

  Melinda, who had never been                                    vi   29

  Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore                  vi  368

  Must we eternal Martyrdom pursue?                              vi  249

  My Amoret, since you must know                                 vi  153

  My Damon, if your Heart be kind                                vi   41

  My Damon, tho’ I stint your Love                               vi   33

  My Plot, I fear, will take but with a few                      ii  299

  My Present’s delicate and new                                  vi   15

                                   N

  No, Delia, no: What Man can range (_Gildon_)                   iv  343

  No! give me all, th’ impatient Lover cries                     vi  107

  No more, Lucinda, ah! expose no more (_Cheek_)                iii  224

  Not to sigh and be tender                                      vi  312

  Now, my fair Tyrant, I despise your Pow’r                      vi  254

                                   O

  O Iris! While you thus can charm                               vi   22

  O Jealousy! thou Passion most ingrate!                         vi   70

  O thou that dost excel in Wit and Youth!                       vi  106

  O Wondrous condescention of a God!                             vi  372

  Oft in my Jealous Transports I wou’d cry                       vi  271

  Oh, Damon, if thou ever wert                                   vi  345

  Oh! fond remembrance! do not bring                             vi  341

  Oh! how at ease my Heart would live                            vi   72

  Oh! how soft it is to see                                      vi  332

  Oh! how that Negligence becomes your Air!                      vi  104

  Oh! how the Hand the Lover ought to prize                      vi  103

  Oh Iris! boast that one peculiar Charm                         vi  101

  Oh Iris! let my sleeping Hours be fraught                      vi   66

  Oh! Love that stronger art than Wine                          iii  231

  Oh! what Pleasure ‘tis to find                                 vi  325

  Oh with what Pleasure did I pass away                          vi  262

  Oh, wonder of thy Sex! Where can we see                        vi  123

  Olives are never fading seen                                   vi   85

  Once more my Muse is blest; her humble Voice (_Jenkins_)       vi    9

  One day the Amorous Lysander                                   vi  178

                                   P

  Pan, grant that I may never prove                              vi  177

  Perhaps I am mistaken here                                     vi   16

  Philander, since you’ll have it so                             vi   58

  Philander was a jolly Swain                                    ii  247

  Phillis, whose Heart was Unconfin’d                   i  148;  vi  191

  Poets are Kings of Wit, and you appear                          i  212

  Poor Damon! Art thou caught? Is’t ev’n so?                     vi  185

  Poor Lost Serena, to Bemoan                                    vi  186

  Poor Lycidus, for shame arise                                  vi  306

                                   R

  Rejoyce! my new made happy Soul, Rejoyce!                      vi  260

  Remember, Damon, while your Mind                               vi   16

  Rise, Cloris, charming Maid, arise!                           iii  191

  Rivals ‘tis call’d, a Village where                            vi  268

                                   S

  Say, my fair Charmer, must I fall                              vi  255

  Scorning religion all thy life time past                       vi  400

  She blows the Youthful Lovers flame                            vi  245

  She that wou’d rack a Lover’s Heart                            vi   70

  Since with old Plays you have so long been cloy’d             iii  188

  Sincerity! thou greatest Good!                                 vi   49

  Sir Timothy, Gallants, at last is come (_Ravenscroft_)         vi   49

  Sitting by yonder River side (_made by a Gentleman_)           iv   44

  Slight unpremeditated Words are borne                          vi   22

  So hard the times are, and so thin the Town                    ii  411

  Such Charms of Youth, such Ravishment                          vi  231

                                   T

  Take back that Heart, you with such Caution give               vi  202

  Take heed, my Damon, in the Grove                              vi   47

  Tell me; oh, tell me! Charming Prophetess                      vi  109

  Tell me! What can he design                                    vi   18

  That Beauty I ador’d before                                    vi  364

  That Coxcomb can ne’re be at ease                              vi  311

  That Love may all Perfection be                                vi   92

  That Love’s my Conduct where I go                              vi   14

  That Love, the great Instructor of the Mind                    vi   14

  That tho’ the Favours of the Fair                              vi   17

  That when a Lover ceases to be blest                           vi   20

  The banisht Cavaliers! a Roving Blade!                          i  105

  The Devil take this cursed plotting Age                        ii  307

  The God of Love beholding every day                            vi  315

  The Grove was gloomy all around                                vi  183

  The happy Minute’s come, the Nymph is laid                    iii   52

  The Houses there, retir’d in Gardens are                       vi  250

  The nobler Lover, who would prove                              vi   77

  The peaceful Place where gladly I resort                       vi  397

  The Smiles, the Graces, and the Sports                         vi   84

  The Vizor’s off, and now I dare appear                          i  424

  Then do not let your murm’ring Heart                           vi   72

  There they shall all together reign                            vi   70

  This is the Coast of Africa                                    vi  228

  This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument                           vi  381

