 | The Land of Love |  |
Honour.
I.
Honour's a Phantom, which aroundThe sacred Bower does still appear;
All Day it haunts the hollow'd Ground,
And hinders Lovers ent'ring there.
It rarely ever takes its Flight,
But in the gloomy Shades of Night.
Silence and Gloom the Charm can only end,
And are the luckiest Hours to lay the Fiend.
Then only 'tis the Vision will remove,
With Incantations of soft Vows and Love.
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II.
But as a God he's worshipp'd hereBy all the lovely, young, and fair;
He all their kind Desires controuls,
And plays the Tyrant o'er their Souls.
His chiefest, Attributes, are Pride and Spight,
His Pow'r is robbing Lovers of Delight:
An Enemy to human Kind,
But most to Youth severe;
As Age ill-natur'd, and as Ign'rance blind,
Boasting, but baffled too, as Cowards are;
Fond in Opinion, obstinately wise,
And fills the World with Bus'ness, and with Noise.
III.
Some cross proud Woman, old, and out of Fashion,Too ugly for the Trouble of Temptation,
Unskill'd in Love, in Virtue, or in Truth,
Preach'd his false Notions first to plague our Youth.
And as in other Sectaries we find,
His Vot'ries most consist of Womankind,
Who throng t'adore the necessary Evil,
But most for Fear, as Indians do the Devil.
Peevish, uneasy all; for in Revenge,
Love wounds them with a thousand Darts,
They feel, tho' not confess the Change,
Their false Devotion cannot save their Hearts.
Thus while the Idol Honour they obey,
Swift Time comes on, and blooming Charms decay,
And ruin'd Beaty does too soon the Cheat betray.
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This Goblin here the lovely Maid alarms,
Seiz'd, and with-held her from my trembling Arms.
Aminta, fly, he crys; fly, heedless Maid;
For if thou ent'rest the bewitching Shade,
Thy Fame, Content, and Lover all are lost,
And thou no more of him or Fame shalt boast;
The charming Pleasure soon the Youth will cloy,
And what thou would'st preserve, it will destroy.
Oh! easy Maid, by too much Love undone,
Where are thy Modesty and Blushes gone?
Where's all that Virtue made thee so ador'd?
For Beauty, stript of Virtue, grows abhorr'd;
Dies like a Flow'r, whose Scent quick Poyson gives,
Tho' ev'ry gaudy Glory paints its Leaves.
Thus spoke the Phantom, whilst the list'ning Maid
Took in the fatal Council, and obey'd.
Supriz'd she stood, and, like an Image, dumb,
(For rising Anger held her trembling Tongue)
The blushing Roses strait her Cheeks forsook,
And their sweet Places paler Lillies took;
But taking Breath, she her deep Silence broke,
And, with a Frown, this killing Language spoke.
What wanton Word did you e'er hear me say,
Which did a Mind too light and vain betray?
Or what immodest Gesture did you see,
T'encourage you to think so base of me?
I now recant whate'er of Love I swore,
And charge you henceforth ne'er to see me more.
Seiz'd, and with-held her from my trembling Arms.
Aminta, fly, he crys; fly, heedless Maid;
For if thou ent'rest the bewitching Shade,
Thy Fame, Content, and Lover all are lost,
And thou no more of him or Fame shalt boast;
The charming Pleasure soon the Youth will cloy,
And what thou would'st preserve, it will destroy.
Oh! easy Maid, by too much Love undone,
Where are thy Modesty and Blushes gone?
Where's all that Virtue made thee so ador'd?
For Beauty, stript of Virtue, grows abhorr'd;
Dies like a Flow'r, whose Scent quick Poyson gives,
Tho' ev'ry gaudy Glory paints its Leaves.
Thus spoke the Phantom, whilst the list'ning Maid
Took in the fatal Council, and obey'd.
Supriz'd she stood, and, like an Image, dumb,
(For rising Anger held her trembling Tongue)
The blushing Roses strait her Cheeks forsook,
And their sweet Places paler Lillies took;
But taking Breath, she her deep Silence broke,
And, with a Frown, this killing Language spoke.
What wanton Word did you e'er hear me say,
Which did a Mind too light and vain betray?
Or what immodest Gesture did you see,
T'encourage you to think so base of me?
I now recant whate'er of Love I swore,
And charge you henceforth ne'er to see me more.
I saw my Error, blush'd, sigh'd, wept, and vow'd,
And all the Marks of deep Repentance show'd:
I begg'd her to forgive the rash Design,
And think it was the Fault of Love, not mine.
But all in vain, she no Compassion shows,
But swift as fleeting Winds with Honour goes;
And me, half dead with Sorrow, left alone,
Unto the Groves and Springs to make my Moan.
Love saw my Grief, and to my Rescue came,
When, on his Bosom, thus I did complain.
And all the Marks of deep Repentance show'd:
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And think it was the Fault of Love, not mine.
But all in vain, she no Compassion shows,
But swift as fleeting Winds with Honour goes;
And me, half dead with Sorrow, left alone,
Unto the Groves and Springs to make my Moan.
Love saw my Grief, and to my Rescue came,
When, on his Bosom, thus I did complain.
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