[Poems on Several Occasions with A Pastoral to which is added A Discourse of Life] [by John Tutchin] |
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CORINNA TO PHILOCLES. |
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 | [Poems on Several Occasions with A Pastoral |  |
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CORINNA TO PHILOCLES.
The ARGUMENT.
Philocles, a Swain of Sicily, falling in Love with the beauteous Corinna, a Nymph of the Plain (after Mutual Vows of Constancy) gets her with Child, and then flies into Scythia; whereupon she writes him the following Letter.
The much abus'd Corinna's faithless Friend.
Scythia, a Sanctuary sure allows
For broken Oaths, and unregarded Vows.
Ah, perjur'd Youth! to leave those dearest Arms,
He once confest were mere Circean Charms!
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While growing Love did turn to Ecstasie:
Pensive he look'd, he groan'd, he breath'd forth sighs;
Sad was his Heart, and languishing his Eyes.
Grown Drunk with gazing, he would reeling stand,
And, drown'd in Raptures, kiss my charming Hand:
Then all in Passions, by the Gods he swore,
I was his Saint, and me he would adore.
Before our Friends he unseen looks would take,
And undiscerned assignations make:
Duty to them would make him words refrain,
But's Eye made Love in a far nobler strain.
His Eyes grown languid, did soft Vows impart:
(The Eye's the natural Index of the Heart)
Yet after Vows and Tears he Faithless proves;
The just result of our too conscious Loves.
When to the silent Groves Corinna hies,
Those guilty Scenes of our once dearest joys;
Here I can find no sweets, nor wonted ease,
But sadly mourn my absent Philocles.
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Have oft bore witness of our mutual Vows:
There see our names upon the paler Rind,
In Amorous Characters together joyn'd:
By annual growth, the Names now distant show;
Ah! must the Lovers be at distance too?
Relentless Fate! in vain do Mortals grieve,
And chide at Destiny they cann't retrieve.
Who could have thought our joys so fresh and green,
So big with Love, had ever Mortal been?
Uninterrupted sweets ran rowling by,
In boundless days, like vast Eternity.
No hours big with Fate our rest annoys,
Nor sudden change our unadulterate joys.
Indulgent Nature strove with care to please
The lov'd Corinna and her Philocles:
Whilest he the lovely Swain did sit and sing,
Beneath the pleasures of the blooming Spring.
The neighbouring Swains lay silent on the Plain;
And Philomel did chant her Lays in vain:
Down goes his Pipe, and qualms of Love come on:
(Then Mixing Vows and Kisses all in one)
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(Beauty the chiefest Gift of bounteous Heaven)
To die like yielding flowers before the Sun,
And give no scent before its race be run?
Ah! lovely Mistress of my kindest fires,
Who in my active Soul beget'st desires;
Bless with a smile my melancholy hours,
And I Eternally am stiled yours.
Ah! cruel fair One, smile! and smiling say,
My anxious days you will with Love repay.
And here I smiling said, (for who cold hold,
When ravish'd looks the Heart's lov'd message told)
“Know, Philocles, your Love I've always seen,
“And e're this time it had rewarded been.
“With gazing Eyes I oft your form did view;
“When you were sick I sympathiz'd with you:
“But Love-sick Maids will any thing endure;
“Refuse the Physick, though they love the Cure.
“But now I find, in vain I long have strove;
“Excuse me, if I blushing say, I Love.
“Take no advantage 'ore my weak replyes;
“In silence cherish a poor Virgins sighs.
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He wou'd be always True, be always Mine.
But, Ah! says he, How weak the Joy does prove,
If we still rest on that slight Thing, call'd Love?
Sighs are but Airy Blasts, that move the Heart,
And drive the winged downy Cupid's Dart.
Kisses are empty Prologues to the Play,
And, like the Morning Dew, soon melt away.
Ah! 'tis Enjoyment must our Souls inspire,
And prove the Vigour of our Youthful Fire.
Tell me, sweet Maid, How blessed Venus sped
With all the Pleasures of the Genial Bed,
When she Adonis drew unto her Breast,
And, with stoln Joys, the Youthful Lover blest?
This was a better Act, and pleas'd her more,
Than, o're rude Hills, to see him chase the Boar.
