Poems on Affairs of State

What art thou, Oh thou new found pain?
From what Infection dost thou spring?
Tell me, O tell me, thou Inchanting thing,
Thy Nature and thy Name.
Inform me by what subtil Art,
What pow'rfull Influence,
You got such vast Dominion in a part
Of my unheeded and unguarded Heart,
That Fame and Honour cannot drive you thence?
Oh mischievous Usurper of my Peace!
Oh soft Intruder on my Solitude!
Charming disturber of my Ease,
That hast my nobler Fate pursu'd;
And all the Glories of my Life subdu'd.

Thou haun'st my inconvenient hours,
The business of the Day, nor silence of the Night,
That shou'd to Cares and Sleep invite,
Can bid defiance to thy conquering Pow'rs.
Where hast thou been this live long Age,
That from my birth till now,
Thou never didst one Thought ingage,
Or charm my Soul with the uneasie rage,
That made it all its humbler Feebles know?
Where wer't thou, O malicious Sprite,
When shining Glory did invite?
When Int'rest call'd then thou wer't shy,
Nor one kind Aid to my Assistance brought;
Nor would'st inspire one tender Thought,
When Princes at my Feet did lye.
When thou could'st mix Ambition with my Joy,
Then, peevish Phantome, thou wer't nice and coy.

245

Not Beauty would invade thee then,
Nor all the Arts of lavish Men;
Not all the powerfull Rhet'rick of the Tongue,
Nor sacred Wit cou'd charm thee on;
Not the soft Play that Lovers make,
Nor Sighs could fan thee to a Fire;
No pleading Tears or Vows cou'd thee awake,
Nor charm the unform'd—Something—to Desire.

Oft I've conjur'd thee to appear,
By Youth, by Love, by all their Pow'rs,
Have search'd and sought thee every where,
In silent Groves, in lonely Bowers,
On flow'ry Beds, where Lovers wishing lye,
In sheltring Woods, where sighing Maids
To their assigning Shepherds hye,
And hide their Blushes in the gloom of Shades.
Yet there, ev'n there though Youth assail'd,
Where Beauty prostrate lay, and Fortune woo'd,
My Heart (insensible) to neither bow'd;
Thy lucky Aid was wanting to prevail.
In Courts I sought thee then, thy proper Sphere,
But thou in Crowds wer't stifled there;
Interest did all the loving Bus'ness do,
Invites the Youths, and wins the Virgins too;
Or if by chance some Heart thy Empire own,
Ah, Pow'r ingrate! the Slave must be undone.

Tell me thou nimble Fire, that dost dilate
Thy mighty force through every part
What God or Human Power did thee create
In my (till now) unfacil Heart?
Art thou some welcome Plague sent from above,
In this dear Form, this kind Disguise?
Or the false Offspring of mistaken Love,
Begot by some soft Thought, that feebly strove
With the bright-piercing Beauties of Lysander's Eyes.

246

Yes, yes, Tormenter, I have found thee now,
And found to whom thou dost thy Being owe;
'Tis thou the Blushes do'st impart,
'Tis thou that tremblest in my Heart.

When the dear Shepherd does appear,
I faint and dye with pleasing pain;
My Words intruding Sighings break,
Whene're I touch the charming Swain;
Whene're I gaze, whene're I speak,
Thy conscious Fire is mingled with my Love.
As in the sanctify'd Abodes
Misguided Worshippers approve
The mixing Idols with their Gods.
In vain (alas) in vain I strive,
With Errours, which my Soul do please and vex;
For Superstition will survive,
Purer Religion to perplex.

Oh tell me, you Philosophers in Love,
That can these burning Fev'rish Fits controul,
By what strange Arts you cure the Soul,
And the fiery Calenture remove?

Tell me, ye Fair ones, you that give Desire,
How 'tis you hide the kindling Fire.
Oh wou'd you but confess the Truth,
It is not real Vertue makes you nice:
But when you do resist the pressing Youth,
'Tis want of dear Desire to thaw the Virgin-Ice.
And while your young Adorers lye,
All languishing and hopeless at your Feet;
Raising new Trophies to your Chastity,
Oh, tell me how you do remain discreet?
And not the Passion to the Throng make known,
Which Cupid in revenge has now confin'd to one.

247

How you suppress the rising Sighs,
And the soft-yielding Soul that wishes in your Eyes,
While to the admiring Crowd you nice are found,
Some dear, some secret Youth, who gives the wound,
Informs you all your Vertue's but a Cheat,
And Honour but a false Disguise,
Your Modesty a necessary slight,
To gain the dull repute of being Wise.
Deceive the foolish World, deceive it on,
And veil your Passion in your Pride;
But now I've found your weakness by my own,
From me the needfull fraud you cannot hide;
For, though with Vertue I the World perplex,
Lysander finds the feeble of my Sex:
So Helen, tho' from Theseus's Arms she fled,
To Charming Paris yields her Heart and Bed.

University of Virginia Library

DESIRE.

A Pindaric.