University of Virginia Library

III. VOL. III.

[Book I.]

THE Metamorphosis of Love.

Vertumnus and Pomona.

VVhilst Peace o'er Latium spreads it's gentle Wings,
And each pleas'd Swain amidst his labours Sings;
In her own Orchards, undisturb'd with care,
Pomona flourisht, and was counted fair;
Her blooming Beauty still the same appears,
Not Blossom'd only in the Spring, like theirs.
She Loves no hunting, she admires no Game,
Covets no Groves, nor any Silver Stream;
Her happy Pleasures with her Fortunes suit,
She prunes her Trees, and she preserves her fruit,
Knows nought of Love, but what Tradition told,
And fears such Rapes as she had heard of old.
Therefore her Orchards with a Wall defends,
And lets in none but those she thinks her Friends.
Oft did the Satyrs, oft in vain, essay,
To make the Virgin to their lust a prey,
And force her thence, to be enjoy'd, away.
Oft too did Pan attempt the Charming Maid,
And oft Silenus made the Nymph afraid.
Priapus too, who others Fruits secures,
Longs most, Pomona, but to rifle yours.
Yet more than all the sweet Vertumnus blooms,
Drest in his Charms, where'er the Virgin comes.
He could all shapes, whate'er he fancy'd wear,
Would now a Souldier with his Arms appear,
An Angler next, and like a Reaper soon,
Chang'd as he pleas'd, and made all forms his own.
Hopeless to gain, now each disguise he fears,
And seems a Matron in declining Years.
To his own Godhead he the Maid prefers,
And quits his Beauties, but to gaze on her's.
Born on a staff, with creeping Feet he moves
To the fair object he so fiercely Loves.
Salutes her first, then eagerly he prest,
And claspt her closely to his Throbbing Breast.
Fond tho' he was, tho' his desires were strong,
He Lov'd too well, the Charming fair to wrong,
Tho' all-o'er Innocence, all soft, and Young.
The Vertuous Maid receives her Lover's Kiss,
And thought old Women's were the same as his.
Kindly she Thanks him for his Courteous care,
Welcomes his visit, bids him welcome there.
Prays him sit down on the next Bank, and view
Her rip'ning Fruits, where all the choicest grew.
Around he looks, around the Pregnant Trees,
And praises lavishly each plant he sees.
Observes a Vine, how with the Elm it spread,
Commends both that, and the industrious Maid,
Who gave its Clusters so secure a shade.
Then tells her, she should by such sights be led,
To Love the Pleasures of the Nuptial Bed.
How many Swains for her a Flame had born!
How had she rack'd them with continu'd scorn!
Gods in the Skies, and Demi-Gods below,
Have quit their Heav'n, and all the Joys they know,
To look, and gaze (my Beauteous Maid!) on you.
But, trust me, child, my kind advice receive,
And what I tell you for a truth believe;
The fair Vertumnus all your Charms approves,
And out of force he must confess he Loves.
He, only he, shall be my choice for you,
And you your self, I hope, will choose him too.
None knows him more than I, the Youth still blooms,
Sweet is his own, yet he all shapes assumes.
Wish what you will, he puts on every form,
And each he Wears, has some peculiar Charm.
He dwells in Gardens, and has charge of bow'rs,
His whole delight the very same with yours.
None is more Beauteous, none than he more strong,
The smiling God is thro' all Ages young.
To him First Fruits of all your Trees are due,
Which Joyful he receives each Year from you.
But now not those he will accept, but thee,
Thou must thy self, the next, blest Off'ring be.
Believe this Courtship from himself, suppose
What I have said the fair Vertumnus knows.
Shew then your Pity, be no more severe,
The God himself will soon be present here.
So may your Fruits survive the Winter Frost,
So may you ever the same Beauties boast,
And may nor they, nor ought of yours be lost.
Thus when he said, himself again he grew,
And stood all Charms before the Virgin's view.
Thro' Clouds of Age he darts his youthful rays,
And now the Glories of his Face displays.
All o'er Divine, he stands transported there,
And gains a Conquest o'er the wond'ring fair.

Venus and Adonis.

The Queen of Love is by her Son inflam'd,
And hates those places for her presence fam'd.
Paphos, Cythera, no, nor Heav'n can please,
Her only Heaven the fair Adonis is.
To all things else the Goddess him prefers,
And her whole care is to confirm him her's.
She fears her Charms boast not the Pow'r to move,
(Tho' Beauty's Goddess) her Adonis Love.
With all her Arts she decks her sparkling Eyes,
With all Attractions which make Passions rise.
Now, like Diana, does her game pursue,
Nor heeds what ways she passes swiftly thro'.
Hurts her soft Limbs on the unfriendly thorn,
Her tender Limbs, too Beauteous to be torn.
She hunts the Hare, and the more Stately Deer,
But fears the Boars, and bids Adonis fear;
Would have him bold to follow those that fly,
But shun pursuers, and be swift as they.
Those Men are brave, who fight their equal foes,
You shew but rashness, to encounter those.
I beg you ne'er those Salvage Beasts engage,
By Nature arm'd, and which by Nature rage;
Your Youth and Beauties please the Queen of Love,
But their rough Hearts your Charms can never move.
Let not your Goddess stand expos'd in you,
For, with Adonis they wound Venus too.
Come my sweet Boy, my weary toil perswades,
And yonder Poplar Courts us to it's Shades.
Thence strait the Lovers to their Joys withdrew,
And blest Adonis, Charms Immortal knew.
How did he there of her Dear Flames approve!
A Heav'n of Beauty, and a Heav'n of Love!
Lost in their Pleasures, for a while they lay,
And those too, soon were lost, as well as they.
In smiles, and blushes, they at length arise,
And dart soft looks, one at the other's Eyes.
She leaves him there, drawn by her Snowy Swans,
And Waves an Airy Farewel from her hands.
A Boar appears, soon as the Queen was gone;
Advice is lost, where Courage urges on.
The Lovely Boy starts up, nor knows to fear,
And feels a Passion too to Conquer there.
With his strong Dart he wounds his flying foe,
Not Phæbus certain hands strike with a surer blow.
The raging Beast the Bearded Javelin drew,
And with his Open Mouth, upon him flew.
His monstrous tusks the fair Adonis wound,
And leave him bleeding on the reeking ground.
His dying Groans the wretched Goddess hears,
But her own Shrieks more loudly pierce her Ears.
She drives her Chariot to the dismal sound,
And in his Pangs her Dear Adonis found.
Ah! who can tell the griefs which Venus move!
Now Queen of sorrow, not the Queen of Love.
She calls aloud, ah! my Adonis stay,
Thus, is it thus, you my Commands obey?
Ah! cruel Boy! you have my Peace betray'd,
If you had Lov'd me, you had sure obey'd.
Then her rich Garments, with her Hair, she tore,
And Wip'd his flowing Wound with Robes she wore.
Beating her Breast, and Bathing it in Tears,
Fast with his Flood she sadly mingles her's.
To breath new Life, surpast her Female Pow'r,
She chang'd his Blood into a Fragrant Flow'r.

Perseus and Andromeda.

