But Shepherd beware,
Though a Victor you are;
A Tyrant was never secure in his Throne;
Whilst proudly you aim
New Conquests to gain,
Some hard-hearted Nymph may return you your own.
On a Copy of Verses made in a Dream, and sent to me in a Morning before I was Awake.
Amyntas, if your Wit in Dreams
Can furnish you with Theams,
What must it do when your Soul looks abroad,
Quick'nd with Agitations of the Sence,
And dispossest of Sleeps dull heavy Load,
When ev'ry Syllable has Eloquence?
And if by Chance such Wounds you make,
And in your Sleep such welcome Mischiefs do;
What are your Pow'rs when you're awake,
Directed by Design and Reason too?
I slept, as duller Mortals use,
Without the Musick of a Thought,
When by a gentle Breath, soft as thy Muse,
Thy Name to my glad Ear was brought:
Amyntas! cry'd the Page—And at the Sound,
My list'ning Soul unusual Pleasure found.
So the Harmonius Spheres surprize,
Whilst the All-Ravish'd Shepherd gazes round,
And wonders whence the Charms should rise,
That can at once both please and wound.
Whilst trembling I unript the Seal
Of what you'd sent,
My Heart with an Impatient Zeal,
Without my Eyes, would needs reveal
Its Bus'ness and Intent.
But so beyond the Sence they were
Of ev'ry scribling Lovers common Art,
That now I find an equal share
Of Love and Admiration in my Heart.
And while I read, in vain I strove
To hide the Pleasure which I took;
Bellario saw in ev'ry Look
My smiling Joy and blushing Love.
Soft ev'ry word, easie each Line, and true;
Brisk, witty, manly, strong and gay;
The Thoughts are tender all, and new,
And Fancy ev'ry where does gently play,
Amyntas, if you thus go on,
Like an unwearied Conqueror day and night,
The World at last must be undone.
You do not only kill at sight,
But like a Parthian in your flight,
Whether you Rally or Retreat,
You still have Arrows for Defeat.
To my Lady Morland at Tunbridge.
As when a Conqu'rour does in Triumph come,
And proudly leads the vanquish'd Captives home,
The Joyful People croud in ev'ry Street,
And with loud shouts of Praise the Victor greet;
While some whom Chance or Fortune kept away,
Desire at least the Story of the Day;
How brave the Prince, how gay the Chariot was,
How beautiful he look'd, with what a Grace;
Whether upon his Head he Plumes did wear;
Or if a Wreath of Bays adorn'd his Hair:
They hear 'tis wondrous fine, and long much more
To see the Hero then they did before.
So when the Marvels by Report I knew,
Of how much Beauty, Cloris, dwelt in you;
How many Slaves your Conqu'ring Eyes had won,
And how the gazing Crowd admiring throng:
I wish'd to see, and much a Lover grew
Of so much Beauty, though my Rivals too.
I came and saw, and blest my Destiny;
I found it Just you should out-Rival me.
'Twas at the Altar, where more Hearts were giv'n
To you that day, then were address'd to Heav'n.
The Rev'rend Man whose Age and Mystery
Had rendred Youth and Beauty Vanity,
By fatal Chance casting his Eyes your way, }
Mistook the duller Bus'ness of the Day, }
Forgot the Gospel, and began to Pray. }
Whilst the Enamour'd Crowd that near you prest, }
Receiving Darts which none could e'er resist, }
Neglected the Mistake o'th' Love-sick Priest. }
Ev'n my Devotion, Cloris, you betray'd,
And I to Heaven no other Petition made,
But that you might all other Nymphs out-do
In Cruelty as well as Beauty too.
I call'd Amyntas Faithless Swain before,
But now I find 'tis Just he should Adore.
Not to love you, a wonder sure would be,
Greater then all his Perjuries to me.
And whilst I Blame him, I Excuse him too;
Who would not venture Heav'n to purchase you?
But Charming Cloris, you too meanly prize
The more deserving Glories of your Eyes,
If you permit him on an Amorous score,
To be your Slave, who was my Slave before.
He oft has Fetters worn, and can with ease
Admit 'em or dismiss 'em when he please.
A Virgin-Heart you merit, that ne'er found
It could receive, till from your Eyes, the Wound;
A Heart that nothing but your Force can fear,
And own a Soul as Great as you are Fair.
Song to Ceres. In the Wavering Nymph, or Mad Amyntas.
I.
Ceres, Great Goddess of the bounteous Year,
Who load'st the Teeming Earth with Gold and Grain,
Blessing the Labours of th' Industrious Swain,
And to their Plaints inclin'st thy gracious Ear:
Behold two fair Cicilian Lovers lie
Prostrate before thy Deity;
Imploring thou wilt grant the Just Desires
Of two Chaste Hearts that burn with equal Fires.