But as a God he's Worshipt here,
By all the lovely, young, and fair,
Who all their kind desires controul,
And plays the Tyrant o're the Soul:
His chiefest Attributes, are Pride and Spight,
His pow'r, is robbing Lovers of delight,
An Enemy to Humane kind,
But most to Youth severe;
As Age ill-natur'd, and as ignorance Blind,
Boasting, and Baffled too, as Cowards are;
Fond in opinion, obstinately Wise,
Fills the whole World with bus'ness and with noise.
III.
Where wert thou born? from what didst thou begin?
And what strange Witchcraft brought thy Maxims in?
What hardy Fool first taught thee to the Crowd?
Or who the Duller Slaves that first believ'd?
Some Woman sure, ill-natur'd, old, and proud,
Too ugly ever to have been deceiv'd;
Unskill'd in Love; in Virtue, or in Truth,
Preach'd thy false Notions first, aud so debaucht our Youth.
IV.
And as in other Sectuaries you find,
His Votaries most consist of Womankind,
Who Throng t' adore the necessary Evil,
But most for fear, as Indians do the Devil.
Peevish, uneasy all; for in Revenge,
Love shoots 'em with a thousand Darts.
They feel, but not confess the change;
Their false Devotion cannot save their Hearts.
Thus while the Idol Honour they obey, }
Swift time comes on, and blooming Charms decay, }
And Ruin'd Beauty does too late the Cheat betray. }
This Goblin here—the lovely Maid Alarms,
And snatch'd her, even from my Trembling Arms,
With all the Pow'r of Non-sence he commands,
Which she for mighty Reason understands.
Aminta, fly, he crys! fly, heedless Maid,
For if thou enter'st this Bewitching shade,
Thy Flame, Content, and Lover, all are lost,
And thou no more of Him, or Fame shall boast,
The charming Pleasure soon the Youth will cloy,
And what thou wouldst preserve, that will destroy.
Oh hardy Maid by too much Love undone,
Where are thy Modesty, and Blushes gone?
Where's all that Virtue made thee so Ador'd?
For Beauty stript of Virtue, grows abhorr'd:
Dyes like a flower whose scent quick Poyson gives,
Though every gawdy Glory paints its leaves;
Oh fly, fond Maid, fly that false happiness,
That will attend Thee in the Bower of Bliss.
Thus spoke the Phantom, while the listening Maid,
Took in the fatal Councel; and obey'd:
Frighted she flys, even from the Temple door,
And left me fainting on the sacred floor:
LOVE saw my Griefs, and to my rescue came,
Where on his Bosom, thus I did complain.
The LOSS.
Weep, weep, Lysander, for the lovely Maid,
To whom thy sacred Vows were paid;
Regardless of thy Love, thy Youth, thy Vows,
The Dull Advice of Honour now pursues;
Oh say my lovely Charmer, where
Is all that softness gone?
Your tender Voice and Eyes did wear,
When first I was undone.
Oh whether are your Sighs and Kisses fled?
Where are those clasping Arms,
That left me oft with Pleasures dead,
With their Excess of Charms?
Where is the Killing Language of thy Tongue,
That did the Ravisht Soul surprize?
Where is that tender Rhetorick gone,
That flow'd so softly in thy Eyes?
That did thy heavenly face so sweetly dress,
That did thy wonderous Soul so well express?
All fled with Honour on a Phantom lost;
Where Youth's vast store must perish unpossest.
Ah, my dear Boy, thy loss with me bemoan,
The lovely Fugitive is with Honour gone!