University of Virginia Library

How many of thy Captives (Love) complain
Thou yoak'st thy slaves in too severe a chain?
I have heard 'em their Poetique malice show,
To curse thy Quiver, and blaspheme thy Bow.
Calling thee Boy, and blind, threatning the rod;
Prophanely swearing that thou art no god.
Or if thou be; not from the starry place,
But born below, and of the Stygian race.
But yet these Atheists that thy shasts dislike,
Thou canst be friendly too, and deign to strike.
This on his Cloris spends his thoughts and time;
That chaunts Corinna in his amorous rhime:
A third speaks raptures, and hath gain'd a wit
By praising Cælia; else had mist of it.
But I that think there can no freedome be,
(Cupid) so sweet as thy Captivity;
I that could wish thy chains, and live content
To wear them, not thy Gives, but ornament?
I that could any ransome pay to thee,
Not to redeem, but sell my liberty.
I am neglected. Let the cause be known;
Art thou a niggard of thy arrows grown,
That were so prodigall; or dost thou please
To set thy Pillars up with Hercules
Weary of conquest? or should I disgrace
Thy victories, if I were deign'd a place
Amongst thy other Trophies? none of these,
Witnesse thy daily triumphs: who, but sees
Thou still pursuest thy game from high to low;
No age, no Sex can scape thy powerfull bow.
Decrepit age whose veins and bones may be
An Argument against Phylosophy,
To prove an emptinesse; that has no sense
Left but his feeling, feels thy influence;
And dying dotes: not babes thy shafts can misse;
How quickly Infants can be taught to kisse!
As the poor Apes being dumb these words would borrow
I was born to day to get a babe to morrow.
Each Plow-man thy propitious wounds can prove,
Tilling the earth, and wishing 'twere his Love.
Am I invulnerable? is the dart
Rebeaten, which thou level'st at my heart?
I'le rest my Parents bones, if they have done
As Tethis once did to her god like son
The great Achilles, dipt in Stygian lake:
Though I am so, Cupid, thy arrows take,
Try where I am not proof, and let me feel
Thy archery, if not i'th heart, i'th heel.
Perchance my heart lies there; who would not be
A Coward, to be valiant made by thee.
I cannot say thy blindnesse is the cause,
That I am barr'd the freedome of thy laws;
The wretched out-Law of thy Mothers Court,
That place of comfort, Paradise of sport.
For they may say, that say thou blind canst be,
Eagles want eyes, and only moles can see.
Not Argus with so many lights did shine,
For each fair Ladies sparkling eyes are thine.
Think'st thou because I do the Muses love,
I in thy Camp would a faint souldier prove?
How came Musæus and Anacreon then
Into thy troops? how came Tibullus pen
Amongst thy spears, and how came Ovid (say)
To be enrol'd great Generall in thy pay?
And doubt'st thou me? suspect you I will tell
The hidden mysteries of your Paphian cell,
To the strait lac't Diana? or betray
The secrets of the night unto the day?
No, Cupid, by thy Mothers doves I swear,
And by her sparrows, 'tis an idle fear.
If Philomel descend to sport with me,
Know I can be (great Love) as dumb as she.
Though she hath lost her tongue; in such delights
All should be like her, only talk by nights:
Make me thy Priest (if Poets truth divine)
I'le make the Muses wanton, at thy shrine
They all shall wait, and Dian's self shall be
A votresse to thy Mothers Nunnery.
When zeale with nature shall maintain no strife,
Where none swear chastity, and single life.
To Venus-Nuns an easier oath is read,
She breaks her vow, that keeps her maiden-head.
Reject not then your Flamin's ministry:
Let me but Deacon in thy Temples be:
And see how I shall touch my powerfull lyre,
And more inspir'd with thine then Phœbus fire,
Chaunt such a moving verse, as soone should frame
Desire of dalliance in the coyest dame,
Melting to amorous thoughts her heart of stone,
And force her to untrusse her Virgin Zone.
Is Lucrece or Penelope alive?
Give me a Spartan Matron, Sabine Wife,
Or any of the Vestalls hither call,