The Conqu'ring Perseus now his Wings had ty'd,
To his swift Feet, his Faulchion to his side;
When, thro' the Air the dauntless Hero flies,
Free as the Birds, who cut the liquid Skies.
Now far beneath him he perceives a Maid,
On the hard shore, in Iron Fetters lay'd.
A monster's prey was the fair Virgin brought,
The fairest piece, that ever Nature wrought.
Chain'd to a Rock, she waited there her Doom,
Naked, and Whiter than the Snowy foam.
The flying Hero now descends from high,
Where he had cours'd along the Airy Sky.
With a fixt look he views the Virgin there,
Amaz'd, and wond'ring he admires the fair,
'Till he forgot to fly, forgot he was in Air.
Had he not view'd her Hair, which flow'd behind,
Held loosely waving by the gentle Wind,
Had she not wept, and he her sorrows seen,
He would have thought she had some Statue been.
Strait he descends from where he lately flew,
Impatient now to get a nearer view;
Closer, and closer to the Maid he came,
And all at once he feels a raging Flame.
With Love, and fear, with wonder, and with awe,
By slow degrees he does towards her draw.
With his Eyes fixt, all motionless he stands,
Then, why she wore those Fetters he demands;
He thought her worthy most of Marriage bands.
Declare, he crys, thou matchless, Charming fair;
Why thus in Chains? What are thy Crimes? declare.
Who us'd thee thus, and tell me Justly why?
How can such Beauty be condemn'd to die!
Thou shalt by me, thy Champion, be restor'd,
For thee the Thund'rer's Off-spring draws his Sword.
Say, if deliver'd by the Son of Jove,
Shall your Life purchase, in return, your Love?
Say, Charmer, speak; me thro' a brazen hold,
He got, descending in a show'r of Gold.
The bashful Virgin still persists to mourn,
And for his Words, she does her sighs return.
Her growing shame still more her sorrow moves,
She weeps, and blushes, while with Joy he Loves.
In Chains extended at their length, she lies,
While he, in transport, feeds his longing Eyes,
Fain would she hide her blushes from his view,
But that her Fetters hinder'd her to do.
With deep regret her shame the Virgin bears,
And hides her Eyes with constant Floods of Tears.
Oft tho' he urg'd her, she kept silent long,
But thus, at last, unlock'd her trembling Tongue.
My conscious Mother, fatal too, as fair,
Her's with proud Juno's Beauties would compare.
Who, in her Vengeance, most unjust, decreed,
That I unboasting, for her Crime should bleed.
A dreadful monster from the Seas will rise,
And I, 'tis I, must be that monster's prize.
With his broad Breast he will the Surges Plow,
O there, there, there, I see him issuing now.
Save me, ah! save me, hast with all your Pow'rs,
And, gen'rous Youth, I will be ever yours.
Thus spoke the fearful, Lovely, Charming Maid,
Who sigh'd, and wept, for she was still afraid.
And now the Seas began aloud to roar,
With the apparent Monster hast'ning to the shore.
When the bold Hero o'er the Billows flies,
And Tow'rs above him, up, tow'rds Silver Skies.
The furious Beast his gliding shadow views,
Which, chacing eager, he o'er Waves pursues.
As Jove's strong Bird, who has a Dragon seen.
Siezes, his neck, and strikes his Talons in;
So, the descending Perseus Sheath'd his Sword
In the vast Beast, who like the Oceans roar'd.
The wounded Monster o'er the Billows bounds,
And turns fierce on him, to give larger wounds.
Now far beneath the Waves he dives, and now,
Rises again, and does the Surges Plow;
Vast as some Island, does he wildly Play,
And from his Mouth pours out a bloody Sea.
His dreadful Jaws the flying Hero shuns,
And his bright Sword, thro' his thick Neck he runs.
Loudly he roars, the Maid the Eccho heard,
And some new Monster on the shore she fear'd.
Mad with the anguish of the wound, he raves,
And lashes with his tayl the suff'ring Waves.
High in the Air he spouts such Wat'ry Clouds,
The Hero thought he was beneath the Floods.
His wings now wet, and flagging, down he falls,
And is receiv'd upon the Monster's scales.
Now with his Faulchion does he bruise his sides,
And, as in Triumph, on his foe he rides,
Who Mad, and Rabid, turns his angry head,
On tow'rds the Hero with wide Jaws he fled,
Caught in his Throat his Sword, and with the wound lay dead.
Strait from the Beast Victorious Perseus flies,
In hast, unloos'd, and so receiv'd his prize.

Picus and Canens.

Saturnian Picus in Ausonia Reign'd,
Who gen'rous Horses for the Battle train'd.
The Prince was born, and bred in Latian plains,
The Joy of all the Nymphs, and Envy of the Swain.
He slights their Wishes, but for Canens burn'd;
Canens he lov'd and she his Flames return'd.
This Beauteous Maid alone can claim his Loves,
In Woods, and Rocks, her Voice compassion moves.
Swift Rivers stop their course, whene'er she sings,
And Birds neglect the labours of their Wings.
While her sweet tunes Celestial Musick yields,
Young Picus hunts in the Laurentian Fields:
Follow'd by Courtiers, he pursues with speed,
Arm'd with two darts, upon a fiery Steed.
O'er Hills, and Vales, he courses swiftly bold,
In Tyrian clad, and buckled close with Gold.
When now, fam'd Circe wand'ring on those Hills,
Her sacred lap, with Magick simples fills.
Picus she sees, and with the sight amaz'd,
The gather'd Herbs fell from her, as she gaz'd.
Swiftly he past, yet that she Loves she finds,
Resolv'd to meet him, were he wing'd with Winds.
An Airy Boar she forms, which takes it's course,
Far off to thickets, which no Steed could force;
Which Picus sees, and quits his foaming Horse.
On Foot he follows the deceitful shade,
When strait the Day is darken'd by the Maid.
Such Charms she uses as might force the Moon,
Or Cloud her Father's Splendour, ev'n at Noon.
Now, Picus far from all his Gards remov'd,
The Charming Maid thus tells him how she Lov'd.
By those fair Eyes, which have such Pow'r on mine,
And by that dear, alluring Face of thine.
Hear, when a Goddess sues, nor rigid prove,
Phæbus his Off-spring offers thee her Love.
My Parent Sun I darken in the Skies,
Yet have no Charm to sheild me from your Eyes:
They, brighter far, shoot out more shining Flames
His Radiant Chariot bears less burning Beams.
Pity that Nymph who is your suppliant grown,
And to those Fires you kindled, add your own.
Thus wooes the Maid—but he reply'd, in vain,
With Am'rous Words, you tell your Am'rous pain,
Me Canens Loves, Canens belov'd again.
Scorn'd, and repuls'd, thus threats she loud-I'll prove
What Woman's hatred dares, when wrong'd in Love
Thrice to the East, thrice to the West she turn'd,
Thrice touch'd him with her Wand, and thrice the Earth she spurn'd
Strait, with unwonted speed, he swiftly flies,
Chang'd to a Bird, and cuts the liquid Skies.
His wings the Purple of his Cloak assume,
The Gold, which claspt his Garments, turns to Plume
The day grows clear, and hunting all abroad,
The Guards, and Courtiers call aloud their Lord.
Circe they find, and while they threatning stand,
Them too she changes, with her Pow'rful Wand.
In dreadful sounds, she all her Charms repeats,
And raises Woods, and Forests from their Seats.
Their leaves look pale, Herbs blush with drops of gore,
Earth Groans, Dogs howl, Eccho repeats it o'er,
And hollow Rocks in murmurs hoarsly roar.
Thro' all the Air unbodied Spirits glide,
And on the tainted ground black, slimy Serpents slide,
Now Night comes on, and gloomy fears it brings,
To Canens mind, upon it's Cloudy Wings.
Confus'd, thro' Woods, with lights her Servants fled,
In quest of Picus, whom she fancies dead.
They not returning, from the Court she strays,
And, as chance led her, follow'd wand'ring ways.
On Tyber's Banks she sits, in sad Despair,
Spent with a tedious search, and Melancholy care.
There pining, still she weeps, and weeping Sings,
With sweetest Voice, the softest, mournful things.
So, to Mæander's Streams Swans slowly fly,
Sing their own Breath away, and Charming die.
Not long she liv'd, yet ever lives in Fame,
And still the place she mourn'd in, bears her name.