  This River’s call’d Pretension; and its source                 vi  244

  Thither all the Amorous Youth repair                           vi  239

  Tho’ Damon every Virtue have                                   vi   18

  Thô my Heart were full of Passion                              vi  336

  Tho’, Silvia, you are very fair                                vi   71

  Those Eyes that can no better Conquest make                    vi   86

  Thou great Young Man! Permit amongst the Crowd                 vi  166

  Thou Grief of my Heart, and thou Pearl of my Eyes              iv   59

  Thou one continu’d Sigh! all over Pain                         vi  111

  Thou Wonder of thy Sex! Thou greatest Good! (_G. J._)          vi    9

  Though the Young prize Cupid’s Fire                            iv  352

  Thus both resolve to break their Chain                         vi   71

  Time and Place you see conspire                                iv  353

  Tis all eternal Spring around                                  vi  283

  ‘Tis not enough to reade and to admire (_J. C._)               vi  119

  Tis not your saying that you love                              vi  397

  ‘Tis that which leads those captivated Hearts                  vi   99

  ‘Tis wonderous Populous from the excess                        vi  244

  To celebrate your Praise, no Muse can crown
    (_Rich. Faerrar_)                                            vi    8

  To speak of thee no Muse will I invoke                         vi  121

  To thee, dear Paris, Lord of my Desires                        vi  214

  ‘Twas there, I saw my Rival take                               vi  308

  ‘Twas vain for Man the Laurels to persue (_J. Adams_)          vi  120

  ‘Twas when the Fields were gay                                 vi  188

                                   W

  We all can well admire, few well can praise (_J. W._)          vi  131

  We charg’d you boldly in our first advance                    iii  381

  Weep, weep, Lysander, for the lovely Maid                      vi  280

  Well! you expect a Prologue to the Play                        iv  121

  We pity such as are by Tempest lost                            vi  395

  We’re grown Impatient to be out of pain                        iv  398

  We write not now, as th’ antient Poets writ                    iv    8

  What Art thou, oh! thou new-found pain?                        vi  356

  What differing Passions from what once I felt                  vi  238

  What doleful crys are these that fright my sence               vi  151

  What is the recompence of War                                  iv  202

  What Life can compare with the jolly Town-Rake’s
    (_Motteux_)                                                  iv  331

  What mean those Amorous Curles of Jet?                         vi  195

  What means this Knot, in Mystick Order Ty’d                    vi  182

  When Damon first began to love                                  i   33

  When Jemmy first began to Love                                 vi  165

  When Love shall two fair objects mix                           vi  339

  When Maidens are young and in their Spring                    iii  429

  When old Rome’s Candidates aspir’d to Fame                     vi  407

  When th’.lmighty Powers th’.niverse had fram’d
    (_H. Watson_)                                                vi  136

  When the sad news was spread (_F. N. W._)                      vi  132

  When to the charming _Bellinda_ I came                         vi  322

  When two Hearts entirely love                                  vi   90

  When you Love, or speak of it                                  vi  321

  Where should a Lover hide his Joys                             vi   89

  While, Iris, I at distance gaze                                vi  371

  While this poor Homage of our Verse we give (_N. Tate_)        vi    7

  Whilst happy I Triumphant stood                                vi  148

  Whither, young Damon, whither in such hast                     vi  350

  Who, but a Lover, can express                                  vi   20

  Why, Amarillis, dost thou walk alone                           vi  383

  Why, fair Maid, are you uneasy                                 vi  324

  Why shou’d that faithless wanton give                          vi  309

  With late Success being blest, I’m come again                  ii   98

  With our old Plays, as with dull Wife it fares                iii  462

  With Rigor Arm your self (I cry’d)                             vi  272

  With that assurance we to day address                          vi  401

  With you, unhappy Eyes, that first let in                      vi  225

  Wits, like Physicians, never can agree                           i   7

                                   Y

  Ye bold Magicians in Philosophy (_Anon._)                      vi  124

  Yes, the fair Object, whom you praise                          vi   60

  You ask me, Phillis, why I still pursue                        vi  394

  Young Jemmy was a Lad                                          vi  210




GENERAL INDEX.


