University of Virginia Library

THE MISCELLANY of LOVE.

On Flowers in Amasia's Bosom. In Imitation of Anacreon.

VVhat? tell me, what, should Flow'rs do there,
Amasia's sweet, as she is fair.
In her, all blooming Beauties meet;
What Flow'r so fair, as she is sweet?
Not Flora's self, shall proudly dare
With my Amasia to compare.
Flora's Breast, I know it well,
Does not like her Bosom smell.
This, Flora too, her self, does know,
For else, she would not Court her so.
Not Eastern Spices, Indian Gums,
Afford us half so rich Perfumes.
Not the Phœnix boasted Nest
Can Rival my Amasia's Breast.
Arabia can't with her's compare,
For Love's the Phœnix, that dwells there.
There, tender sighs and wishes move,
The Rich, the Od'rous Breath of Love.
Why should those Flow'rs, Amasia, stay?
Pluck them, throw them far, away.
Why should they in thy Bosom live?
They come to Rob thee, not to give.
They could, when growing in the Field,
They could—but common Odours yield.
Throw them, Amasia, throw them by,
Then Mark, how quickly they shall die.
You will not thence the Robbers throw;
Sure they are rooted there, and grow.
O happy they, in such a Bed!
Where nothing withers, nor is dead.
Tho' every other Flow'r you spare,
Let no Narcissus Flourish there.
Whilst thus my Rivals blest I see,
I find, thy Bosom can be free,
To any thing, but Love and me.

To a Lady asking me a Thousand impertinent Questions, which she would have Answer'd.

Your swarm of Queries one Just Answer draws,
I did this, that, and every thing—because.
What, wont that Answer do? Now, Jove forbid;
I did this, that, and all;—because I did.

To the Lady above-mention'd, saying I gave her a very senseless, impudent Answer.

In Mazes of impertinence involv'd,
You are not yet, nor can be e'er resolv'd.
I thought,—Because—had fairly play'd it's part;
'Tis very hard, you should more Questions start,
Than your whole Sex can Answer for their Heart.
All the response they practise, won't suffice;
Yes, No;—or shall I Answer you with Why's?
By you, I hope, I shall no more be task'd,
Answer'd, as civilly, as I was ask'd.
Now, since I give you my replies so plain,
Favour me once, and tell me what you mean.
Then, if I yet must Answer you more true,
Start me a thousand Questions all anew.
I'll make replies, as fast as they are said,
Answer me only this—
What 'tis you think, and what you do a Bed.

To the same Lady, saying she would give me a Kiss, if I would tell her what she ask'd me.

I'll take the Bribe, but not my Answers sell;
Madam, you know, we must not Kiss, and tell.
Maids, oft e'er now, (yet oft their aim have Mist,)
Have been impertinent, but to be kist.

To the Lady aforesaid, striking me on the Face with her Fan, for my former Answers.

No longer now I must your rage withstand,
Who brandish thus your Vengeance in your Hand.
How very stupid must my senses grow!
Which ne'er conceive, or what you say, or do,
But this—and this you beat into me too.
To make returns for this last Favour shown;
Now you have Struck my Face, pray, hide your own.

To a Lady, who ask'd me why I writ on such trifling Occasions.

These are the fittest subjects I can choose,
For trifling business, Suits a trifling Muse.
I make my Verse, at least, my own delight,
And, Madam, when I trifle, then I write.

To a Lady, saying I ought to Marry her, because she Lov'd me.

Thus must I pay, by smarting, for your Wound;
If you be Conquer'd, why should I be bound?
O never more to such entreaties move,
You would not have me hate you, if you Love?

To the same Loving Lady, telling me, abuse was an ill requital for soft Passion, but she thank'd her Stars, she was but in Jest.

Such Jugling Tricks I cannot understand;
You hold, unhurt, Coals burning in your Hand.
Long may you sport in the false Am'rous fit;
Love is a Jest, I ne'er could laugh at yet.
I'm pleas'd to find your wrongs already o'er,
For, should I Wed, I might abuse you more.

To a Lady asking my Opinion concerning the Writings of the Ancients and Moderns.

This only I dare positive avow,
The Ancients wrote best then, the Moderns now.

To a Lady, making her a present of Straw-Work.

