The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume VI

by Aphra Behn

ONE o'CLOCK.

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.

'Tis 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.

'Tis 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.