                  A

  Abington, Mrs. Frances
    iv 420

  Adams, J.
    vi 121, 421

  Adamson, John
    v 212

  Albemarle, Christopher Monck, 2nd Duke of
    i xlix

  _Alchemist_,
    i 224

  Alsatia,
    iii 485

  Angel (actor),
    i 220;
    iv 121, 413

  _Antony and Cleopatra_,
    iv 415

  Apple John,
    iii 487

  Apuleius, Lucius
    vi 296

  Araujo, J. de
    v 211

  Arconville, Marie-Geneviève-Charlotte Tiroux d’
    v 212

  Aretino, Pietro
    i 449;
    iii 497

  Ariell, Mrs.
    ii 98, 431

  Arteida, A. Ray de
    v 260

  Arwaker, Edmund
    i xlviii

  Association,
    ii 437

  Aue, Harmann von
    v 417

  Ay and No (man),
    iv 411

                  B

  Bacon, Nathaniel
    iv 218

  Baggs, Zachary
    i xlviii

  Baker (actor),
    iv 219

  Balconies (stage),
    i 441

  Bandello, Matteo
    i 219;
    v 69, 417, 418

  Banister, James
    v 521

  Banister, John
    vi 164

  Banks, John
    ii 198;
    v 515

  Banter,
    iii 481

  Barckley, Sir Richard
    ii 103

  Barlow, Francis
    i xlix

  Barnes (actor),
    iv 219

  Basset,
    iv 419

  Bayes,
    iv 7, 411, 413;
    vi 397

  Beale, Mary
    i lxiii

  Beasts,
    ii 427

  Beeston, William
    i 334;
    iv 419

  Begines,
    v 75, 520

  Bell (inn),
    iv 412

  Bellon, Peter
    v 211

  Bergerac, Cyrano de
    iii 97, 496

  Bergere,
    ii 441;
    iii 478;
    iv 411;
    vi 79

  Berkeley, Lady Henrietta
    i xliv

  Bertoletti,
    v 212

  Bess (Queen Bess’ night)
    i 443

  Bethel, Slingsby
    vi 129, 241

  Biancolelli, Dominique
    i 445;
    iii 386

  Bickerstaffe, Isaac
    iv 5

  Blanket Fair,
    vi 402

  Bob,
    i 458;
    iv 416

  Boccaccio, Giovanni
    i 5;
    v 260

  Boileau, Nicholas
    vi 3

  Bonnecorse, Balthazar de
    iv 411;\
    vi 3

  Boutell, Mrs.
    i 450;
    v 516

  Bowman, John
    i lvii;
    iii 419;
    vi 383

  Bracegirdle, Anne
    iv 225;
    v 515

  Brillac, Mlle S. B. de
    v 211

  Brinvilliers, Marie-Marguerite, Marquisede
    iv 411

  Briscoe, Sam
    i liii;
    v 401

  Brome, Richard
    i xxxvi, xxxviii, 442;
    iv 4

  Brown, Tom
    i xxxiii, lv, liv;
    v 518

  Brumigham,
    iii 479

  Brydges Street,
    v 515

  Bulker,
    iii 492

  Burnet, Bishop Gilbert
    i liii;
    vi 407, 431, 438

  Burt, Nicholas
    iv 413

  Burton, Robert
    ii 103

  Bushel, Brown
    i 457

  Butler, Charlotte
    i xlii;
    ii 435;
    vi 398

  Butler, Edward
    i xxv-vi

  Byam, William
    v 521

  Byshop,
    v 417

                  C

  Calderon, de la Barca
    ii 102-3

  Calprenède, Gautier de Costes, Seigneur de la
    i xix, 449;
    ii 102

  Camöens, Luis de
    v 212

  Camphor,
    iv 415

  Canons (cannons),
    iii 496

  Canonesses,
    v 519

  Capel, Arthur Lord