Let Straw no more in slighting Terms be nam'd,
What she accepts, grows worthy to be fam'd.
Let lab'rers beat the shining sheaf no more,
'Tis now priz'd higher than the Corn it bore.
From your fair hands I may this Knowledge draw;
Your Eyes attract my Heart, as those the Straw.
O happy product, which the Field has giv'n!
From earth it Sprung, but reaches now to Heaven.

To the Bookseller desiring my Sculpture before my Book.

Take it, the Wretched, lifeless Figure take;
'Tis only giv'n for my Amasia's sake.
With Charms, too bright to be repell'd, you move;
Yet, not thro' vanity I yield, but Love.
Amasia's Name does my Book's Title Crown,
Amasia's Name, which gives my Book Renown.
Hence 'tis I grant, with pleasure, your demand;
Shall I not, Join'd with my Amasia, stand?
Let, with a scoff, the World my form disdain,
The Cens'ring World, unknowing Lovers pain;
On this account, I'm proud of being vain.
My self I gave to the bright Maid before;
How in a Picture can I give her more?
Let the World talk, and rail, and rave aloud;
I never yet for sordid praise have Bow'd;
I'll call Fools envious, while they call me proud.

To a certain Gentleman, you must know, very Censorious on me, for assenting to my Bookseller's desire.

I understand you, Sir, and now I see,
(Tho' now too late, I own;) thou can'st not be
My Picture's Friend, much less a Friend to me.

To a Lady, telling me I should Court applause, if I expected to gain it.

If, like a Virgin I should Fame adore,
The more I Court, she would but fly the more.
Courtship for praise, would render me most vain,
For none e'er Courts, but has some hopes to gain.
Fame, if she comes, is welcome; but at worst,
The Poet can't be like the Lover curst.
O'er every sense my Lov'd Amasia Reign'd,
I Courted her, and Courted, she disdain'd.
No other Charmer shall my Mistress be;
For she was Fame, and every thing to me.
Let flatt'ring Fame yield to the flatt'ring Muse;
What I ne'er gain'd, ne'er sought, I cannot lose.
Yet, praise I boast, while the pretence I quit,
For 'tis my Fame, that I ne'er sought it yet.
Let others Court her in a tedious Course,
I'll not pursue, but if I meet her, force.
The God of Verse himself, pursuing, fail'd,
Had He woo'd less, he had, perhaps, prevail'd.
My Charming Daphne, my Amasia lost,
I should not much of bending Laurels boast.
From the chang'd Nymph soft sighing Breezes came;
'Tis Breath, meer Air, that gives the Poet Fame,
How would my Raptur'd vanity run high,
Could I, like Phœbus, hear my Charmer sigh!
But here no pains, no Courtship can succeed;
Amasia sigh?—that would be Fame indeed.

To a Lady, saying with a smile, she fear'd I would not perform my Promise.

O doubt it not; or doubt if Truth be true,
All promise, is performance, made to you.
He that adores, brings Incense in his Hands;
Who dares withhold whatever Heaven demands?
When o'er the Seas Neptune exerts his sway,
In the struck Rock what rebel Wind shall stay?
Sharp as his Trident Flies each Glance you Dart,
But meets no Rock in a soft Lover's Heart.
When the Soul Acts, what thought shall flag behind,
The Flames you raise, mount swifter than the Wind.
But whilst, thus smiling you impose my task,
Your Eyes give more, than what your Lips can ask.
And yet, your Conqu'ring killing Pow'r's so great,
You Force, and Rob me, while you thus intreat.
All gen'rous grants, from the Heart ravisht flow;
What need you ask, my Heart is yours, you know.
Whilst to obey those smiles the Lover flies,
Grant him but this—the promise of those Eyes.

To a Lady, telling me I writ too fast.

'Twere hard, 'tis true, 'twere very hard indeed,
If I should write more fast than you can read.
My Muses Works, thus, to your Summs amount,
Making more Slaves than ev'n the Eyes can Count.

To the same Lady saying—Sure, I never thought, and Commanding me to write on a Feather.

