This City's called Discretion, being the name
Of her that is Lieutenant of the same,
And Sister to Respect; a Lady who
Seldom obtains a Conquest at first view;
But in repeated Visits one shall find,
Sufficient Charms of Beauty and of Mind:
Her vigorous piercing Eyes can when they please,
Make themselves lov'd, and understood with Ease.
Not too severe, but yet reserv'd and wise,
And her Address is full of subtilties;
Which upon all occasions serves her turn;
T' express her Kindness, and to hide her scorn;
Dissimulations Arts, she useful holds,
And in good manners sets 'en down for rules.
'Twas here Aminta liv'd, and here I paid
My constant visits to the lovely Maid.
With mighty force upon my Soul I strove,
To hide the Sent'ments of my raging Love.
All that I spoke did but indifferent seem,
Or went no higher than a great esteem.
But 'twas not long my Passion I conceal'd,
My flame in spight of me, it self reveal'd.
The silent Confession.
And tho' I do not speak, alas,
My Eyes, and Sighs too much do say!
And pale and languishing my Face,
The torments of my Soul betray;
They the sad story do unfold,
Love cannot his own secrets hold;
And though Fear ty's my Tongue, Respect my Eyes,
Yet something will disclose the pain;
Which breaking out throw's all disguise;
Reproaches her with Cruelties;
Which she augments by new disdain;
—Where e're she be, I still am there;
What-ere she do, I that prefer;
In spight of all my strength, at her approach,
I tremble with a sight or touch;
Paleness or Blushes does my Face surprize,
If mine by chance meet her encountering Eyes;
'Twas thus she learn'd my Weakness, and her Pow'r;
And knew too well she was my Conqueror.
And now—
Her Eyes no more their wonted Smiles afford,
But grew more fierce, the more they were ador'd;
The marks of her esteem which heretofore
Rais'd my aspiring flame, oblige no more;
She calls up all her Pride to her defence;
And as a Crime condemns my just pretence;
Me from her presence does in Fury chase;
No supplications can my doom reverse;
And vainly certain of her Victory,
Retir'd into the Den of Cruelty.
The Den of Cruelty.
A Den where Tygers make the passage good,
And all attempting Lovers make their Food;
I'th' hollow of a mighty Rock 'tis plac'd,
Which by the angry Sea is still imbrac'd:
Whose frightful surface constant Tempest wears,
Which strikes the bold Adventurers with Fears.
The Elements their rudest Winds send out,
Which blow continual coldness round about.
Upon the Rock eternal Winter dwells,
Which weeps away in dropping Isicles;
The barren hardness meets no fruitful Ray,
Nor bears it Issue to the God of day;
All bleek and cale, th' unshady prospect lies,
And nothing grateful meets the melancholy Eyes.
To this dire place Aminta goes, whilst I,
Begg'd her with Prayers and Tears to pass it by;
All dying on the Ground my self I cast,
And with my Arms her flying Feet imbrac'd;
But she from the kind force with Fury flung,
And on an old deformed Woman hung.
A Woman frightful, with a horrid Frown,
And o're her angry Eyes, her Brows hung down:
One single Look of hers, fails not t' impart,
A terror and despair to every Heart:
She fills the Universe with discontents,
And Torments for poor Lovers still invents.
This is the mighty Tyrant Cruelty,
Who with the God of Love is still at enmity;
She keeps a glorious Train, and Glorious Court,
And thither Youth and Beauty still resort:
But oh my Soul form'd for Loves softer Sport,
Cou'd not endure the Rigor of her Court!
Which her first rude Address did so affright,
That I all Trembling hasted from her Sight,
Leaving the unconcern'd and cruel Maid,
And on a Rivers Bank my self all fainting laid;
Which River from the obdurate Rock proceeds,
And cast's it self i'th' Melancholy Meads.
The River of Despair.
Its Torrent has no other source,
But Tears from dying Lovers Eyes;
Which mixt with Sighs precipitates its course;
Softning the senseless Rocks in gliding by;
Whose doleful Murmurs have such Eloquence
That even the neighbouring Trees and flow'rs have pitying sense;
And Cruelty alone knows in what sort,
Against the moving sound to make defence,
Who laughs at all despair and Death as sport.
A dismal Wood the Rivers Banks do bear,
Securing even the day from entering there;
The Suns bright Rays a passage cannot find,
Whose Boughs make constant War against the Wind;
Yet through their Leaves glimmers a sullen Light;
Which renders all below more terrible than Night,
And shows upon the Bark of every Tree,
Sad stories carv'd of Love and Cruelty;
The Grove is fill'd with Sighs, with Crys, and Groans,
Reproaches and Complaints in dying Moans;
The Neighbouring Eccho's nothing do repeat,
But what the Soul sends forth with sad regret;
And all things there no other Murmurs make,
But what from Language full of death they take,
'Twas in this place dispairing ere to free
Aminta from the Arms of Cruelty,
That I design'd to render up my Breath,
And charge the cruel Charmer with my Death.