Jupiter and Europa.

Humble and soft must the Swain's Passion prove,
Greatness can never well agree with Love.
Chang'd to a Bull on the Sydonian shore,
The Thund'rer now does in new Thunder roar.
The flesh in swelling rolls his Neck adorns,
All Snowy White, he stood with peaceful Horns.
Made smooth as Gemms, tho' small, they glitter'd bright,
He seem'd for Beauty form'd, and not for fight.
His Eyes no Wrath, his Brows no Terrour wear,
His milder Aspect does no threat'nings bear;
Europa views him strait, nor knows to fear.
With inward Joy, he sees the Royal Maid,
By whom, he soon with choicest flow'rs is fed.
In her fair Hands the grateful Food she bore,
Which oft he kist—ah! scarce deferring more.
And now he rowls along the Golden Sands,
The Virgin sees him, and delighted stands.
Oh tow'rds him near, and nearer still she drew,
And now he sports, and wantons in her view.
Extreamly pleas'd, she stroaks his proffer'd Breast,
And his rich Horns with Flow'ry Garlands Drest;
The Maid's behaviour did more Courteous prove,
Than it had been, if she had known him Jove.
Half kneeling now, the Am'rous Bull bends down.
And the Maid mounts his Back, ah, too too vent'rous grown.
Strait, by degrees, on tow'rds the Seas he flies,
Then, rushing thro' the Floods, bears fast his Royal prize.
Shrieking she turns, to view her Native shores,
Whilst the Triumphant Bull, loud as the Oceans roars.
The frighted Maid, held, with one hand, his horn,
While her loose Robes were in the other born.
With constant Eyes, she view'd the shore behind,
Her lighter Garments flying with the Wind;
Trembling her self, and as they flutt'ring flew,
The very Garments seem'd to tremble too.

Boreas and Orythia.

The fair Orythia still remain'd unmov'd,
Tho' she by Boreas had been long belov'd.
No kindled Flame he in the Maid could find,
Nor raise one spark with all his force of Wind.
His colder blasts all Am'rous heat supprest,
And chill'd the warmth of the Young Virgin's Breast.
So much he Lov'd, he but in sighs could blow,
Which spread his Fires and made them fiercer glow,
'Till at the last, when he all means had try'd,
Had often ask'd, and been as oft deny'd.
Vex'd, and inrag'd at her unkind disdain,
And rack'd to find that he had burn'd in vain.
Storming aloud, all Furious does he move,
Incens'd, with Anger much, but more with Love,
In show'rs of Tears, he sheds his wat'ry store,
Yet all can't lay the Tempests rais'd before.
In Blustring sounds he does aloud Proclaim,
With all his Breath, his Lov'd Orythia's Name,
Wildly, from place to place in hast he roves,
Tells all the Vallies his rejected Loves,
Then Whispers soft Orythia to the bending Groves
As thro' the Forests in Despair he flies,
Each Tree that he Salutes, for his scorn'd Passion sighs,
Ah! Charming Maid, he crys, too late I find,
That you are deafer than my Northern Wind;
Will nothing move you, nothing make you kind?
Where can your Favours be by you bestow'd,
When you refuse them proudly to a God?
Alas! you know not, beauteous, scornful fair,
How I make War in our wide Field, the Air.
There I my Breth'ren in a storm assail,
And Fight with Oaks, and beat the Earth with Hail.
I meet all Winds with such impetuous shock,
That Thund'ring Skies with our encounters rock.
I toss the Billows, and I dash the Floods,
And force out Light'nings from the bursting Clouds.
Tow'rs I throw down, and fly thro' hollow Caves,
Driving pale Ghosts, all trembling; to their Graves.
Whene'er I shake my horrid Wings around,
Their Airy motion strikes with Blasts, the ground.
I trail my dusky Mantle on the shore,
And, when I please, I make the Ocean roar.
Fierce as I am, where ever else I flee,
Yet, soft as Zephyrs, do I play with thee.
This said—he strait the Lovely Maid beheld,
And he resolves she shall be now compell'd.
In Clouds of dust, which he had rais'd, he hid,
And there observ'd whate'er Orythia did.
Soon she perceives him, and not yet grown kind,
Out-fled the God, tho' the swift God of Wind.
His speedy flight his fiercer Fires had spread,
Fleet, as Love's shafts which wounded him, he fled,
And, now he overtakes, now ravishes the Maid.
Vain might his Wings, with all their Fleetness prove,
Unless assisted by the Wings of Love.

Iphis and Janthe.

Lygdus and Telethusa, free from care,
Had long together liv'd a happy pair.
Blest with such stock, as might themselves maintain,
And bring content, while childless they remain.
But now, her time of Labour drawing nigh,
The Child, if Female, Lygdus dooms to die.
A Girl, he says, too great a charge would prove,
For, 'tis the Portion gains the Suitor's Love.
Sad Telethusa, griev'd at what he said,
And greatly fear'd the Child would prove a Maid.
She from the curse fain would her off-spring free,
But his Commands had past his firm decree.
And now the helpful Goddess, Isis, came,
To comfort Telethusa in a dream.
To her, a sacred Promise there she made,
Bids her rely on her alone for aid,
And Nurse the doubtful Off-spring of her Bed.
Now from the Room the pitying Goddess flew,
When, stretcht, tow'rds Heav'n, her Hands the Woman threw,
And strives, awake, to think her Vision true.
Encreasing throes at length a Girl disclos'd,
But, by the Father, still a Boy suppos'd.
So close the cheat was hid, that it was known
But to the Mother, and the Nurse alone.
The happy Lygdus feels an inward Joy,
And gives the Name of Iphis to his fancy'd Boy,
Now thrice five fleeting, happy Years were fled,
And his Young heir must fair Janthe wed.
Together still at their own sports they play'd,
And Iphis Lov'd her, tho' her self a Maid.
Like Darts, at once, their simple Bosoms strike,
In all alas! but in their hopes, alike.
The Nuptial day, appointed, now draws nigh;
Janthe thinks the hours too slowly fly.
Her Charming Lover she believes a Boy,
And hopes in her to find unpractis'd Joy.
But wretched Iphis, tho' belov'd, Despairs,
And utters thus, in sad complaints, her cares.
No Maid, like me, did e'er so ruin'd prove,
For I am lost in strange, prodigious Love.
The Gods, in pity, should this form destroy,
Iphis can ne'er be chang'd into a Boy,
Nor can Janthe give a Virgin Joy.
Compose thy Mind, curb in thy wild desires,
Think of thy Sex, and quench thy Foolish Fires.
Some other object for thy Passion choose,
Reform thy will, and Love as Females use,
Alas! I can't,—For then, I should Janthe lose.
There lies my woe, that causes all my care,
And what should bless me, drives me to Despair.
Of all the Creatures plac'd beneath the Sky,
The beasts that tread the Earth, the Birds that fly,
None ever yet was greatly curs'd, as I.
Of all Created things that live, and move,
No Female suffers for a Female Love.
What comfort now to wretched me remains?
'Tis only hope which Cupid's flight sustains.
Lovely I seem, and Charming to my fair,
Each for the other does a passion bear,
Ev'n in our Sex alike—ah! would we differ'd there.
Then with our wishes all would soon comply,
Nor do our Parents, nor our Friends deny,
The longing Virgin too, fond to be blest as I.
But now alas! thou canst not happy be,
Nor she enjoy'd, tho' Men and Gods agree,
Alas! she may, she will—by others—not by me.
All, but the greatest bliss, from Heav'n I prove,
Far as they could, the Gods have crown'd my Love,
And now the wish'd for day will quickly shine,
When dear Janthe will be ever mine.
Alas! I rave, and shall distracted grow,
In spight of Heav'n, she cannot e'er be so.
With this dire curse, my fatal Nuptial hasts,
To thirst in Rivers, and to starve at Feasts.
Let no glad Hymen at these Rites appear,
We both are Brides, there is no Bridegroom here.
This, and much more the Mournful Virgin said;
But diff'rent griefs perplext the other Maid,
Who for her long-delay'd embraces pray'd.
Still Telethusa new excuses Frames,
Fancies, and Notions, Auguries, and dreams.
But now no longer are the Rites delay'd,
And the next Night, Maid must be Join'd with Maid.
The Mother now lost in her Just Despair,
Unbinds her own, and her sad Daughter's Hair,
And to Propitious Isis offers up her Pray'r.
Bowing, towards the Altar, first she came,
Then, kneeling, does the sacred promise claim;
The Altar shook, and flash'd out awful Flame.
Loud Timbrels rung, the great successful sign,
And Telethusa bows, and leaves the Shrine.
Whom Iphis follows with a larger pace,
Short, curling locks, and a more Manly Face.
For their chang'd Child his Parents Praises sing,
And sacred gifts to Isis Temple bring.
This Verse, writ o'er the Altar, was display'd;
What Iphis Vow'd, a Girl, a Boy, he pay'd.
Next Morn, they both to their wish'd Nuptials move,
At Night, his Sex the vig'rous Boy does prove,
And both are happy in their Mutual Love.

