University of Virginia Library

Fair Royal Maid, permit a Youth undone,
To tell you how he drew his ruin on;
By what degrees he took that passion in,
That made him guilty of Promethean Sin,
Who from the Gods durst steal Celestial Fire;
And tho' with less success I did as high aspire:
Ah, why (you Gods) was she of mortal Race,
And why 'twixt her and me was there so vast a space?
Why was she not above my Passion made?
Some Star in Heaven or Goddess of the Shade
And yet my haughty Soul could ne'er have bow'd
To any Beauty of the common Crowd.
None but the Brow that did expect a Crown
Could charm or awe me with a Smile or Frown.

I liv'd the Envy of the Arcadian Plains,
Sought by the Nymphs, and bow'd to by the Swains.
Where-e'er I past I swept the Street along,
And gather'd round me all the gazing Throng.
In numerous Flocks and Herds I did abound,
And when I vainly spread my Wishes round,
They wanted nothing but my being crown'd:
Yet witness all you spightfull Pow'rs above,
If my Ambition did not spring from Love:
Had you, bright Gloriana, been less fair,
Less excellent, less charming than you are,
I had my honost Loyalty retain'd,
My noble Blood untainted had remain'd;
Witness you Graces, witness you sacred Bowers,
You shaded River, Banks, and Beds of Flowers,
Where the expecting Nymphs have past their Hours;
Witness how oft (all careless of their fame)
They Languish'd for the Author of their Flame:
And when I came reproach'd, my old reserve
Ask'd for what Nymph I did my Joys preserve?
What sighing Maid was next to be undone,
For whom I drest and put my Graces on?
And never thought (tho' I feign'd ev'ry proof
Of tender Passion) that I lov'd enough.
While I with Love's Variety was cloy'd,
Or the faint Pleasure like a Dream enjoy'd;
'Twas Gloriana's Eyes my Soul alone,
With everlasting Gust could feed upon
From her first Bloom my fate I did pursue,
And from the tender fragrant Bud I knew,
The charming Sweet it promis'd when it blew.
They gave me hope, and 'twas in vain I try'd
The Beauty from the Princess to divide:
For he at once must feel whom you inspire
A soft Ambition and a haughty Fire,
And hopes the natural Aid of young desire.

My unconsidering Passion had not yet
Thought your Illustrious Birth for mine too great.
'Twas Love that I pursu'd, that God that leads
Sometimes the equall'd Slave to Princes Beds.
But oh, I had forgot that Flame must rest
In your bright Soul that makes th'Adorer blest;
Your sacred Fire alone must you subdue,
'Tis that, not mine, can raise me up to you;
Yet if by chance m'ambition meet a stop,
With any thought that check'd m'advancing hope:
This new one straight wou'd all the rest confound,
How every Coxcomb aim'd at being crown'd:
The vain young Fool with all his Mother's parts,
Who wanted Sense enough for little arts;
Whose composition was like Cheder Cheese,
(In whose Production all the Town agrees)
To whom, from Prince to Priest was added Suff,
From great King Charles e'en down to Father Goff;
Yet he with vain Pretension lays a claim,
To th'glorious title of a Sovereign:
And when for Gods such wretched things set up,
Was it so great a crime for me to hope?
No Laws of God or Man my Vows reprove,
There is no Treason in ambitious Love:
That sacred Antidote i'th' poyson'd Cup
Quells the Contagion of each little drop.

I bring no forces but my Sighs and Tears,
My Languishments, my soft Complaints and Prayers.
Artillery which was never sent in vain,
Nor fails, where-e'er it lights, to wound or pain.
Here only, here rebated they return,
Meeting the solid Armour of your Scorn;
Scorn by the Gods, I any thing could bear,
The rough Fatigues and Storms of dangerous War;
Long Winter Marches or the Summers Heat,
Nay ev'n in Battle from the Foe defeat;
Scars on this Face, Scars, whose dull recompence
Would ne'er attone for what they rob from thence;
Scandal of Coward, nay half-witted too,
Or siding with the pardon'd rebel Crew:
Or ought but Scorn, and yet you must frown on,
Your Slave was destin'd thus to be undone;
You the avenging Deity appear,
And I a Victim fall to all the injur'd fair.