The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume VI

by Aphra Behn

Love laughing spread his Wings and mounting flies, }
As swift as Lightning through the yielding Skies, }
Where Honour bore away the Trembling Prize. }
There at her Feet the Little Charmer falls,
And to his Aid his powerful softness calls:
Assails her with his Tears, his Sighs and Crys,
Th' unfailing Language of his Tongue and Eyes.

Return, said he, return oh fickle Maid,
Who solid Joys abandon'st for a shade;
urn and behold the Slaughter of thy Eyes;
See—the Heart-broken Youth all dying lyes.
Why dost thou follow this Phantastick spright?
This faithless Ignis Fatuus of the Light?
This Foe to Youth, and Beauties worst Disease,
Tyrant of Wit, of Pleasure, and of Ease;
Of all substantial Harms he Author is,
But never pays us back one solid Bliss.
—You'll urge, your Fame is worth a thousand Joys;
Deluded Maid, trust not to empty noise,
A sound, that for a poor Esteem to gain,
Damns thy whole Life t' uneasyness and pain.
Mistaken Virgin, that which pleases me }
I cannot by another tast and see; }
And what's the complementing of the World to thee? }
No, no, return with me, and there receive,
What poor, what scanted Honour cannot give,
Starve not those Charms that were for pleasure made,
Nor unpossest let the rich Treasure fade.
When time comes on; Honour that empty word,
Will leave thee then fore-slighted Age to guard;
Honour as other faithless Lovers are,
Is only dealing with the young and fair;
Approaching Age makes the false Hero fly,
He's Honour with the Young, but with the old necessity.

—Thus said the God! and all the while he spoke,
Her Heart new Fire, her Eyes new softness took.

Now crys, I yield, I yield the Victory!
Lead on, young Charming Boy, I follow thee;
Lead to Lysander, quickly let's be gone,
I am resolv'd to Love, and be undone;
I must not, cannot, Love at cheaper rate,
Love is the word, Lysander and my fate.

Thus to my Arms Love brought the trembling Maid;
Who on my Bosom sighing, softly, said:
Take, charming Victor—what you must—subdue—
'Tis Love—and not Aminta gives it you,
Love that o're all, and every part does reign,
And I shou'd plead-and struggle—but in vain;
Take what a yielding Virgin—can bestow,
I am—dis-arm'd—of all resistance now.—
Then down her Cheeks a tender shower did glide,
The Trophies of my Victory, Joy, and Pride:
She yields, ye Gods (I cry'd) and in my Arms,
Gives up the wonderous Treasure of her Charms.
—Transported to the Bower of Bliss we high,
But once more met Respect upon the way,
But not as heretofore with Meen and Grace
All formal, but a gay and smiling Face;
A different sort of Air his looks now wears,
Galljard and Joyful every part appears.
And thus he said—

Go, happy Lovers, perfect the desires,
That fill two Hearts that burn with equal Fires;
Receive the mighty Recompence at last,
Of all the Anxious hours you've past,
Enter the Bower where endless Pleasures flow,
Young Joys, new Raptures all the year:
Respect has nothing now to do,
He always leaves the Lover here.
Young Loves attend and here supply all want,
In secret Pleasures I'm no confident.

Respect here left me: and He scarce was gone,
But I perceiv'd a Woman hasting on,
Naked she came; all lovely, and her Hair
Was loosely flying in the wanton Air:
Love told me 'twas Occasion, and if I
The swift pac'd Maid shou'd pass neglected by,
My Love, my Hopes, and Industry were vain,
For she but rarely e're returned again.
I stopt her speed, and did implore her Aid,
Which granted, she Aminta did perswade
Into the Palace of true Joys to hast,
And thither 'twas, we both arriv'd at last.
Oh Lysidas, no Mortal Sense affords,
No Wit, no Eloquence can furnish Words
Fit for the soft Discription of the Bower;
Some Love-blest God in the Triumphing hour,
Can only guess, can only say what 'tis; }
Yet even that God but faintly wou'd express, }
Th' unbounded pleasures of the Bower of Bliss. }
A slight, a poor Idea may be given,
Like that we fancy when we paint a Heav'n,
As solid Christal, Diamonds, shining Gold,
May fancy Light, that is not to be told.
To vulgar Senses, Love like Heaven shou'd be
(To make it more Ador'd) a Mystery:
Eternal Powers! when ere I sing of Love,
And the unworthy Song immortal prove;
To please my wandering Ghost when I am Dead,
Let none but Lovers the soft stories read;
Praise from the Wits and Braves I'le not implore;
Listen, ye Lovers all, I ask no more;
That where Words fail, you may with thought supply,
If ever any lov'd like me, or were so blest as I.

The Prospect and Bower of Bliss.

I.

'Tis all eternal Spring around,
And all the Trees with fragrant flowers are Crown'd;
No Clouds, no misty Showers obscure the Light,
But all is calm, serene and gay,
The Heavens are drest with a perpetual bright,
And all the Earth with everlasting May.
Each minute blows the Rose and Jesamine,
And twines with new-born Eglantine,
Each minute new Discoveries bring;
Of something sweet, of something ravishing.