    i 457

  Cassius,
    iv 218-9

  Castlemaine, Barbara Villiers, Lady
    iv 314

  Cataline,
    iv 121, 413

  Cedrenus,
    v 417

  Cenci, Francesco
    i 219

  Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles,
    v 200

  Cervantes, Miguel de
    iv 120

  Chamberlain, Dr. Hugh
    iv 218

  Chateaubriand, François Auguste de
    v 127

  Cheek, Thomas
    iii 489

  Cibber, Colley ii 5;
    iv 5, 6, 220;
    v 523

  Cibber, Mrs. Susannah Maria
    v 128, 212, 261

  _City Politics_,
    iii 483

  _Clélie_,
    iv 421

  _Cléopatre_,
    ii 102

  Clifden,
    vi 76, 419

  Clifton, Sir William
    vi 365, 431

  Coach (glass),
    iii 476

  Codrington, Colonel Christopher
    iv 316, 419

  Colbert, Jean Baptiste
    v 223

  College, Stephen
    i 335

  Col- (cowl-) staff,
    i 458

  Colombine,
    iii 496

  Compton, Lady Mary
    vi 350, 430

  Congreve, William
    iv 5

  Convenient (a),
    ii 433

  Conventicle,
    i 454;
    iii 478

  Cooke, Mrs. Sarah
    iii 462, 484;
    vi 401, 436

  Cooper, J.,
    vi 119, 420

  Corbet (Cobbet), Ralph
    i 452

  Cordeliers,
    v 521

  Corey, Mrs.
    iv 413;
    v 519

  Cotton, Charles
    vi 7, 417

  Coventry-blue,
    iv 422

  Coveras, Francesço de las
    i 218

  Cowley, Mrs. Hannah
    iii 181

  Crape-gownorum,
    ii 437

  Creech, Thomas
    i xlv, lii;
    iv 419;
    vi 123, 166, 421

  Cromwell, Richard
    i 333, 454

  Cromwell, Mrs.
    i 334, 452, 454

  Cromwell, Oliver
    i 453, 457

  Cromwell (his funeral),
    i 453;
    iv 416

  Crosby (actor),
    i 439

  Cross, Mrs.
    v 128

  Crowne, John
    i 335;
    iii 483, 492;
    iv 5, 120;
    v 515

  Cudworth (actor),
    iv 219

  Currer, Mrs. Betty
    i xl, 336;
    ii 203, 307, 438;
    iv 220

  Cushion Dance, _vide_ _Sanderson, Joan_

  Cymbeline,
    v 523

                  D

  Daniel (Cromwell’s porter),
    i 456

  Dalton, Michael
    iv 417, 421

  D’Avenant, Charles
    iii 483

  Davenport, Robert
    iv 119

  Desborough, John
    i 451

  Desborough, Lady
    i 452

  Desfontaines,
    v 417

  De-Wit (to),
    iv 417

  Dishabit,
    iii 493

  Docity,
    ii 340;
    iii 210, 481, 487

  Doctor Baliardo,
    iii 495

  _Doctor Faustus_ (Mountford),
    iv 421

  Doors (stage),
    i 441

  Dorset, Earl of
    vi 350

  Dove (Tom, a bear),
    iii 476

  Dryden, John
    i xxx, xli, xlv, lii, 219, 335, 443, 444, 449;
    ii 198, 433, 435;
    iii 491, 496;
    iv 8, 220, 223, 412, 413, 414, 421;
    v 515, 523;
    vi 400, 435

  Duckingneld, Robert
    i 452

  Duffett, Thomas
    i 444;
    ii 438;
    v 515

  _Duke of Guise, The_
    i xliv

  Dumfound (to),
    iii 482

  D’Urfey, Tom
    i 335, 456;
    iii 481, 495;
    iv 6, 314, 315, 415;
    v 515