If Languid Looks were all Love's Mystery,
The Dead, in Tombs, might court as well as we.
Yield, Beauteous Virgin, ere the Time comes on,
When nought but the Desire shall fresh remain;
Ere fumbling Age shall soberer things perswade,
And you be call'd that hated thing, Old Maid.
Yield, yield, I say.—But here I stopt his Speech,
And, with alluring Words, did him beseech,
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So vilely great, and so adulterous flame,
The just procurer of our future shame.
Thus the Almighty Gods will angry be,
And who can brook a thundring Deity?
Oh! Mention not the Gods, he says, for they
In amorous sports do pass whole years away.
No Mortal here on Earth, or God above,
Is such a Lecher as Almighty Jove.
Great rampant Whores, Punks lewd and overgrown,
And sprawling Bastards do surround his Throne.
Out from unlawful Beds the Heavenly Race
Did spring, and ever since have lov'd the place.
We never yet have wicked Lovers been;
None but the guilty should lament for Sin.
How many sweets we lose, and dear delights,
While the dull Priest performs the Nuptial Rites:
And silly Children grieve their Parents mind,
And fret themselves when Nuptial knots they bind.
Happy Macareus, who didst gladly prove,
The pleasing joy of an incestuous Love;
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When storms had rock't his Windy Sire asleep.
For this she never sigh'd, though she did mourn
His tedious absence, and his wish'd return:
But e're I leave my Mistress and my Dear,
The Gods shall come and shall inhabit here.
Come down, ye Gods, from Heavenly Seats come down!
The perjur'd Swain is from his Mistris gone,
And left a Teeming wretch to sigh alone.
Think, lov'd Apostate, how this tender Child,
And his sad Mother you have thus beguil'd.
Methinks his Infant voice does screeching cry,
In my loath'd Womb, his and my Misery:
My Child-bed Throes come on, yet I take care
Of seeing thee, my Faithless Wanderer.
When drousie Night comes on, all Creatures fly
To sweet repose, yet restless still am I.
One Night the drousie God came to my Bed,
And with soft slumber did my Temples spread:
Senseless I lay, as if I had been dead.
Just as sick Lovers use, a pleasing Dream
Came softly on, and for its lovely Theam,
Before mine Eyes thy faithless Image came.
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To lay the airy Phantome by my side:
But strugling hard, a parting Kiss it drew,
And from my Arms my empty Lover flew.
But when I wak'd, the Sun had deck'd my Bed,
And with the Night my sleepy Vision fled.
Good Gods! I cry'd, is this the bliss we prove?
This, this the promis'd Joy of Cupid's Love?
Then grown distracted, in my rage I tare
The golden Locks of my once lovely Hair:
Whil'st in my dismal Breast fear meets with fears,
I wash my Lilly Hands in briny Tears:
You may believe't, my Eyes are watry still;
And, while I write, upon my Paper spill
Their liquid Juice: A Juice well known to me,
Yet such as Lovers never care to see.
Why do I weep, when woe is past relief;
But there's a certain pleasure found in grief.
'Tis vain to speak to Woods and Rocks, 'tis vain
To cry to thee who 'rt harder, perjur'd Swain:
Yet read these Lines, read 'em as sent by me,
The only Legacy I leave to thee.
When unconfin'd at Liberty you rome,
Think on the wretched Nymph you've left at home.
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Wast one kind sigh to poor Corinna here.
Whil'st thou dost Scythia's Frost and Snow discover,
(The fittest Climate for so cold a Lover)
Think how in scorching Love at home I burn,
And all the Night thy much loath'd absence mourn.
Thy tatter'd Flocks lie moaning 'ore the Plains;
A prey to greedy Wolves, and Pirate Swains:
Thy lowing Herds, by thee once lov'd so well,
In hoarser moans their Master's absence tell:
Scorch'd by the Summers heat, while these expire,
I die, I die, by no less scorching fire.
If to this Country you shall chance to come,
And view again your melancholy home,
Here you'll behold your dear Corinna's Tomb.
Then to my Tomb one tender sigh commit,
Unless your Heart be grown as hard as it.
Then write upon my Tomb, my Ghost t'appease,
Here lies Corinna, kill'd by Philocles.
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