My pretty Charming Wanton, do.
Chorus.
'Tis thus we over Mortals reign,
And thus we Adoration gain
From the proud Monarch to the humble Swain.
Verses design'd by Mrs. A. Behn to be sent to a fair Lady, that desir'd she would absent herself to cure her Love. Left unfinish'd.
In vain to Woods and Deserts I retire, }
To shun the lovely Charmer I admire, }
Where the soft Breezes do but fann my Fire! }
In vain in Grotto's dark unseen I lie,
Love pierces where the Sun could never spy.
No place, no Art his God-head can exclude,
The Dear Distemper reigns in Solitude:
Distance, alas, contributes to my Grief;
No more, of what fond Lovers call, Relief
Than to the wounded Hind does sudden Flight
From the chast Goddesses pursuing Sight:
When in the Heart the fatal Shaft remains,
And darts the Venom through our bleeding Veins.
If I resolve no longer to submit
My self a wretched Conquest to your Wit,
More swift than fleeting Shades, ten thousand Charms
From your bright Eyes that Rebel Thought disarms:
The more I strugl'd, to my Grief I found
My self in Cupid's Chains more surely bound:
Like Birds in Nets, the more I strive, I find
My self the faster in the Snare confin'd.
Verses by Madam Behn, never before printed. On a Conventicle.
Behold that Race, whence England's Woes proceed,
The Viper's Nest, where all our Mischiefs breed,
There, guided, by Inspiration, Treason speaks,
And through the Holy Bag-pipe Legion squeaks.
The Nation's Curse, Religion's ridicule,
The Rabble's God, the Politicians Tool,
Scorn of the Wise, and Scandal of the Just,
The Villain's Refuge, and the Women's Lust.