The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume VI

by Aphra Behn

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.