                  E

  Eachward, John
    i 222, 448

  Edwardes, Richard
    ii 103

  Elephant and Castle,
    iv 422

  Entry,
    iii 478, 489

  Ephelia,
    vi 297

  Etheredge, Sir George
    i 441

  Evans, Thomas,
    v 259

  Exercise,
    i 455, iv 412

                  F

  Fairfax, General
    i 333

  Fane, Sir Francis
    vi 343, 429

  Farmer, Thomas
   vi 191, 426

  Farren, Elizabeth
    i lx;
    iii 181-2

  Ferriar, J.
    v 128

  Field, Nathaniel
    iv 120

  Fielding, Henry
    i lix

  Fifth Monarchy,
    i 453

  Fitz-Roy, Henry
    i 357, 450

  Fiurelli,
    i 445

  Flabber,
    iii 487

  Flambeaux (as sing.),
    iii 475;
    iv 418

  Fleetwood, Charles
    i 333, 451, 453

  Fleetwood (Lady),
    i 452

  Fletcher, John
    i 4, 218;
    ii 197;
    iv 120, 418;
    v 118, 261, 515

  Fontange,
    iv 422

  Fop-corner,
    ii 437

  Ford, John,
    i 219

  Forde, Lord Grey
    i lxiv

  Fortune my Foe,
    i 458

  Forty-One,
    i 451;
    ii 433

  Friday Street,
    iv 421

  Frost, Walter,
    i 455

                  G

  _Gabalis, Comte de_
    iii 497

  Gad-bee,
    iii 481, 488

  Garrick, David
    v 128, 212, 261

  Garth, Dr. Samuel
    i 438;
    iv 419

  Gentleman, Francis
    v 128

  George (inn),
    iii 490

  Gherardi, Evaniste
    iii 386

  Gibbons, Grinling
    vi 75, 419

  Gildon, Charles
    i xxi, lviii;
    iv 314;
    v 259, 521;
    vi 387, 390

  Gloucester, Henry, Duke of
    i 455

  Godfrey, Sir Edmond Bury
    i 443;
    iv 417

  Godfrey (to),
    iv 417

  Godwin, Bishop Francis
    iii 497

  Gordon, Sir Robert
    vi 76, 419

  Goulart, Simon
    ii 103

  Gould, Robert
    i xli, 219;
    iii 476

  Gozzi, Carlo
    iii 316

  Granville, George, Lord Lansdowne
    v 351, 522

  Grapulo, T.
    v 417

  Greene, Robert
    iv 119, 422

  Greenhill, John
    vi 151, 422

  Griffith, Mrs. Elizabeth
    v 137, 212

  Grimeston,
    ii 103

  Grison,
    iii 482

  Groom Porter,
    iv 416

  Gun (inn),
    v 524

  Guzman,
    i 209, 447;
    iii 498

  Gwiniver,
    iv 422

  Gwynne, Nell
    i xl, 439, 456;
    ii 305, 438;
    iv 413, 414;
    v 520

                  H

  Halsall, James
    i xxiii, xxvi

  Hannibal,
    iv 219, 418

  Hans in Kelder,
   iii 487

  Harlequin,
    i 112, 145, 187-9, 144;
    iii 387-8, 496, 497, 498;
    iv 421

  Haroun al Raschid,
    ii 103

  Harris, Henry,
    iv 413

  Harsenet, Mrs. _vide_ Lady Morland

  Hart, Charles
    iv 413;
    v 516, 519

  Hattigé,
    iv 314

  Hawkesworth, Dr. John
    v 128

  Hédelin (François),
    iii 482

  Henry IV (1),
    i 224

  Henry III (2),
    ii 415

  Henry VI (2),
    v 515

  Henry VIII,
    iii 202, 485

  _Heptameron_,
    i 219;
    v 417, 418

  Heroic (an),
    i 453

  Heselrige, Sir Arthur
    i 453

  Hewson, John
    i 451, 454, 456

  Higden, Henry
    vi 403, 438

  Holland, Earl of
    i 457

  Hopkins, John
    iv 420

  Hopkins, Matthew
    i 448

  Hordon,
    iv 398

  Howard, Lord of Esrick
    iii 479

  Howard, Edward
    iii 477, 492, 493;
    vi 204, 426

  Howard, Moll
    vi 395, 434

  Howard, Sir Robert
    i 335;
    iv 417;
    v 520

  Hoyle, John
    i xxxii-vi;
    vi 153, 160, 200, 360, 361, 392

  Hutchinson, Richard
    i 455

                  I

  Ibsen, Henrik
    i 219

  Ice (Isles), Stephen
    i 455

                  J

  J. G. (George Jenkins),
    iv 222, 415, 418;
    vi 9, 11

  _Jealous Lovers_,
    vi 382

  Jermyn Street,
    v 518

  Jesuitesses,
    v 520

  Jevon, Tom
    i 444;
    ii 436;
    iii 188, 387, 393, 495

  Jigg,
    ii 477;
    iv 414

  Johnson, Charles
    ii 197

  Jolly, George
    i 334

  Jonson, Ben
    i 4, 224;
    iv 121, 413, 422;
    vi 204

