The Fair Circassian, A Dramatic Performance Done from the Original By a Gentleman-Commoner of Oxford. The Second Edition Corrected. To which are added Several Occasional Poems. By the same Author [i.e. Samuel Croxall] |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. | CANTO VIII. |
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 | The Fair Circassian, A Dramatic Performance |  |
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CANTO VIII.
SHE.
Oh! that thou wert, as once my Brother was,
Free and familiar to my fond Embrace;
When smiling Both, Both innocent and young,
One Breast We suckt, and on one Bosom hung.
Then, without Shame, I'd publicly employ
Each passing Minute to improve my Joy.
Grasp thy dear Hand, and with a Sister's Kiss
Uncensur'd steal a momentary Bliss:
And when, impatient of the raging Fire,
A mutual Sense shou'd prompt Us to retire,
Fearless I'd lead Thee to my Mother's Bed,
And on thy Bosom lay my raptur'd Head:
By Her instructed in the Arts of Love,
My Passion might with aptest Graces move;
While rich Collations, crown'd with cordial Wine,
To feed our Flame, like Fuel, shou'd combine.
Free and familiar to my fond Embrace;
When smiling Both, Both innocent and young,
One Breast We suckt, and on one Bosom hung.
Then, without Shame, I'd publicly employ
Each passing Minute to improve my Joy.
Grasp thy dear Hand, and with a Sister's Kiss
Uncensur'd steal a momentary Bliss:
And when, impatient of the raging Fire,
A mutual Sense shou'd prompt Us to retire,
Fearless I'd lead Thee to my Mother's Bed,
And on thy Bosom lay my raptur'd Head:
By Her instructed in the Arts of Love,
My Passion might with aptest Graces move;
While rich Collations, crown'd with cordial Wine,
To feed our Flame, like Fuel, shou'd combine.
Begone, ye Female Slaves, my Voice obey;
Fly, and attend with Silence far away:
Perhaps my Love, to Solitude inclin'd,
In gentle Slumbers will indulge his Mind.
Fly, and attend with Silence far away:
Perhaps my Love, to Solitude inclin'd,
In gentle Slumbers will indulge his Mind.
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Lean on my Arm, on Me thy Head recline,
The Care to guard my Charmer's Steps be mine:
Thy Posture now revives the pleasing Thought
How Thou wert first to my Embraces brought.
Beneath a lofty Cedar's gloomy Shade
On the green Turf my languid Limbs were laid,
Thy Mother came, and lo! She led along
Her dear SAPHIRA, beautiful and young;
When strait She gave Thee to my longing Side,
And I with Ardour seis'd the blushing Bride.
The Rest is past Description; now no more
Love was outragious, for his Fit was o'er:
I rais'd Thee fainting from the fragrant Green,
The conscious Print among the Flow'rs was seen;
My Arm, as now, sustain'd thy lovely Frame,
Sweet was the Pleasure then, and now the same.
SHE.
Light of my Life, oh! take me to thy Heart,
Nor ever with thy fond SAPHIRA part:
Oh! seal me, stamp me on thy tender Mind,
And leave the strong Impression deep behind.
For Love, like Death, his Sceptre sternly sways,
When-e'er the Tyrant calls, the Slave obeys.
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Fierce as a Whirlwind, cruel as the Grave,
For ever burnt and burning with Desire,
As Coals that glow with unconsuming Fire.
Let gushing Brooks and swelling Torrents roll
Their cooling Waters o'er the Love-sick Soul,
Yet will survive the bright unsullied Flame,
It's Vigour lively, and it's Heat the same.
Ransack the solid Globe for Wealth; and sweep
The secret Vallies of th' unfathom'd Deep,
Give all to Love and bribe Him to be kind,
Yet still you'll feel his Fetters on your Mind:
Whate'er you stake, his Value's still above,
And nothing ballances but Love for Love.
HE.
Then, be it publisht thro' the spacious East,
How much, how dearly SOLOMON is blest.
Shew, how his Palaces and Temples rise,
With glittering Roofs aspiring to the Skies;
Paint his fair Gardens, and disclose the Groves,
The private Scenes of his repeated Loves;
The purling Falls of Water to invite
Soft Slumbers, and divert with fresh Delight:
Describe his Ivory Throne, his pompous State,
With all the gawdy Names that sound Him Great:
But tell the World that these are trifling Things
Compar'd to Her from whom his Pleasure springs,
For Grandeur and for glorious Fame design'd
To awe the Vulgar and amuse Mankind,
Mere Bubbles made for Wonder and for Show;
His real Joys from dear SAPHIRA flow.
How much, how dearly SOLOMON is blest.
Shew, how his Palaces and Temples rise,
With glittering Roofs aspiring to the Skies;
Paint his fair Gardens, and disclose the Groves,
The private Scenes of his repeated Loves;
The purling Falls of Water to invite
Soft Slumbers, and divert with fresh Delight:
Describe his Ivory Throne, his pompous State,
With all the gawdy Names that sound Him Great:
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Compar'd to Her from whom his Pleasure springs,
For Grandeur and for glorious Fame design'd
To awe the Vulgar and amuse Mankind,
Mere Bubbles made for Wonder and for Show;
His real Joys from dear SAPHIRA flow.
And, lest the dazling Mines from Ophir brought
To after Ages shou'd suggest a Thought,
That He, who cou'd command so rich a Prize,
Might well be blest, might well be counted Wise,
Let future Times in lasting Verse be told,
His Fair One made him Happy, not his Gold.
To after Ages shou'd suggest a Thought,
That He, who cou'd command so rich a Prize,
Might well be blest, might well be counted Wise,
Let future Times in lasting Verse be told,
His Fair One made him Happy, not his Gold.
SHE.
Sweet are the Accents of thy heavenly Voice!
The Groves are pleas'd, the listning Swains rejoice;
The little Birds suspend their flutt'ring Wing,
Hover in Silence, and forget to sing.
Once more with that enchanting Music chear
My longing Soul, my fond expecting Ear.
O come, with all thy dear delightful Charms,
Rush on my Breast and dart into my Arms:
Oh, haste, my Life, and with thy nimbler Speed
The Mountain Roe or the wild Hart exceed.
| The Fair Circassian, A Dramatic Performance | |