Now I shall think; what Genius can refuse,
When you thus kindly Wing the flying Muse?
No boist'rous Winds my Soul's Emotions bear,
But you know, Madam, Feathers fly with Air.
I think sometimes, (by my best Thoughts,) 'tis true,
On my own wit, and on your Beauty too,
And think them much alike—I think I do.
Strange is your Female sway o'er thoughtful Men,
Strange! That your Feather should Command my Pen.
Rouz'd from a Musing fit, you often Cry,
You think on nothing; why, Just so do I.
Only by chance, for once, one thought I'll write,
Say, is the Feather, or the Fair more Light?

To a Lady saying she imagin'd Poets were all on Fire when they wrote.

When my Amasia Charms my Soul, by turns,
The Poet rages, and the Lover burns.
But any other Theam no warmth insures,
My Breast is then, almost as cold as yours.

To Amasia putting a Paper of my Verses in her Bosom.

Whilst on this Subject you afford, I write,
Concealing some, you bring more Works to Light.
Whilst from your Breast my inspiration flows,
Your Charming Breast a new Parnassus grows.
Two Spiring mounts give the fam'd Hill renown.
Two Spiring mounts Amasia's Bosom Crown.
Take care, soft Charmer, of thy Breast take care,
For thro' my Verse, my Soul will enter there.
Whilst thus my lines are in thy Bosom lay'd,
The Poem's happier than the Poet made.

To a Lady with a very Charming Dimple in her Chin, occasion'd by a scar, which, she said, an unaccountable distemper had left there.

That Wounds leave scars, is known to all Mankind;
But none e'er knew that scars left Wounds behind.
The dire effect, thus, the dire Cause is grown;
I see your Wounds, and smarting feel my own.
Thus, Graces infinite your Features Arm;
What are your Pow'rs! When ev'n Desease can Charm!
Shafts at impassive Heaven are shot in vain,
With Vengeance Wing'd, they kill, when turn'd again.
To Salve my Wounds, grant me one Balmy sigh,
For 'tis thro your Desease I pine and die.
Be kind; and perfectly restore me sound,
Where Love heals ill, a rancour'd Scar is found.

To a Lady Dancing at a Ball.

The Muse appears, all Airy, in my view,
The Muse appears, and Dances, Bright, like you.
Like you, she fleets, and in my fancy flies,
All Wing'd, and gliding fast thro' azure Skies.
Loe! She descends, and hither darts her way,
Like Sun-beams swiftly bright—
All Lust'rous clear, and flashing on the Day.
With moving Air, like thee she passes now,
Welcome, my Muse—oh! Not the Muse—'tis thou.
Forgive me, Virgin, I mistook the fair,
Only thy self could with thy self compare.
You are my Muse, 'tis you, 'tis you inspire,
While your each motion Fans the kindling Fire.
My tuneful Notions rise surprizing new,
At once you Dance, and give the Musick too.
O that my Verse could run on Feet like thine,
My numbers then, would grow, like thee, Divine.
So true you move, yet with such swift surprize,
Tho' rising still, none can perceive you rise.
Stay, British Daphne, 'tis not Sol pursues,
Winning too fast the race, the prize you lose.
My swiftest Thoughts in vain to reach you strive,
Stay, thou hast won the Laurel, yet alive
Take the reward, the Poets Crown's your due,
Both Crowns and Hearts all must submit to you.
O if to thee a fate like Daphne's fell,
How would the Wreath be priz'd—
How would all write, and how would I excel!

To a Lady saying she would Hate me, if I should write Satyr.

Since Satyr, Madam, has her Birth from spight,
If you should Hate me, that would make me Write.
My Satyr's Teeth, whene'er she Bites, draws Blood,
Not sharp; but very Blunt; and that's as good.
Provok'd, like Jove's, my strugling Thunder's hurld,
Broad Sheets of rage, like light'nings, are unfurl'd,
And I could Flash, and Blast, and Tear the World.
I boast an equal Priviledge with you.
Sat'ring my self, in every thing I do.

To a Gentleman, whose Life was indanger'd by his Endeavouring to aderss a Lady in a Sphere above him.

Go on, and speak your Passion uncontroul'd,
For, Love and Fortune both befriend the bold.
Maids are half gain'd, when, once the Suit's begun,
And she deserves to be thro' hazards won.
Storms past at Sea indear the Anchor'd ground;
E'er Drake grew fam'd, he did the World surround.