And I wilil make them be thy converts all.
Who like good Proselytes more in heart then show,
Shall to thy origies all so zealous goe.
That Thais shall, nor Helen such appear;
As if they only Loves precians were.
But now my Muse dull heavy numbers sings,
Cupid 'tis thou alone giv'st verse her wings.
The Lawrell wreath I never shall obtain,
Unlesse thy torch illuminate my brain.
Love Lawrell gives; Phœbus as much can say,
Had not he lov'd, there had not been the Bay.
Why is my Presentation then put by?
Who is't that my Induction dares deny?
Can any Lady say I am unfit?
If so, I'le sue my Quare Impedit.
I'm young enough, my spirits quick and good,
My veins swell high with kind and active blood.
Nor am I marble; when I see an eye
Quick, bright, and full, rai'd round with majesty;
I feel my heart with a strange heat opprest.
As 'twere a lightning darted through my breast.
I long not for the cherries on the Tree,
So much as those which on a lip I see.
And more affection bear I to the Rose
That in a cheek, then in a garden grows.
I gaze on beauteous Virgins with delight:
And feel my temper vary at the sight;
I know not why, but warmer streams do glide
Thorow my veins, sure 'tis a wanton tide.
But you perchance esteem my love the lesse,
Because I have a foolish bashfulnesse,
A shame-fac'd rose you find within my face,
Whose modest blush frights you from my embrace;
That's ready now to fall, if you'l but deign
To pluck it once, it shall not grow again.
Or do you therefore cast my love away,
Because I am not expert in the play?
My skil's not known till it be ventred on;
I have not Aristotle read alone;
I am in Ovid a proficient too;
And if you'd heare my Lecture, could to you
Analize all his Art, with so much more
Judgment and skill then e're was taught before;
That I might be chief Master, he, dull fool,
The under-usher in the Cyprian Scool:
For petty Pædagogue, poor pedant, he
First writ the Art, and then the remedy:
But I could set down rules of love so sure.
As should exceed Art, and admit no cure.
Pictures I could invent (Love, vvere I thine)
As might stand Copies unto Aretine
And such new dalliance study, as should frame
Variety in that which is the same.
I am not then uncapable (great Love)
Would'st thou my skill but with one arrow prove,
Give me a Mistresse in whose looks to joy,
And such a Mistresse (Love) as will be coy.
Not easily won, though to be won in time;
That from her nicenesse I may store my thime:
Then in a thousand sighs to thee I'le pay
My Morning Orisons, and everyday
Two thousand groans, and count these amorous prayers
I make to thee, not by my Beads but tears.
Besides, each day I'le write an Elegy,
And in as lamentable Poetry
As any Inns of Court-man, that hath gone
To buy an Ovid with a Littleton.

But (Love) I see you will not entertain
Those that desire to live amidst your train;
For death, and you have got a trick to flye
From such poor wretches as do wish you nigh.
You scorn a yeelding slave; and plainly show it,
Those that contemn your power you make to know it.

And such am I; I slight your proud commands;
I marl you put a Bow into your hands;
A Hobby-horse, or some such pretty toy,
A rattle would befit you better, Boy.
You conquer gods and men? how stand I free,
That will acknowledg no supremacy
Unto your churlishgod-head? does it cry?
Give it a plum to still it's deity.
Good Venus let it suck; that it may keep
Lesse brawling; gentle Nurse rock it a sleep,
Or if you be past Baby, and are now
Come to wear breeches, must we then allow
Your Boy-ship leave to shoot at whom you please?
No, whip it for such wanton trics as these:
If this do anger you, I'le send a Bee,
Shall to a single duell challnege thee:
And make you to your Mam run, and complain,
The little serpent stung thee once again.
Go hunt the Butter-flies, and if you can
But catch 'em, make their wings into a fan.
Wee'l give you leave to hunt, and sport at them,
So you let me alone,—But I blaspheme
(Great Love) I feare I have offended thee,
If so, be mercifull—and punish me.