Tereus and Philomela.

Five Winters now, Wing'd with their Storms, were fled,
Since Progne first did Royal Tereus wed.
When thus the Artful fair her suit did move,
Urg'd, as a proof of his continu'd Love.
If yet, my dearest consort is not cloy'd,
Nor slights those sweets he has so oft enjoy'd.
If, but the least soft Passion yet remains,
If yet, free Love springs from your Nuptial Chains,
If, any Fires, yet kept alive you bear,
Or value these Embraces, grant my Pray'r;
Grant, on some Terms, I may my Sister see,
Send me to her, or else bring her to me.
Promise my Father she shall soon return,
He shall not long his Philomela Mourn.
All Bars, which hinder his assent, confound,
And then my wishes, and my Joys are Crown'd.
Tereus, well pleas'd, without the least Dispute,
Commends her Fondness, and approves her suit.
The Seas now past, and all the danger o'er,
He lands, successful, on the wish'd for shore.
And now, Pandion Welcomes there his Son,
Who tells him why he thro' such hazards run,
And strait, his Progne's urgent suit begun.
At first, small warmth his kind entreaties show,
But Philomela seen, more fierce they grow.
Richly Attir'd, the Charming Virgin came,
And from her Eyes, each glance is Flash'd, like Flame.
The Youthful King strait burns with fond desire,
Like Sun-dry'd Reeds, which, at each spark, take Fire,
The Lustful Passion can't be long withstood,
For now it Rages in his boiling Blood,
And, like some Rapid Torrent, swells the Flood.
His rising sighs, like Boist'rous Tempests blow,
And Passion's Seas all Reason's bounds o'erflow.
Some Thoughts, like Waves prest by the tides, are gone,
But still, full, Foaming, new desires come rolling on.
Sometimes, he thinks, to make her Maids his Friends,
And with large gifts to Bribe them to his ends,
Again, resolves to use unlawful force,
As if the safest, and the surest course.
Vows, he will soon remove each Anxious Bar;
If not by Love; possess, by bolder War.
And now, perplext with long delays, he sues,
And, much more urgent, his Request renews,
Still, on his Wife's behalf he seem'd to press,
While his fond Words flew to a vast excess.
Whene'er his speech did into transports break,
He said, she weeping, charg'd me thus to speak.
So, with close Arts successfully he pleads,
And the Maid follows, as the Lover leads.
Fond of her Sister, she too wish't to go,
Kisses her Father, and intreats him so.
While Tereus Thus perceives the Virgin sue,
Pleas'd, and o'erjoy'd, he does his speech renew,
Still more, and more inflam'd, at every view.
Her soft Embraces set his Soul on Fire,
He does each Action, and each word admire,
All spreads his Loves, and raises new desire,
No longer now the good, old King denies,
But gives consent at last, with weeping Eyes.
The Night comes on, and with it, Peaceful rest,
To all alas! But to the Lover's Breast.
In Am'rous Murmurs Tereus does complain,
Bright Philomela caus'd his Anxious pain.
Sleep shuns his Soul, and it's kind ease denies;
Like a coy Maid, when courted most, it flies.
The Charming fair does all his Thoughts possess,
Great was his Love, which yet he wisht not less.
His fancy brings her still before his view,
His very fancy does his Flames renew,
And as he thinks he sees her, he begins to sue.
Then, as from Dreams, wak'd from those Thoughts, he turns,
Reflects on real Charms, and fiercer burns.
Those he has seen, his whole Idea fill,
But ah! he thinks—he knows, there must be greater still.
Thus does he pass the tedious Hours of Night,
With Am'rous, painful Thoughts, which yield a Nice Delight.
Oft does he wish for the approach of Day,
That he may hast, with his Lov'd prize, away.
And now, at last, the wish'd-for Morn appears,
When old Pandion, thus with streaming Tears,
Parts with the last dear hope of his declining Years.
My Son, since Piety this due requires,
I yield to yours, and Progne's fond desires.
But oh! I charge you by the Gods above,
Guard, and defend her, with a Father's Love.
You, Daughter, leave me not too long alone,
How shall I live, when my last comfort's gone!
You know I Love you, tenderly I do,
My Heart, my Life, my very Soul's in you,
I cannot speak for Tears,—soon, soon return—adieu.
Thus the good King does his Just sorrows tell;
He might alas! have bid a long farewel.
For now, the flying Ship had left the shore,
And he must never see his Daughter more.
Tereus, exulting Cries, she's now my own,
And I shall soon my earnest wishes Crown.
With constant Eyes the Charming Maid he views,
With loose behaviour, and lew'd carriage wooes,
And his designs, ev'n there, far as he could, pursues.
But now, at length, on his own Lands he Treads,
And, to a close recess, fair Philomela leads.
Trembling she stood, lost in distracting fears,
And for her Sister now enquires with Tears.
He, in full rage of Lust, delays not long,
But, with fierce Kisses, stays her Charming Tongue.
Tells his designs, and her consent requires;
Refus'd, more high he Foams, with wild desires,
And ravishes the Maid, and quenches so, his Fires.
In vain, alas! she Shriek'd in her distress,
Sister, nor Father, could her wrongs redress,
On them, and Gods she crys, but all without success.
And now deflow'r'd, from his loath'd Arms she breaks,
And thus upbraids him, while inrag'd she speaks.
How shall I term thee, since thy Lust began!
Vile, Treach'rous Tyrant! Barb'rous Monster! Man,
Thee, nor my Father's Tears, nor Progne's Love,
Nor my Chast, Virgin Innocence could move.
Gods! What a wild confusion hast thou bred!
I an Adultress to my Sister's Bed!
Would I had dy'd, e'er I my honour lost,
I had departed with a spotless Ghost.
Yet, if the Gods my wrongs, and suff'ring see,
(Sure they will Punish too, if Gods they be.
Thus having said, in hast she strove to run,
And thought, by flight, the Tyrant's rage to shun.
But he, provok'd by her reveal'd Despair,
Quickly surpriz'd, and seiz'd the injur'd fair;
And threw her on the ground, and drag'd her by the Hair.
Strongly he binds her tender, helpless Arms,
Resolv'd once more to rifle all her Charms.
Loudly she Shrieks, and so Proclaims her wrong,
Disarm'd of all Resistance—but her Tongue.
And that, his Sword cuts from the panting Root,
Which trembling falls, and murmurs at his Foot.
And like a Serpent's Tail dissever'd, leaps,
And for a while, pursues the Tyrant's steps.
Yet, after this, he oft, and oft enjoy'd,
Nor was his horrid Lust with the Fruition cloy'd.