NEW-YEAR's-DAY, 1699.

Ah! Hapless Day! How thy sad gloom appears!
Rolling o'er me twice Twelve revolving Years.
Thou gav'st me Life, thus art thou doubly curst,
For, by thy Light I saw Amasia first.
Now, since that time, twelve Circling Suns roll on,
Since that sad time I found Amasia gone.
Scarce to compleat thy Circle wouldst thou stay,
You bore in hast, so rich a prize away.
Return, Rapacious, Rival Year! restore
My fair, my Charmer, Charming as before.
O woe Eternal! O Eternal pain!
Nor you, nor she must strike my Eyes again.
My endless Sorrows round thy Circle move;
Twelve fatal Years! Half of my Life was Love.
Love was my Life; and now I plainly see,
That Time and Death are much the same to me.
O Grant me, Phæbus; this is all my Pray'r;
One smiling Sun, let me behold my fair.
For that one Day, Serene I'll bear my doom,
Past Years of Woe, and Ages yet to come.
If, on that Day, I meet Amasia's scorn,
If, on that Day, the Charmer shall not burn,
Never may this, no, never more return.

Seeing a Lady at a Play call'd A Trip to the Jubilee.

The Scene seems now a Melancholy place,
Here gaze, my Eyes, here revel, and Embrace,
And press, and Kiss, at every glance, that Face.
Let both the Author and his Play seek Rome,
Beauty, I'm sure, keeps Jubilee at home.

To a Lady, under the Name of Philomela.

I'm Charm'd, I'm ravish'd with thy tuneful Song;
Ne'er may this Philomela lose her Tongue.
Sweet as the first, Harmoniously you move,
By Sorrow she was taught, and you, by Love.

LOVE in IDEA.

Written to a Friend, who said his Mistress was above Gold, and desir'd my advice in his Suit.

To a Lady, who seeing me in a Languishing Sickness, call'd me—Poor Shadow of Love.

Wounds got in War to Warriours graceful show,
Wounds got in Love, are ridicul'd by you.
But Oh! I acted not the Warriour's part,
They lose their Limbs, but I have lost my Heart.
Like wounded Cowards, I am heartless found,
And every fair, who sees me, now may Wound.
No, Charming Maid! I yield not yet to die,
The best defence of Cowards, is to fly.
In vain, in vain your killing Darts pursue,
I am Love's Shadow, Beauty's substance You.

To a Lady making me a second present of a Lock of her Hair, after I had in an humour return'd the first.

Number thy Hairs, count then my summs of bliss;
The Golden Fleece was a mean prize to this.
With Popish Superstition, every day,
To this Lov'd guift, as to some Saint, I'll pray.
Far brighter this, than Ariadne's Hair
Translated to the Gods, and made a Star.
That sprung from earth; e'er to the Skies it flew,
This grew in Paradise, in Heaven it grew.
Thus, tho' the vanquish'd outworks I have won,
Never, Oh! Never must I gain the Town.
Twice ten Years Siege would here successless prove,
War ends in Peace, but can Despair gain Love?
You gave the gift; I did the gift restore,
Again you gave, now to receive no more.
My Heart was yours, you did the toy disdain,
Again 'tis yours, ne'er to return again.
What shall I give, my gratitude to show?
O may your Hair, fast as you cut it, grow;
But Pray'rs are little, where my self I owe.
See, how the Lock does my blest hands Embrace,
As once it Curl'd about the Charmer's Face.
What is my envy to thy present grown!
How do I envy what is now my own!
O could some God transform my shape to Hair,
And would'st thou me, as once this present, wear,
How were I blest! I would around thee roll,
And Curl, and clasp thy Breasts, and twine about thee whole.
And then, if any Lover should but dare
To Court, and beg the favour of thy Hair.
Up would I start, to Vindicate my right,
And stand an end, with horrour, and affright,
Thy Lovely Hair, where Beauty now is sown,
Should like Medusa's snaky Locks be shown,
And turn the bold beholders stiffen'd into Stone.

To a Lady Singing.

Musick has Charms no Poetry can raise.
That silence, which your Song Commands, is praise.

The Health.

After absence—To a Friend.

An absent Friend, long absent from my Arms,
(Long from my Breast, since I felt Love's alarms.
Return'd—last Night, the Prodigal return'd,
With gen'rous, kind, continu'd Friendship burn'd,
And, in the closest folds, his ruin'd Sylvius Mourn'd.
Both Mourn'd, at once in Pleasure and in pain,
Both Mourn'd that loss, which both esteem'd, as gain.
Strange force of Friendship! Vain and indiscreet,
We Mourn our absence most, when now we meet.
Thus, when the Mariner has reacht the shore,
Tho' he deplores not, till the Tempest's o'er,
Yet then he feels the late-past Anguish more.
Then, when safe landed on the welcome Coast,
Then, he perceives his vanisht dangers most.
Srait, from my Friend a Flood of Questions Springs,
Half Answers made, I ask ten thousand things,
For meeting Friends—
Grow highly ravish'd, as Triumphant Kings.
Our hasty Joys such num'rous Queries Start,
We seem'd not meeting then, but then to part.
We stood, embrac'd, then walk'd, and chang'd the ground,
We lodg'd—the Lov'd Amasia's Health flew round,
Amasia's Health the Golden Goblets Crown'd.

To a Lady, holding her Picture in my Hand, and looking on her Face.

Thus, Ixion like, I have maintain'd the chace,
Pursu'd the Goddess, and her Cloud embrace.
O thou, who fly'st with my despairing Heart,
Thou, more a Shadow than thy Picture, art.
Whilst round this Shade my Circling Arms I cast,
Thy Face, which shuns me, holds my Soul as fast.
Here had the fond Narcissus chanc'd to rove,
He and his Shadow too had dy'd for Love.
Let none attempt thy Picture; 'tis in vain;
Ev'n Nature cannot paint it o'er again.

The Arms.

Written at the request of Amasia.

'Tis she Commands; then, must her Poet Sing
The first bold Man, from whence his race did Spring.
First of the line, first noted of the Name,
Who his by subtle brav'ry purchas'd Fame,
Atchieving deeds, whence his long honours came.
A Castle stood, impregnable of Old,
Scorning assault, like Danae's Brazen hold;
By Steel unconquer'd, and unbrib'd by Gold.
Long had the British Force besieg'd this Tow'r,
Long had it Mock'd Britain's Enervate Pow'r.
This subtle Hero, Champion of his race,
With some few Troops, attempted, gain'd the Place.
Naked of Martial Pomp, unarm'd in show,
Deckt with Plum'd Casks, defenceless all below,
Forsook the Camp, revolting to the Foe.
As Friends they came, and were, as Friends, let in,
By which false Friendship they the Outworks win.
Gallantly Courteous, Fashionably brave,
Their long Plum'd Casks, as in Salute, they wave.
From which, at once, soon as the Signal's giv'n,
Small Pistols drawn; their Casks are tost to Heav'n.
With a loud shout, charging the Guards, they Fire,
Some Fall, some Fly, and Fighting, some Retire.
At the rais'd Clamour, the Besiegers hast,
Rush in, like Floods, the Gates defenceless past,
And by Join'd Forces, Storm the Fort at last.
Hence are his Honours Blazon'd, hence his Arms,
For his close Valour, and secure Alarms.
A Castle for his Crest the Helmet bore,
Three Pistols added in his Field he wore,
Three Roses only were his Arms before.
I envy not, bold Ancestor! Thy Fame,
Amasia mine, I should despise a Name.
Triumphs o'er Beauty I to Worlds prefer;
You Vanquish Castles, let me Vanquish her.
Fam'd much for cunning, not for Courage less,
Yet she's a Fortress thou could'st ne'er possess.
Inspire me, Parent Genius! mild appear,
Useless thy Roses, if they fail me here.
Blushing they fall, her Cheeks more Sweetly Red,
Now, Pale like me, their Sickly leaves they shed,
Behold, they Wither now, and now are Dead.
Degenerate Youth! Thy Arms, thy Honours lost,
What Fame has slothful Sylvius left to boast?
New Arms the Patron of his line had won;
Unworthy thou to be esteem'd a Son,
Losing what long descent had made thy own.
This points the Warriour's, this the Lover's course,
That sweetness always must be Join'd with force.