Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr John Hopkins |
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LOVE in IDEA.
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 | Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses |  |
108
LOVE in IDEA.
Written to a Friend, who said his Mistress was above Gold, and desir'd my advice in his Suit.
Yes, some there are, sure yet some Nymphs remain,
Some gen'rous Nymphs, despising sordid gain.
If such you find, no suff'rings are too hard,
No Pains are great enough for such reward.
If some such truly noble fair you see,
You meet that fair yet never met by me.
My Art were useless then, nor would I teach
Devices far below her glorious reach.
Exalted Numbers should her worth Proclaim,
She should be every Poet's Charming Theam,
Above the Stars the Muse her name should bear,
Fix her immortal Crown, for ever fixt it there.
Such gen'rous Flames would Paradise restore,
With Flow'ry Pleasures, as at first it bore.
Still should thy Passion kindle, as it soar'd,
And she, the Charming she, should be ador'd.
Still with Obsequious Courtship should'st thou serve,
Thou could'st not Love her, as such Charms deserve.
Let Am'rous Sylvius to that Charmer flee,
The Maid like her should be belov'd by me.
Revolving Days and Nights would I admire,
Gaze on her Eyes, draw thence New Streams of Fire.
At her dear Feet, all Prostrate, Breath my lays,
Sing as she smiles, her every motion Praise,
And look, & look again, revolving nights and days.
In tuneful Numbers every thought express,
And make Immortal Love, and feel no less.
New transports still should from New transports Spring,
Growing my self, all ravisht, as a I Sing.
Angelick Thoughts should my whole Soul employ,
Immortal Love, and as Immortal Joy.
With trem'lous, darting glances would I gaze,
Fixt, like some Statue, in a blest amaze.
My flutt'ring Heart it's motions should improve,
And where for Life but with one stroke 'twould move,
A thousand beat, with quick alarms, for Love.
Then, would I run her Num'rous Beauties o'er,
Creative fancy ever Springing more.
Whilst the Idea feeds on new supplies,
Whilst thro' my Soul her Charming Image flies,
Joy, dancing, smiles in my Extatick Eyes.
Trembling with eager Love would I approach,
And as I rise, Bow Humbly, e'er I touch.
Now like Love's self, with daz'ling sight, behold,
Then, as all Wings, like the Flusht Hero, bold,
Rush on—and clasp her fast, as Misers clasp their Gold.
Seraphick Raptures Charm, while I embrace,
And as more close my Eyes her Features trace,
Fresh glories dawn in her Aerial Face.
Ten thousand, thousand rising presses past,
Still would I press her with such eager hast,
That every close should seem the last of all the last.
Each fainting Nerve new vigour should reserve,
And press, as Jealous of some Rival Nerve.
As light'nings flash on light'nings to each Pole,
So should new presses on new presses roll,
Fly thro' each part at once, dissolving thro' the whole.
Lodg'd on the Fragrant Bosom of the fair,
I spread in hast ten thousand Kisses there.
Charm'd with those Sweets, strait to her Lips aspire,
Breath there my Soul, there revel my desire,
'Tis too, too much for Man—
I tast of Heaven, and in a Trance expire.
Some gen'rous Nymphs, despising sordid gain.
If such you find, no suff'rings are too hard,
No Pains are great enough for such reward.
If some such truly noble fair you see,
You meet that fair yet never met by me.
My Art were useless then, nor would I teach
Devices far below her glorious reach.
Exalted Numbers should her worth Proclaim,
She should be every Poet's Charming Theam,
Above the Stars the Muse her name should bear,
Fix her immortal Crown, for ever fixt it there.
Such gen'rous Flames would Paradise restore,
With Flow'ry Pleasures, as at first it bore.
109
And she, the Charming she, should be ador'd.
Still with Obsequious Courtship should'st thou serve,
Thou could'st not Love her, as such Charms deserve.
Let Am'rous Sylvius to that Charmer flee,
The Maid like her should be belov'd by me.
Revolving Days and Nights would I admire,
Gaze on her Eyes, draw thence New Streams of Fire.
At her dear Feet, all Prostrate, Breath my lays,
Sing as she smiles, her every motion Praise,
And look, & look again, revolving nights and days.
In tuneful Numbers every thought express,
And make Immortal Love, and feel no less.
New transports still should from New transports Spring,
Growing my self, all ravisht, as a I Sing.
Angelick Thoughts should my whole Soul employ,
Immortal Love, and as Immortal Joy.
With trem'lous, darting glances would I gaze,
Fixt, like some Statue, in a blest amaze.
My flutt'ring Heart it's motions should improve,
And where for Life but with one stroke 'twould move,
A thousand beat, with quick alarms, for Love.
110
Creative fancy ever Springing more.
Whilst the Idea feeds on new supplies,
Whilst thro' my Soul her Charming Image flies,
Joy, dancing, smiles in my Extatick Eyes.
Trembling with eager Love would I approach,
And as I rise, Bow Humbly, e'er I touch.
Now like Love's self, with daz'ling sight, behold,
Then, as all Wings, like the Flusht Hero, bold,
Rush on—and clasp her fast, as Misers clasp their Gold.
Seraphick Raptures Charm, while I embrace,
And as more close my Eyes her Features trace,
Fresh glories dawn in her Aerial Face.
Ten thousand, thousand rising presses past,
Still would I press her with such eager hast,
That every close should seem the last of all the last.
Each fainting Nerve new vigour should reserve,
And press, as Jealous of some Rival Nerve.
As light'nings flash on light'nings to each Pole,
So should new presses on new presses roll,
Fly thro' each part at once, dissolving thro' the whole.
Lodg'd on the Fragrant Bosom of the fair,
I spread in hast ten thousand Kisses there.
111
Breath there my Soul, there revel my desire,
'Tis too, too much for Man—
I tast of Heaven, and in a Trance expire.
From my designs how widely do I rove!
Why did my Soul this fancy'd Beauty move?
I Sing of Art, and yet by Nature Love.
Hence may the Youth, whom I instruct, believe,
His Tutour would his utmost pains deceive.
How can he think I'll make the fair his prey;
Who in Idea bear the prize away?
Yet trust me, youth, whilst by Love's Pangs I'm torn,
By me Maids are but in Idea born.
Why did my Soul this fancy'd Beauty move?
I Sing of Art, and yet by Nature Love.
Hence may the Youth, whom I instruct, believe,
His Tutour would his utmost pains deceive.
How can he think I'll make the fair his prey;
Who in Idea bear the prize away?
Yet trust me, youth, whilst by Love's Pangs I'm torn,
By me Maids are but in Idea born.
| Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | |