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Poems upon several occasions

with a voyage to the Island of Love. By Mrs A. Behn

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My dear Amoret, Mris. B.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

My dear Amoret, Mris. B.

Next Amoret, the true Delight
Of all that do approach her sight:
The Sun in all its Course ne'er met
Ought Fair or Sweet like Amoret.
Alone she came, her Eyes declin'd,
In which you'l read her troubled Mind;
Yes, Silvia, for she'l not deny
She loves, as well as thou and I.
'Tis Philocles, that Proud Ingrate,
That pays her Passion back with Hate;

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VVhilst she does all but him despise,
And clouds the lustre of her Eyes:
But once to her he did address,
And dying Passion too express;
But soon the Amorous Heat was laid,
He soon forgot the Vows he'd made;
VVhilst she in every Silent Grove,
Bewails her easie Faith and Love.
Numbers of Swains do her adore,
But she has vow'd to love no more.