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 ŒNONE 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 [OE]none, but at last being known and own'd, he sails into Greece, and carries Helen to Troy, which [OE]none 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 [OE]none 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 [OE]none 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 [OE]none! 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.