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,—'Tis 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.