Pluto and Proserpina.

A Lake there is which Stately Woods surround,
Where constant Flocks of Silver Swans abound.
A blooming Spring upon the Banks appears,
And the Fair Trees create refreshing Airs.
Here strays Proserpina thro' Fragrant Groves,
And gathers Flow'rs her Nicer fancy Loves.
With pretty Pains a Childish care she shows,
And picks, and chooses, all the way she goes.
Behind her Young Companions now she stay'd,
Too long, her pleasing Pastime Charm'd the Maid.
Urg'd by a fond desire to gather on,
That by her pains the rest might be outdone.
Here Pluto sees her, and admires her form,
Her every Gesture shew'd the God some Charm.
Fierce to enjoy, his Love Brooks no delay,
He boldly carries her by force away.
No Words he uses to the trembling Maid,
Who calls her Dear Companions to her aid.
Now born by strength, with Shrieks, and Weeping Eyes
She thinks he means to make her Flow'rs his prize.
Those, while she strugles thro' excess of fear,
Fall to the ground, for which she Tears her Hair,
And simply Cries to see them scatter'd there.

Alphæus and Arethusa.

Of Arethusa's change I Mourning Sing,
And how the Nymph became a sacred Spring.
To Hunt, and Toil, her dear Diversions were,
And yet she Justly was reputed fair.
The Virgin griev'd her Beauties did excel,
And thought it infamy to please too well.
As from the Woods, tir'd with the chace she came,
She found a silent, and a Silver stream.
Securely close, and so exceeding clear,
That every smallest Pebble wou'd appear.
Pleas'd with the coolness of the Place she Wades,
And makes the Waters brighter where she treads.
Then, leaves her Robes upon a Sallow's Top,
And swims, and plunges still, to bear her up.
Now, to the further side she gently rows,
And plays, and sports, and wantons as she goes;
When, all amaz'd, she heard a stranger's Tongue,
And, in Confusion, to the Bank she Sprung.
Whither so fast? Alphæus loudly Cries;
She makes no Answer, but all trembling flies.
He fleetly hasts to Seize his Beauteous prey,
Who seem'd, when leaping from the Streams away,
A Venus rising from a Silver Sea.
Wing'd with her fear, fair Arethusa flew,
While fierce Alphæus did as fast pursue.
The more he hasts, the more he sees her fly,
And still he catches, when he thinks her nigh.
Nearer, much nearer he desires to see,
And grieves to find he is not swift as she.
As Doves do Hawks, she shuns him, all amaz'd,
And almost thinks she is already seiz'd.
The Lover still his hot pursuit maintains
Thro' Craggy Mountains, over Hills, and Plains.
Follows all eager, nor would e'er forbear,
And almost now o'ertakes the flying fair.
She sees his shadow, and his steps she hears,
Feels his warm Breath, and now, and now she fears,
Quite spent, she Cries, your aid Diana send,
Hast, Chastest Goddess, and a Nymph befriend.
When a thick Mist the helpless Virgin shrouds,
And the sad Maid is vail'd with pitchy Clouds.
The wond'ring Lover searches all around,
But she must never, never more be found.
That Sun of Beauty by the Fogs o'ercast,
Must shine no more, but set in Floods at last.
He ranges on, and every means he tries,
Then, Lovely Arethusa, loudly Cries.
As a poor Lamb grows stupid with her fears,
When howling Wolves about the fold she hears.
So, all amaz'd, the Maid stands trembling there,
And Begs protection from the Gods by Pray'r.
She sighs, and weeps, cold sweats come o'er her Face,
And trickling drops run down her Limbs apace.
Her Beauteous Hair dissolves to Fragrant dew,
And all consum'd, a Silver stream she grew.

Jupiter and Calisto.

When now the Thund'rer walkt the Heav'nly round,
And all there safe from the late burnings found.
The Fields, the Groves, and Streams he next survey'd,
Where passing to and fro he sees a Lovely Maid.
Tho' there no ruines in her way were strow'd,
The Nymph, the Charming Nymph, inflam'd the God.
Warm'd by her looks, and brighter Glances, more
Than when the Sun fir'd all his Skies before.
She with a Zone her looser Garments ty'd,
Her painted Quiver hanging by her side.
Her flowing Tresses o'er her Shoulders spread,
And her warm Face glow'd with unusual Red.
Thus tir'd with hunting, she to shades retires,
To cool her own, but raise the Thund'rer's Fires.
On flow'ry Banks her Beauteous Limbs she lays,
And to the God a tempting Heav'n displays.
Thus loosely stretch'd upon the Fragrant Bed,
Her Arms thrown wide, her Quiver bears her Head,
While Jove beheld, admir'd, and Lov'd the Maid.
Diana like, strait from his Heav'n he flies
For her cool Shades, he quits his shining Skies,
And stands before the Virgin, as she lies.
My huntress, says he, while he fondly view'd,
What Game hast thou, this Lovely morn, pursu'd?
Strait did the rising Virgin tow'rds him move,
And thus reply'd; hail, Pow'r more great than Jove.
This the fond God, with smiles, delighted heard,
Pleas'd that himself was to himself prefer'd.
She strait about to Answer more, in hast,
The pressing Lover clasps about her wast,
And Kist her fiercely, and embrac'd her fast.
Just as the Thunder, from his own abode,
With inward struglings flies, so flew the God.
Soon more inflam'd, his Kisses eager grow;
Not such as Maids on their own Sex bestow;
He now would further sweets, and greater transports know.
Impatient grown, he forces her to yield,
And gains by strength, the long disputed Field.
In vain, exerting all her Pow'rs, she strove,
Alas! What Woman can contend with Jove!
Enjoy'd, he leaves the Nymph, who well might know,
The Chastest Goddess could not use her so.
Rising in hast, strait from the Woods she sprung,
And left her Bow, her useless Bow, unstrung.
She sees Diana, but she dreads the shape,
And Blushing flies her fast, and fears a second Rape.

Pigmalion and his Iv'ry Statue.