  Judas,
    i 457

  Julian,
    i lvii;
    v 518

  Just-au-corps,
    iii 480

                  K

  Kelter,
    iii 491

  Kemble, J. P.,
    i 6

  Kendrick, Dr. Daniel
    vi 298

  Ketch, Jack,
    iii 492

  Kildare, Earle of
    vi 395, 434

  Killigrew, Charles
    iii 483

  Killigrew, Tom
    i xxiii-vii, xxxvii, 4

  Knip (to),
    iv 416

  Kynaston, Edward
    iv 419;
    v 516

                  L

  Lacy, John
    iv 5, 420;
    v 516, 519

  La Fontaine, Jean de,
    v 261

  Lambert, Major-General
    i 333, 451

  Lambert, Lady
    i 333, 452

  Lamb’s wool,
    iii 479

  La motte,
    v 212

  Langbaine, Gerard
    iv 218

  Lauderdale, 4th Earl of
    v 524

  Laurence (lazy)
    i 448

  Lazzi,
    iii 498

  Lee, John
    i 438

  Lee, Mrs. Mary _vide_ Lady Slingsby

  Lee, Nathaniel
    i 219, 335, 443, 449;
    iv 220;
    v 515

  Lee, Mrs. Rachel
    i 439

  Leigh, Antony
    i 106, 336, 442;
    ii 439;
    iii 186, 387, 483;
    iv 6;
    vi 383

  Leigh, Mrs. Elizabeth
    i 9, 336, 439

  Leigh, Mrs.
    i 439

  Leigh, Frank
    i 439

  Leigh, Michael
    i 439

  Lely, Sir Peter
    i lxiii

  Lennox, Mrs. Charlotte
    iv 421

  Le Roux,
    v 418

  L’Estrange, Sir Roger
    iii 483;
    v 260

  Lewis, Mat
    v 419

  Lilly, William
    i 458

  Locket’s,
    v 516

  _London Cuckolds_,
    iii 483;
    v 517

  Long’s,
    v 7

  Loveday, Robert
    ii 102

  Lowther, Sir Gerard
    i 456

  Luiz, Nicolas
    v 212

  Luther, Martin
    v 418

                  M

  Macready, W. C.
    ii 5

  _Maid’s Tragedy_,
    iii 284, 484

  Malespini, Celio
    v 260

  Mall,
    iii 484

  Mallet, David
    v 212

  Manley, Mrs. Mary de la Rivière
    i xxviii;
    iv 418

  Marillier, J. P.
    vi 223

  Marini, Gio. Ambrogio
    ii 103

  Marlowe, Christopher
    ii 4

  Marshall, Mrs. Rebecca
    ii 4, 428;
    v 516, 520

  Marston, John
    iv 422

  Martin, George
    iv 314;
    v 180, 208, 521

  Martin, Henry
    i 457;
    iv 314;
    v 180, 521

  Massinger, Philip
    i 219;
    ii 197

  Masuccio, di Salerno
    v 417

  Maynard, Sgt.
    i 335

  Mayne, Jasper
    i 457

  Mazarine, Duchess of
    v 521

  _Measure for Measure_,
    iii 485, 492

  Medrano, Julio de
    v 418

  Melander, Otho
    v 417

  Melford, John Drummond, 1st Earl of
    vi 428

  _Mercury_ (diurnal),
    ii 436

  Middle gallery,
    iii 491

  Middleton, Thomas
    i xxxvi, 5, 457;
    ii 197, 198

  Miller, James
    iv 5

  Millin, Aubin Louis
    v 418

  Moders, Mary
    i 450

  Mohun, Michael
    v 516, 519

  Molière, J. B. P. de
    iii 97;
    iv 4, 5, 421

  Molina, Tirso de
    v 260

  Monmouth, James, Duke of
    i xl-xliii

  Montalvan, J. Perez de
    v 260, 417

  Morland, Lady
    vi 175, 393, 424

  Morland, Sir Samuel
    vi 76, 419

  Mosely (Mother),
    v 519

  Motteux, Peter
    iv 420;
    v 517

  Mountford, William
    i 5;
    iii 477, 492, 495;
    iv 421

  Musset, Alfred de
    iv 120

  _Mysterious Mother_,
    v 418

                  N

  Names (Mrs. Behn, confusion of),
    ii 439;
    iii 476;
    iv 6;
    v 523

  Needham, Marchmont
    i 454

  Neville, Edward
    v 519

  Nice, _vide_ Sir Courtly Nice

  Nickers,
    i 456

  Nokes, James
    i 106, 336, 442;
    iv 6, 121, 412, 413, 414

  Norris, Mrs.
    i 445

  Norton, Richard
    v 401, 522

  Nursery,
    ii 431

                  O

  Oates, Titus
    ii 433, 437

  _Oedipus_,
    iii 483

  Oldys, William
    iv 218

  Olivarez, Gaspar Guzman d’
    i 449

  _Oroonoko_ (Southerne),
    v 128, 421

  Osenbrigs,
    v 520

  _Othello_,
    iii 186, 484, 485, 494

  Otway, Thomas
    i xxxi, xxxvii, lii, 219, 443, 449;
    ii 198, 210, 439;
    iii 284;
    v 515

