The Land of Love :: :: University of Virginia Library

Weep, weep, Lysander, for the lovely Maid,
To whom thy sacred Vows were paid,
Regardless of thy Love, thy Youth, and Vows,
The dull Advice of Honour now pursues.
O say, my lovely Charmer, where
Is all that Softness gone,
Your tender Voice and Eyes did wear,
When first I was undone?
Where is the killing Language of thy Tongue,
That did my ravish'd Soul surprize?
Where is the tender Rhet'rick gone,
That flow'd so softly in thy Eyes?
Why, why did I not Hymen's Priests obey,
And for the Marriage-Ceremonies stay?
Tho' 'twas the farthest, 'twas the safest Way.
Why did I not her Humour better prove,
And watch the softest Minute of her Love?
All's fled with Honour, on a Phantom lost,
Where Youth's vast Store must perish unpossest.

Ah! why was I so forward in my Love?
Why did I with such Haste to Ruin move?
I should have mark'd the Twinklings of her Eyes,
And read her am'rous Thoughts in that Disguise;
Watch'd ev'ry Glance, 'till of Success secure,
And not attempted 'till I had been sure.
I should have us'd more soft and pleasing Words,
Which Eloquence, inspir'd by Love, affords;
Such Words, as her young Fancy might deceive,
And strictest Virtue could not but believe,
Before the fatal Question I propos'd,
And in her Ear the am'rous Tale disclos'd.
But my too eager Passion I pursue,
And what rash Love, not Reason bad me, do;
In one sad Minute all my Bliss destroy,
And put a final Period to my Joy:
For those dear Charms, which I so much adore,
My wretched Eyes are charg'd to see no more.
Thou God of Love, thy Loss with me bemoan,
The lovely Fugitive's with Honour gone.
Love smiling, spread his Wings, and mounting flies,
As swift as Lightning, thro' the yielding Skies,
Where Honour bore away the trembling Prize.
When at her Feet the little Charmer falls,
And to his Aid his pow'rful Softness calls;
Assails her with his Tears, his Sighs, and trys
Th'unfailing Language of his Tongue and Eyes.

Return, he said; return, oh! fickle Maid,
Who solid Joys abandon'st for a Shade.

Turn, and behold the Slaughter of thine Eyes;
See the heart-broken Youth all dying lies.
Why do'st thou follow this fantastick Sprite,
This faithless Ignis Fatuus of the Night?
This Foe to Youth, and Beauty's worst Disease,
Tyrant of Wit, of Pleasure, and of Ease;
Who of all real Harms the Author is,
But never pays us back one solid Bliss.
You'll say your Fame is worth a thousand Joys,
Deluded Maid, trust not to empty Noise;
A Sound, that for a poor Esteem to gain,
Damns thy whole Life t'Uneasiness and Pain.
No, no, return with me, and there receive
What poor, what scanted Honour cannot give.
Starve not those Charms that were for Pleasure made,
Nor unpossess'd let the rich Treasure fade.
When Time comes on, Honour, that empty Word,
Will leave thee then, for flighted Age to guard.
Honour, as other faithless Lovers are,
Is only dealing with the Young and Fair.
Approaching Age makes the false Hero fly,
What's Honour with the Young, with th'Old's Necessity.

Thus said the God; and all the while he spoke,
Her Heart new Fire, her Eyes new Softness took.
Great, great, O Love! she crys thy Power is,
That makes me pardon such a Crime as this.
Lysander, rise, I thy Affront forgive;
Rise, see, 'tis your Aminta bids you live;
But don't henceforth attempt my Chastity,
A Jewel dearer far than Life to me.

Love's Speech is pow'rful; indeed, 'tis true;
But still what Honour dictates, I'll pursue.
Heav'n still preserve my Credit, may kind Fate
Give to my Life and Fame an equal Date.

These happy Words my ravish'd Fancy charm'd,
And with new Spirits all my Blood alarm'd.
With Joy I rose, and to the lovely Maid
I bow'd, and for my Life my Thanks I paid;
With weeping Eyes I shew'd my Penitence,
And vow'd no more to do the like Offence.
With Promises I banish'd all her Fears,
And wash'd away Suspicion with my Tears.
The Winds are hush'd, the Sky serene again,
And I no more of cruel Fate complain.
But as the Sun, when all the Storm's blown o'er,
Shines forth more bright and scorching than before;
So Lovers, after some short Interval
Of Coldness, into greater Favours fall;
Each kindling Look new Tenderness inspires,
And turns all Passion to Love's softer Fires.
Thus I, with more impetuous Ardor burn,
More earnestly intreat her to return
To Hymen's Chapel, and our Loves compleat,
With Vows too strong for ev'ry Thing but Fate;
Whence we may safely to the Bower stray,
And in its pleasing Shades melt our soft Hours away.
Forthwith I begg'd the Favour of her Hand,
But she the forward Kindness does withstand.
I pray'd her to go on, she answer'd, No;
But yet methoughts her Eyes still bad me go.