In a lewd Age Pigmalion spent his times,
Women debauch'd themselves with Monstrous Crimes.
No vertuous Virgin in his Days was known,
All the Chast, Female Modesty was gone,
Therefore a long, long time he liv'd alone.
An Iv'ry Statue now at last he Frames,
And from the Maid he form'd, he gathers Flames.
In every part, the Virgin did excel,
Which Limb was best, the Artist could not tell,
It was all Lovely, and he Lov'd it well.
Curious her shape, so sparkling were her Eyes,
Such quick, such glancing brightness in them lies,
They would have roll'd, but that her shame denies.
Such lively strokes he to the Maid did give,
That, tho' a Statue, she appear'd to live.
The Artist's self that she had Life believ'd,
And fondly was by his own Art deceiv'd.
He felt her flesh, for he suppos'd it such,
And fear'd to hurt her, with too rude a touch.
Often he Kiss'd her, while he madly burn'd,
And fancy'd now, how she the like return'd.
He Wooes her, Sighs, and her fair Hands does press,
And tells his Passion in a Dear Address.
Till at the last, his Notions grew so vain,
That he believ'd she sigh'd, and prest again.
He sends her presents, Gums, and precious Stones,
The choicest Bracelets, and bright, glitt'ring Zones.
Soft singing Birds, which flutt'ring all around,
With pretty Notes, rais'd a delightful sound.
Rich Pendants, Rings, and Gums he sends the Maid,
With Wreaths of flow'rs adorns her Lovely Head,
And lays her now, soft on a Downy Bed.
In Pompous Robes he does his Idol Dress;
Much so she Charms, but not, when naked, less.
Now was the time, when Venus kept her Feast,
And Love-sick Youths to her fam'd Temple prest.
There to be offer'd, Snowy Heifers come,
And the rich Altar smoaks with pretious Gum.
Among the Crowd the hopeless Lover goes,
Tho' no Just reason, or pretence he knows.
Before the Altar, now he weeping stands,
And Bows, with Off'rings in his careful hands.
Fiercer, and Fiercer his desires grow there,
And rise more furious, from his wild Despair.
A long, long time does he forbear to pray,
For still his doubts deny'd his Speech the way,
Yet wish'd (altho' he knew not why) to stay.
At last, his fearful silence now he Breaks,
And thus, but still in mighty fear, he speaks.
If you, Love's Beauteous, Charming Goddess, have,
And can bestow what Mortal suppliants Crave.
Shew now your Pow'r, on me your Blessings shed,
Grant me the Wife I wish, one like, he said,
But durst not say, grant me my Iv'ry Maid.
This done, he thrice percieves the flashing Fires,
The happy Omen blest his fond desires,
And to the Maid he now with doubtful Joy retires.
With wond'rous longings he in hast returns,
And now, more fiercely than before, he burns,
Closely he claspt her to his panting Breast,
And felt her softer still, the more he prest.
Now, all at once, with a surprize of bliss,
He finds her Lips grow warmer with his Kiss,
He finds them Moist, and Soft, and Red as his.
Her throbbing Breasts heav'd now, and gently swell'd,
While he with wonder the Lov'd sight beheld.
The Maid, now Fairer, in his Arms he bore,
Tho' fram'd of Iv'ry, polish'd fine before.
Let none henceforth of wish'd success Despair,
When Statues soften'd by our Passions are.
The happy Artist, now perceives his Wife
With beating Pulses, and with perfect Life.
And, for a while, as Motionless he stood,
As she had done, e'er she grew Flesh and Blood.
Her Lover first she with the light descrys,
For which she Checks, and turns her bashful Eyes,
While in her blooming Face her Beauteous Blushes rise.

Salmacis and Hermaphroditus.

The Beauteous Salmacis, who Lov'd her ease,
By her own Fountain Passes happy Days.
There she delights, there do her wishes please.
This Nymph was still unpractis'd in the chace,
She ne'er contended in a painful race.
Lov'd not to mingle with Diana's Train,
Nor draw the Bow, nor Hunt upon the Plain.
Oft her laborious Sisters bid her rise,
To Join with them, and get some stately Prize.
They urg'd her oft with Words repeated o'er,
To follows Staggs, or to pursue the Boar.
All would not do, she would no Quiver seize,
Nor for their toil forgo her pleasant ease.
But in her Fountain she delights to play,
By Night rests there, and there she Bathes by Day.
Still in that liquid Glass she drest her Charms,
And her fair Eyes with Loving glances Arms.
There still she learnt what Gesture best became,
There practic'd Charms, such as could raise a Flame.
Oft from one side she to the other Swims,
Then in fine Lawn arrays her Beauteous Limbs.
Oft, on soft Moss, stretcht at their length they lay,
And thro' the White, transparent Robes their Lovely shape display.
To the full view she leaves her Bosom bare,
Spreads o'er her Shoulders her loose, flowing Hair,
And shews her Face, her Neck, and Breasts exceeding fair.
Languishing now, on blooming Banks she lies,
And plucks such Flow'rs as please her Curious Eyes.
When she perciev'd, as she was busy'd there,
The Charming Son of Hermes coming near,
Who, soon as seen, the Virgin's wishes mov'd,
For he deserv'd to be by all belov'd.
His blooming Beauties she admir'd much more,
Than the fair Flow'rs for which she long'd before.
At the first sight, her wishes fill'd her Soul,
While soft Emotions in her Bosom rowl.
Her Fires grew fiercer, as he nearer came,
And now she fondly burns with glowing Flame.
Much she desir'd, yet still conceal'd she lies,
Till with soft looks she deckt her sparkling Eyes.
'Till she appear'd with all her utmost Art;
'Till all her Beauties bloom'd in every part,
That she might win the Charmer, and surprize a Heart.
With all her skill she does each Feature Arm,
And sets her Dress, who of her self might Charm.
She now at last in all her Robes applies,
To the dear Youth in looks, and moving sighs,
And by her melting Words she shews him how she dies.
With gaining ways, and soft, bewitching snares,
Her Passion thus she to the Swain declares.
Such are your Charms, dear Boy, your Beauties such,
All Nymphs must Love you, none can Love too much.
Pleasing your form, sure you are all Divine,
All Hearts you Conquer, as you Conquer mine.
Such are the wond'rous glories of your Face,
You were not born sure of a Mortal race.
Such, such the sparkling brightness of your Eyes,
Such the strange force which in their glances lies,
You are some God descended from the Skies.
Ah! you so much can on a suddain move,
I know, I know that you were born above,
You are the Son to the fair Queen of Love.
If I mistake, if then you are not so,
But the sweet Off-spring of some Prince below.
Happy, ah! thrice, thrice happy must they be,
Who are related, and ally'd to thee.
Blest are thy Parents: and that Woman's Breast,
Which gave thee Food, is infinitely blest,
But the fair Partn'r of thy Bed much more than all the rest.
If such there be, ah! do but grant me this,
Let me Embrace thee, let me fondly Kiss,
And by close stealth deprive her of her Bliss.
But if you yet from Nuptial vows are free,
Make me your Joyful Bride, ah! seal them now with me
The Love-sick Nymph thus far her Passion mov'd,
Thus told the Charming Youth how well she Lov'd
When fierce desires her farther Speech debarr'd,
And the Youth Blush'd for the fond things he heard
Still in his Blushes did he Lovelier seem,
Still more she wish'd to be belov'd by him.
So Apples blush upon the Sunny side,
Or polish'd Iv'ry with Vermillion dy'd.
So in Eclipses does the Moon appear,
When stains of Red her strugling Face does wear.
Closer she comes, and now in Am'rous pain,
She thinks to seize upon the Lovely Swain.
With bashful Anger her Embrace he shuns,
And from the Maid disdaining proudly, runs.
With nice reserve he flies the tempting snare,
Forbear, he cries, loose idle Nymph, forbear,
Or I'll forsake the place, and leave you there.
She, at this Menace from the Youth, reply'd.
'Tis yours, fair Swain, and so she stept aside.
Yet in a thicket of close, shrubby Trees,
She hides secure, and all his Actions sees.
He now believing there was none to view,
To the fair Banks of the Nymph's Fountain drew.
And sporting now, trips nimbly back again,
With bolder steps o'er all the Flow'ry plain.
Now, growing warm, he crosses o'er the Meads,
Comes to the Stream, and to the Knees he wades.
Then, to the Greens he takes the nearer ways,
His Silken Garments on the ground he lays.
And to the longing Maid, all, all the Man displays.
His Naked Beauties her fond sight amaz'd,
Who with impatient, eager wishes gaz'd.
Her sparkling Eyes, while she the Youth desires,
Glow with bright Beams, and shoot out shining Fires.
Their rays the Sun's on Silver streams surpass,
Or when reflected by a Chrystal Glass.
Mad to possess, and to enjoy the Swain,
She almost thinks to tell her Loves again,
So very much she burns with the transporting pain.
Now, from the Flow'ry Bank, to which he came,
The Lovely Boy leapt down into the Stream.
Then, with his Snowy Arms he loosely plays,
And sports, and wantons thro his liquid ways.
Still as he swims, his glitt'ring Limbs appear,
Thro' the smooth Streams, so undisturb'd, and clear.
Like Iv'ry Statues, which the Life surpass,
Or like a Lilly in a Chrystal Glass.
The ravish'd Virgin Cries, he's now my own,
And, strait disrob'd of all, impatient grown,
Pursues her eager Joys, and plunges to him down.
About his Neck, and o'er his strugling Wast,
Her circling Arms with longing folds she cast.
On ev'ry side she clasps him, as he swims,
And locks him closely with her twining Limbs.
So, when an Eagle with a Serpent flies,
Fast in his Talons, and then Mounts the Skies.
Around his Head, and Feet the Serpent clings,
And wreaths her tail about his spacious Wings.
Still, tho' detain'd, and forc'd, the strugling Boy
With all his Pow'rs resists the Virgin's Joy.
In vain, ingrateful, foolish Youth, she cries,
In vain, your scornful Pride my coming bliss denies.
Grant, grant ye Pow'rs! that no unhappy day,
May snatch this youth from my embrace away.
Propitious Pow'rs to the Nymph's Pray'rs incline,
For strait in one their diff'rent Figures twine.
And as their Souls Join'd when their transports flew,
Their Bodies mingled with each other too.