  Ovid,
    iv 411, 412

  Ousley,
    iii 489

                  P

  Pack, Captain
    vi 189, 426

  Pad (to),
    iii 490

  Paisible, James
    vi 188, 425

  Parsons, Mrs.
    iv 5

  Payne, Nevil
    ii 198;
    v 70, 519

  Peer (Pierre), Will
    v 518

  Perkins, W.
    v 419

  Peters, Hugh
    i 456, 457

  Pinner,
    v 523

  Pit (brawls in),
    ii 431

  Pitts, Mr.
    i xxxv-vi

  Pix, Mrs. Mary
    i xxxviii

  Plymouth cloak,
    i 447

  Pope (City pope),
    i 115, 443

  Porridge (Book of Common Prayer),
    ii 434

  Powell, George
    ii 5;
    iv 319;
    v 212, 521

  Price, Mrs. Emily
    i xxxvii;
    vi 397

  Price, Mrs. (actress)
    i 445

  Prior, Matthew
    i liv

  Prynne, William
    i 454

  Puppets,
    iii 495

  Pusilage,
    ii 440

                  Q

  Quests (nuns),
    v 520

  Quick, John
    v 517

  Quin, Mrs. Anne
    i 439;
    iv 115

  Quiocto,
    iv 418

                  R

  Rabel,
    i 7, 438

  Randolph, Thomas
    v 515;
    vi 177

  Ravenscroft, Edward
    i xxxii-iii, 220, 441, 445;
    iii 94, 97;
    iv 5;
    v 515, 517;
    vi 185

  _Rehersal, The_
    iii 477, 493;
    iv 411, 413, 414-5

  Reis, Quita Domingo dos,
    v 212

  Riley, John,
    i lxiii

  Ring (Hyde Park),
    iii 485

  Ritual murders,
    iii 478

  Rochester, John Wilmot, Earl of,
    i 446;
    ii 436, 437;
    iii 484;
    vi 171, 368, 402

  Rogers, Mrs.,
    v 212

  _Romulus and Hersilia_,
    i xlii-iii;
    vi 398-9

  Rose (tavern),
    iv 420;
    v 517

  Ros solis,
    v 518

  Royal Sovereign,
    i 446

  _Rump_ (songs),
    i xxxiii, 335

                  S

  St. Albans, Charles Beauclerk, Duke of,
    ii 438

  St. Antholin (church),
    i 457

  Saint-Pierre, Bernardin de,
    i lx;
    v 127

  Salisbury, James Cecil, 4th Earl of,
    i xlv;
    vi 115, 414, 420

  _Sanderson, Joan_ (dance),
    i 456;
    iii 203, 486

  Sanford, Samuel,
    iv 219

  Sawny,
    iii 495

  Scaramouch,
    i 444;
    iii 495, 498;
    iv 421

  Scobell, Henry,
    i 456

  Scott, Thomas,
    i xxii-v

  Scott, Sir Walter,
    i xxix

  Scour (to),
    iv 420

  Scudéri, Georges de,
    ii 102;
    vi 3

  Scudéri, Madeline de,
    i xix;
    iv 421

  Sedley, Sir Charles,
    iv 419;
    v 523

  Settle, Elkanah,
    i 443, 447;
    iii 387;
    v 515

  Shadwell, Charles,
    iv 5

  Shadwell, Thomas,
    i xlvii, 439, 444, 448;
    ii 437;
    iii 97, 486, 490;
    iv 412, 413, 415, 417;
    v 516

  Shaftesbury, 1st Earl of,
    i xl, xli, 454;
    ii 198, 434, 435;
    iii 479;
    v 519