Why do you thus prolong my Pain, I said,
And will not cure the Wounds your Eyes have made?
Why do you thus defer to quench the Fire
Which first your scorching Beauty did inspire?
How can you thus uncharitable be,
And hug the worst of Vices, Cruelty?
Strange Passion this! which to your self denies
That Bliss which Love shews dancing in your Eyes.
No longer cross the Dictates of your Mind;
If not to me, yet to your self be kind.
See at your Feet your suppliant Lover falls,
And with uplifted Hands for Pity calls:
Be then, Aminta, kind as you are fair,
And all my Grief shall vanish into Air.

Too strong she trembling answer'd, Is thy Art
To take a heedless Virgin's tender Heart?
In vain, alas! I guard my feeble Sense
Against the Charms of flatt'ring Eloquence.
I yield, resistless Conqueror, I yield;
Love o'er the weak Aminta has prevail'd.
Then with a Blush, which did her Soul betray,
In soft consenting Words appoints the happy Day.

Oh! my dear Lysidas! my faithful Friend,
Would I could here, with all my Pleasures end!
'Twas Heav'n, 'twas Extasy, each Minute brought
New Raptures to my Senses, Soul, and Thought.
Young am'rous Hero's at her Feet did fall,
Despair'd, and dy'd, whilst I was Lord of all.
Her Empire o'er my Soul each Moment grew;
Her Charms appear'd more numerous and new:

Fonder each Hour my tender Heart became,
And ev'ry Look fann'd and increas'd my Flame.
Some God inform thee of my bless'd Estate;
But all their Pow'rs divert thee from my Fate!
For on a Day, oh! may no chearful Ray
Of the Sun's Light, bless that unlucky Day;
May the black Hours from the Account be torn;
May no fair Thing upon that Day be born;
May Fate and Hell appoint it for their own;
May no good Deed be in its Circle done;
May Rapes, Conspiracies, and Murthers, stay
'Till it comes on, be that the horrid Day.
When just before we were to solemnize
Our Vows, Death does the lovely Maid surprize.
Her fleeting Soul so quickly disappears,
As Leaves blown off with Winds, or falling Stars.
And Life its Flight assum'd with such a Pace,
It took no Farewel of her charming Face:
Her flying Soul no Beauty did surprize;
It scarce took Time to languish in her Eyes:
But on my panting Bosom bow'd her Head,
And sighing, these surprizing Words she said.

Joy of my Soul, my faithful tender Youth,
Lord of my Vows, and Miracle of Truth,
The angry Gods resolving we must part,
I render back the Treasure of thy Heart:
When in some new fair Breast it finds a Room,
And I shall lie neglected in my Tomb;
Remember, oh! remember, the fair She
Can never love thee, darling Youth! like me.

Then with a Sigh, she sunk into my Breast,
While her fair Eyes her last Farewel exprest.

To aiding Gods I cry'd, but they were deaf,
And no kind Pow'r afforded me Relief.
I call her Name, I weep, I rave, I faint;
Nothing but Echo answers my Complaint.
I kiss, and bathe her stiff'ning Face with Tears,
Press it to mine, as cold and pale as her's.
Thou soft Obliger! of thy Sex the best!
Thou Blessing, too extream to be possest!
By all thy Charms, I cry'd, I beg thee live;
By all the Joys thou could'st receive or give;
By each Recess, each silent happy Shade,
Which by thy Presence were all sacred made;
Where thou and I our Hearts fond Stories told,
And did the Secrets of our Loves unfold.
But she, alas! is deaf to all my Pray'rs,
And now no more regards my Sighs and Tears.
The fading Roses of her Lips I press;
But no kind Word her silent Lips confess.
Her lovely Eyes I kiss, and call upon;
But all their wonted answ'ring Rhet'rick's gone.
Her charming little Hands in vain I ask;
Those Hands no more my happy Neck shall grasp:
No more about my Face her Fingers play,
Nor braid my Hair, nor the vain Curls display:
No more her Tongue beguiling Stories tell,
Whose wond'rous Wit could grace a Tale so well.
All, all is fled, to Death's cold Mansion gone,
And ev'ry Day my Fate is hast'ning on:

For Love has not one Bliss for me in Store,
Since my Aminta can dispense no more.
Thence to a silent Desart I advance,
Call'd the sad Desart of Rememberance.