Cephalus and Procris.

Two fleeting Months blest Cephalus had past,
Who now may grieve they did not longer last.
While he has Procris, swift each Minute flies,
They Count no time, who cannot Count their Joys.
Those pleasing hours, wing'd with their transports, flew,
When fair Aurora saw, and Lov'd him too.
Tho' on her Throne she had the Pow'r to sway,
The dewy confines of the Night, and Day.
He was her greatest Pride, her only care,
While deeper Blushes in her Cheeks appear,
And shew her shame, because she thinks him Dear,
On steep Hymettus she her Flames declar'd,
But happy Procris is to her prefer'd.
She had his Heart, she had his Soul before,
He gave her all he could, and wish'd to give her more.
This when Aurora knew, inrag'd she said,
Keep then your Procris, prize your Nuptial Bed.
But if I fate, or her proceedings know,
You soon will wish you had not Lov'd her so.
He leaves the Goddess, but her Words he bears,
Which rack his Mind with Thousand Anxious fears.
Sometimes he thinks she might his honour wrong,
And then concludes her Vertuous, tho' she's young.
Yet oft he doubts, where the surmize was vain,
And must himself be Author of his pain.
Chang'd by Aurora, a new form he wears,
And, as a stranger, at his House appears.
All there was silent, he could find no Crime,
As if with Procris all had mourn'd for him.
With all his Arts he does the cheat pursue,
And seem'd to fear that they were all too few.
At length he sees her, and amaz'd he stood,
New Beams of Beauty pierc'd her sorrow's Cloud.
Scarce from due Kisses could he there refrain,
And almost thought to grow himself again.
For him alone was all fair Procris care,
Absent to her, altho' she saw him there.
Oft he attempts her Chastity to try,
He asks her oft, who does as oft deny.
She yet does faithful to her Nuptials prove,
Nor dares ev'n fancy she can wrong her Love.
Presents he sends, and by the Gods he swears,
She must be his, for he is only hers.
Seduc'd by these, she knows not what to do,
Nor can she tell would she be Chast, or no,
Fears she is lost, for Oh! she finds it so.
Her Eyes with Tears, her Cheeks with Blushes fill'd,
She shews, by silence, she at length might yield.
Then, he inrag'd in his own form appear'd,
She saw her Lord, and as she saw, she fear'd.
He loudly storm'd, and like a Tempest flew,
She prest with shame; in silence, strait withdrew.
Ran to the Woods, nor would return again,
No Beast so Salvage; so abhorr'd, as Men.
He soon repents the mischiefs he has done,
And says himself the fault was all his own.
Forgives his Procris, who again return'd,
And owns, he, so, had for Aurora burn'd.
Their Love more firm, by being broken, grows,
They both resolve to keep their Nuptial vows,
He in a Wife was blest, and she a Spouse.
In their Chast Breasts so Just a Passion moves,
He priz'd her Bed above the Queen of Love's,
Nor would she change her Husband's ev'n for Jove's.
Now with his Dart he Traces o'er the plain,
And haunts the Forests, and the Woods again.
After his toil, he does to Shades repair,
Where the cool Vallies Breath refreshing air.
Come, Air, he cry'd, (as he was us'd to say)
O come, and Kiss my glowing heat away.
Oft did he call it with such Words as those,
And Court it so, while he more fiercely glows.
Some busy Fool heard all that he had said,
And told his Procris he had wrong'd her Bed.
She, Jealous she, was with the story mov'd,
And fears some Dryad, above her belov'd.
Condemns her Lord as most inconstant now,
She says he is, but yet she knows not how.
The following Day he does his game pursue,
And Courts the Air, as he was wont to do.
When a loud sigh among the Woods he hears,
Then strait a rustling, and in hast he stirs.
Throws his strong Dart at the imagin'd Beast,
And Wounds his Procris on the tender Breast.
Ay me! She cry'd; her Voice too well he knew,
And in distraction to her aid he flew;
Found her all Bloody with the wound he made,
Faint with the blow, and half already dead.
O live, said he, leave me not guilty here,
To smart for ever for the Wound you bear,
The Wound I gave that Breast I Love so Dear.
Dying, she cry'd, by all the Gods above,
By all the Gods that have a sense of Love.
By all the Pow'rs that have Command below,
To whose infernal Regions I must go,
By all the blest—by Procris, and by you.
I charge you, ne'er let your desires be mov'd,
Nor let lew'd Ayre be after me belov'd.
Just as she dy'd, he did her fate unfold,
And told it Mourning, since too late he told.

Phæbus and Leucothoe.