  Shamming,
    iii 482

  Sharpe, Charles Kirkpatrick,
    v 260

  Shelley, Percy Bysshe,
    i 219

  Sheridan, T.,
    iv 5

  Shirley, James,
    iii 180;
    iv 120;
    v 261

  _Sir Courtly Nice_,
    iii 483, 492;
    v 515

  _Sir Fopling_,
    iii 483, 492

  Sir Guy of Warwick,
    iii 487

  Sirreverence,
    iii 490

  Sisseraro,
    i 458

  Slingsby, Lady,
    i xl, xlii-iv, 438, 441;
    ii 4, 104, 427-30;
    vi 399

  Smith, Will,
    i xl, 5, 112, 115, 336;
    iii 99, 284, 493

  Snow Hill,
    iii 491

  Southampton House,
    iii 477

  Southampton Square,
    iv 420

  Southerne, Thomas,
    i 335, 439;
    iv 120, 421;
    v 128, 259-61, 515

  Spital Sermon,
    iii 485

  Sprat, Bishop Thomas,
    vi 168, 423

  Stafford, Mr.,
    vi 383, 433

  Stapylton, Sir Robert,
    iii 477

  Steele, Sir Richard,
    i xxxviii;
    iv 421

  Stephenson, B. G.,
    ii 197

  Sternhold,
    iv 420

  Stocking (tossing the),
    iii 489;
    v 518

  Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher,
    v 127

  Suidas,
    v 417

  Swart Sisters,
    v 520

  Swiney, Owen,
    iv 5

                  T

  Tallemant, Paul (Abbé),
    i xlv, li;
    vi 223

  _Taming of the Shrew_,
    iii 485

  Tate, Nahum,
    i xlvii, lii;
    v 515;
    vi 8, 417

  Tatham, John,
    i 334, 458

  Tasso, Torquato,
    iv 411

  Tennyson, Alfred, Lord,
    v 260

  Terence,
    v 523

  Termer,
    iv 421

  Thames (fair on),
    vi 402, 437

  Thompson, Benjamin,
    v 212

  Thurlo, John,
    i 455

  _Timon of Athens_,
    iii 492

  Tonson, Jacob,
    i xlv

  Tourneur, Cyril,
    iv 120

  Tower,
    iii 480;
    iv 422

  Trincalo,
    ii 438;
    iii 491

  Trotter, Mrs. Catherine
    v 212

  Tryon, Thomas
    vi 432

  Tunbridge Wells,
    vi 175

                  U

  Underhill, Cave
    i 5

                  V

  _Valentinian_,
    iii 484;
    vi 401

  Vanbrugh, Sir John
    iv 5, 420

  Vane, Sir Harry
    i 333, 453

  Vega, Lope de
    v 212

  Verbruggen,
    iv 317;
    v 128, 212

  Vergil,
    i 107, 442

  Verrio, Antonio
    vi 75, 419

  Voltaire, Arouet de
    v 212

                  W

  Wagner, Richard
    i 219

  Walker, William
    v 128

  Waller, Edmund
    i l;
    vi 405, 438

  Wallingford House,
    i 454

  Walpole, Horace
    i lx, 219;
    iii 182;
    v 418

  Walsh, William
    iv 5

  Walter, Lucy
    i xliv

  Ward, Patience
    vi 382, 432

  Wariston, Archibald Johnston, Lord
    i 451

  Webb, James
    ii 102

  Welldon, Madam
    iv 221, 415

  Westminster (effigies),
    iv 422

  Weston, Peter
    vi 4, 417

  Westwood (actor),
    iii 284, 493

  Wharton, Mrs. Anne
    vi 171, 424

  Whipping, Tom
    ii 437

  Whitelocke, Bulstrode
    i 456

  Wild Gallant,
    iii 488

  Wilkins, George
    iii 4

  Willoughby, Baron
    i xviii;
    v 521

  Wills,
    iii 485

  Wilson, Arthur
    i 218

  Wilson, John
    i 335;
    v 519

  Witches,
    i 448

  Wright, James
    ii 432

  Wright, Thomas
    iv 5

  Wycherley, William
    iv 5

                  Y

  Yea and Nay,
    iii 480

  York (James II), Duke of
    i 113, 442-3;
    ii 432-3

  Young, Edward
    ii 5

      _Printed by_ A. H. BULLEN, _at the Shakespeare Head Press,
                         Stratford-upon-Avon._




    Transcriber’s Notes:


    Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
    preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.

    Simple typographical and spelling errors were corrected.

    Considerable latitude was given to spellings and typographical
    errors in the poetry.

    Italics markup is denoted by _underscores_.

    Bold markup is denoted by =equals=.

    Greek text has been transliterated and is denoted by #number signs#.





End of Project Gutenberg’s The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume VI, by Aphra Behn