The Works of John Sheffield :: :: University of Virginia Library

Within the silent Shades of soft Repose,
Where Fancy's boundless Stream for ever flows;
Where the enfranchis'd Soul at Ease can play,
Tir'd with the toilsome Business of the Day;
Where Princes gladly rest their weary Heads,
And change uneasy Thrones for downy Beds;
Where seeming Joys delude despairing Minds,
And where ev'n Jealousy some Quiet finds;
There I and Sorrow for a while could part,
Sleep clos'd my Eyes, and eas'd a sighing Heart.

But here too soon a wretched Lover found
In deepest Griefs the Sleep can ne'er be sound;
With strange Surprize my troubled Fancy brings
Odd antick Shapes of wild unheard-of Things;
Dismal and terrible they all appear,
My Soul was shook with an unusual Fear.
But as when Visions glad the Eyes of Saints,
And kind Relief attends devout Complaints,
Some beauteous Angel in bright Charms will shine,
And spreads a Glory round, that's all divine;
Just such a bright and beauteous Form appears,
The Monsters vanish, and with them my Fears.
The fairest Shape was then before me brought,
That Eyes e'er saw, or Fancy ever thought;
How weak are Words to shew such Excellence,
Which ev'n confounds the Soul, as well as Sense!
And, while our Eyes transporting Pleasure find,
It stops not here, but strikes the very Mind.
Some Angel speak her Praise! No human Tongue,
But with its utmost Art must do her Wrong.

The only Woman that has Pow'r to kill,
And yet is good enough to want the Will;
Who needs no soft alluring Words repeat,
Nor study'd Looks of languishing Deceit.

Fantastick Beauty, always in the Wrong,
Still thinks some Pride must to its Pow'r belong;
An Air affected, and a haughty Mien;
Something that seems to say, I would be seen.
But of all Womankind this only She,
Full of its Charms, and from its Frailty free,
Deserves some nobler Muse her Fame to raise,
By making the whole Sex beside, her Pyramid of Praise.
She, She appear'd, the Source of all my Joys;
The dearest Care that all my Thought employs:
Gently she look'd, as when I left her last;
When first she seiz'd my Heart, and held it fast;
When, if my Vows, alas! were made too late,
I saw my Doom came not from her, but Fate.
With Pity then she eas'd my raging Pain,
And her kind Eyes could scarce from Tears refrain:

Why gentle Swain, said she, why do you grieve
In Words I should not hear, much less believe?
I gaze on that which is a Fault to mind,
And ought to fly the Danger which I find:
Of false Mankind tho' you may be the best,
Ye all have robb'd poor Women of their Rest.
I see your Pain, and see it too with Grief,
Because I would, yet must not give Relief.
Thus, for a Husband's Sake, as well as yours,
My scrup'lous Soul divided Pain endures;
Guilty, alas! to both; for thus I do
Too much for him, yet not enough for you.
Give over then, give over, hapless Swain,
A Passion moving, but a Passion vain.
Not Chance, nor Time shall ever change my Thought:
'Tis better much to die, than do a Fault.

Oh, worse than ever! Is it then my Doom
Just to see Heav'n, where I must never come?

Your soft Compassion, if not something more:
Yet I remain as wretched as before:
The Wind, indeed, is fair, but ah! no Sight of Shore.
Farewell, too scrup'lous Fair-one; oh! farewel.
What Torments I endure, no Tongue can tell;
Thank Heav'n, my Fate transports me now, where I
Your Martyr may with Ease and Safety die.

With that I kneel'd, and seiz'd her trembling Hand,
While she impos'd this cruel kind Command:
Live and love on; you will be true, I know;
But live then, and come back to tell me so:
For tho' I blush at this last guilty Breath,
I can endure that better than your Death.

Tormenting Kindness! Barbarous Reprieve!
Condemn'd to die, and yet compell'd to live!

This tender Scene my Dream repeated o'er,
Just as it pass'd in real Truth before.
Methought I then fell grov'ling to the Ground,
Till on a sudden rais'd, I wond'ring found

A strange Appearance all in taintless White;
His Form gave Rev'rence, and his Face Delight:
Goodness and Greatness in his Eyes were seen;
Gentle his Look, and affable his Mien.
A kindly Notice of me thus he took:
“What mean these flowing Eyes, this ghastly Look!
“These trembling Joints, this loose dishevel'd Hair,
“And this cold Dew, the Drops of deep Despair?”

With Grief and Wonder first my Spirits faint,
But thus, at last, I vented my Complaint.
Behold a Wretch whom cruel Fate has found,
And in the Depth of all Misfortune drown'd.
There shines a Nymph, to whom an envy'd Swain
Is ty'd in Hymen's ceremonious Chain;
But cloy'd with Charms of such a Marriage-Bed,
And fed with Manna, yet he longs for Bread;
And will, most Husband-like, not only range
For Love perhaps of nothing else but Change;
But to inferior Beauty prostrate lies,
And courts her Love, in Scorn of Flavia's Eyes.

All this I knew (the Form divine reply'd)
And did but ask to have thy Temper try'd,
Which prove sincere. Of both I know the Mind;
She is too scrupulous, and thou too kind:
But since thy fatal Love's for ever fix'd,
Whatever Time or Absence come betwixt;
Since thy fond Heart ev'n her Disdain prefers
To others Love, I'll something soften hers.
Else in the Search of Virtue she may stray:
Well-meaning Mortals should not lose their Way.
She now indeed sins on the safer Side,
For Hearts too loose are never to be ty'd;
But no Extremes are either good or wise,
And in the Midst alone true Virtue lies.
When Marriage-Vows unite an equal Pair,
'Tis a mere Contract, made by human Care,
By which they both are for Convenience ty'd,
The Bridegroom yet more strictly than the Bride:
For Circumstances alter ev'ry Ill,
And Woman meets with most Temptation still;

She a forsaken Bed must often bear,
While he can never fail to find her there,
And therefore less excus'd to range elsewhere.
Yet this she ought to suffer and submit:
But when no longer for each other fit,
If Usage base shall just Resentment move,
Or, what is worse, Affronts of wand'ring Love;
No Obligation after that remains.
'Tis mean, not just, to wear a Rival's Chains.

Yet Decency requires the wonted Cares
Of Int'rest, Children, and remote Affairs;
But in her Love, that dear Concern of Life,
She all the while may be another's Wife:
Heav'n that beholds her wrong'd and widow'd Bed,
Permits a Lover in her Husband's Stead.

I flung me at his Feet, his Robes would kiss,
And cry'd,—Ev'n our base World is just in this;
Amidst our Censures, Love we gently blame;
And Love sometimes preserves a Female Fame.

What Tie less strong can Woman's Will restrain?
When Honour, Checks, and Conscience plead in vain;
When Parents Threats, and Friends Persuasions fail,
When Int'rest and Ambition scarce prevail,
To bound that Sex when nothing else can move;
They'll live reserv'd to please the Man they love!

The Spirit then reply'd to all I said,
She may be kind, but not till thou art dead;
Bewail thy Memory, bemoan thy Fate:
Then she will love, when 'tis, alas! too late:
Of all thy Pains she will no Pity have,
Till sad Despair has sent thee to the Grave.

Amaz'd, I wak'd in Haste,
All trembling at my Doom;
Dreams oft repeat Adventures past,
And tell our Ills to come.