Of Phæbus Loves, and of their cause I sing,
Of that Just cause, from which his sorrows spring.
Alike, fierce Flames, and equal Passions move,
The God of Battles, and the Queen of Love.
They both alike resolve to quench the Fire,
And now in secret to their Joys retire;
This Phæbus sees, as on his Course he goes,
And to wrong'd Vulcan does their stealth disclose.
Fine, Brazen Nets, by his directions made,
Are gently clos'd about the injur'd Bed.
So slender wrought, they could the Eye deceive,
More curious far than those the Spiders weave.
Thus strictly bound, they had not Pow'r to move,
The God of War was then Compell'd to Love.
Now Vulcan tells the sports that he had seen,
Acquaints the Gods with what had lately been,
And at his Ivory Doors they all come laughing in.
Thus Mars Triumphant in his Chariot rode,
Scoff'd at, yet envy'd by each wishing God.
For this, from Venus, Phæbus Passion came,
From hence it was he felt his fatal Flame.
His longing Eyes alone Leucothoe view,
And give to her what to the World is due.
He sees alas! yet tho' all Eye he be,
If he is blest, he must do more than see.
He rises Early, and desires to stay,
Beyond the usual Limits of the Day.
In his sad Face his raging griefs appear,
Which strike the World with an amazing fear.
Thus an Eclipse could ne'er his light remove;
These Paler looks are the effects of Love.
As when great Fires upon the smaller beat,
They dim their brightness with a Conqu'ring heat.
So the Sun's-Beams, when Am'rous Flames he bore,
Lost all that Lustre which they shew'd before.
Leucothoe he to all the World prefers,
And all it's Beauties are despis'd for her's.
Her Royal Father Persia's Scepter sway'd,
Yet, not her Birth, but Charms, endear'd the Maid.
He now dismounts his glorious, shining throne,
And puts her Mother's awful likeness on,
Whilst by a Lamp the Beauteous Virgin spun.
He Kist her first, and scarce could more forbear,
Then bid the Maids withdraw, & leave them there,
He had a secret, that they must not hear.
Now the bold God his brightness reassumes,
And tells her who he is, and why he comes.
Tho' he sees all, and by him all things see,
By her Dear self he swears, there's none so bright as she.
Not his own rays such Radiant Lustre wear,
As her Lov'd Eyes in their swift glances bear.
Amaz'd she seems, nor has she Pow'r to stir,
The God as stedfast too admiring her.
Stupid, and senseless with her fear she stands,
And drops her distaff from her trembling hands.
Her Beauteous fright his fiercer Passion fed,
And, now he Conquers, now enjoys the Maid.
This Clytie knew, nor could she long conceal,
She was her Rival, and she Joys to tell.
Her Salvage Father hears her fatal Crime,
And her excuses do but harden him.
His Beauteous Child he does alive inter,
And throws a Mountain on the injur'd fair.
This Phæbus sees, and would new Life beget,
While his bright Beams do at the Mountain beat,
In vain, alas! she cannot feel their heat.
How does he grieve at his too feeble Pow'r!
He ne'er so truly did Lament before.
Not his lost Son made him so sadly Mourn,
He scorch'd the World, but she made Phæbus burn.

Hippomenes and Atalanta.

To Shady Woods fair Atalanta fled,
Resolv'd to shun the fatal Marriage Bed.
Warn'd by Apollo, she prepares to flee
From every Suitor not so swift as she.
Replies to all, she must be first outrun,
Or else she Lives to be enjoy'd by none.
Declares besides, who thro' presumption tries
To Conquer her, if unsuccessful, dies.
Thus, many swains Love's, and Death's pangs did bear,
Their hazard noble, as the Maid was fair.
Whilst others fear'd to seek the Beauteous prize,
What her Eyes urg'd, her fatal tongue denies.
Now some bold Youth, who long a Flame had born,
Nor could expect, or hope a kind return,
Prefer'd her Conquest far before her scorn.
And begs a race, nor does he know to fear,
'Tis less, much less to die, than languish in Despair.
Here Young Hippomenes by chance appears,
And of the Lover, and his Flame, he hears.
It first his pity, then his Anger mov'd,
He crys the Maid is too, too much belov'd.
But in the race, when he her form beheld,
He was with fonder Admiration fill'd.
He gaz'd with wonder, nor could Justly tell,
Which did, her Beauty, or her speed, excel.
Swift as a Scythian shaft the Virgin flew,
Scarce could her Lover within sight pursue.
With a Wing'd hast she nimbly seem'd to fly,
Her Feet outran the quick Spectator's Eye.
Now growing warm he still admires her more,
Her motion fann'd those Fires, which her Eyes caus'd before.
Whilst the fond Winds bear back the purple strings
Which bind her Legs, and seem like looser wings.
Tossing her Hair on her fair Shoulders spread,
And all her snowy skin grows Beauteous Red.
Carnation Curtains so on Walls display'd,
Die their pure whiteness with a fainting shade.
All this he sees, and he admires it all,
And almost fears that thus himself must fall.
Praises the Maid, and is Enamour'd grown,
Wishes she now may be o'ercome by none.
He is resolv'd his better fates to try,
And must enjoy her, or he vows to die.
Thus while he Thought; the fatal race was run,
And the lost Lover's Life fair Atalanta won.
The bold Spectator from the Crowd appears,
And humbly bowing Darts his Eyes at hers.
His Love he does above his Life esteem,
And owns the Conquest she has gain'd of him.
Tells her she must her Victory pursue,
And, as with Beauty, kill with swiftness too.
Demands a race, not fainting, or afraid,
But slights all dangers for the Beauteous Maid.
Bids her contend with him, nor seek to raise
By meaner Conquests, but a meaner praise.
Sprung from great Neptune, he assures her so,
She will be Victor in her overthrow.
The Boy she hears, and does his Beauties view,
She would not have him his designs pursue,
And scarce, ah! scarce she wishes to subdue.
What God she says would such a Youth destroy,
Who thro' these dangers would my Charms enjoy!
What! what's his Mien! what is he all I see!
Such sparkling glories so despis'd for me!
Must those bright looks, those shining Beauties fall,
My Merit never could reward them all.
Ah! Charming Boy! shun my deluding Bed,
You cannot Conquer; and I must not Wed.
Your worth you know not, and you doat on mine,
There is no Virgin who would not be thine.
In vain, I speak, and I advise in vain,
In vain alas! you hear of Numbers slain.
O I could wish you would the danger shun,
Or, since resolv'd, would you could faster run.
Thou, Beauteous Boy! art the dear Youth alone,
To whom my Charms should be intirely known,
And should be mine, were I my self my own.
Would Heav'n had Order'd that I ne'er had been,
Or that you ne'er had Atalanta seen.
Thus far her new born Passion urg'd the Maid,
He hears it all, and as he hears, is glad.
Perceives her Flames, tho' to her self unknown,
And hopes e'er long to Crown them with his own.
The Numerous Crowds do now impatient grow,
With Murmurs of a race, and swarm to know.
The eager Boy calls Venus to his Aid,
That, as he Loves, he may enjoy the Maid.
From her, three Golden Apples he receives,
Who tells the use of the Rich Fruit she gives.
Now both the Lovers at the Barrier stand,
And the loud Trumpets Sound on either Hand.
They start at once, who might be safely born
O'er Autumn Fields, nor hurt the standing Corn.
A thousand Cries rise from the Noisy Crowd,
The Goal is yours, hast, hast, they shout aloud.
Ill with his Feet the Boy's desires comply,
He sees the maid, but ah! he sees her fly.
How did she stay, when she might oft o'ergo,
And look, and grieve, that she out-strip'd him so?
Now the tir'd Youth one of the Apples threw,
In quest of which the greedy Virgin flew.
Behind her far the rowling Gold was thrown,
Which she admires, for which she Deigns to run.
The glowing Youth now swiftly passes by,
And the loud Field resounds with shouts of Joy,
Yet soon again she overtakes the Boy.
The other two with greater force he throws,
By which the Virgin does the Conquest lose.
For each she turns, and lets her Lover run,
Who now was foremost, when the race was done,
And Atalanta by the Youth was won.

Eccho.

The Vocal Nymph the Young Narcissus views,
As he his prey into the toils pursues.
Tho' she her self could not her silence break,
She Answer'd others, when she heard them speak.
Revengeful Juno, Jealous of her Jove,
Might have surpriz'd him oft in Lawless Love,
But still this Nymph with cunning Wiles deferr'd
The Goddess's progress, till her talk she heard.
So that her Rivals by this Crafty slight,
Escap'd her fury in their speedy flight.
Which when she knew, for such a wrong, she said,
Thy Tongue small Pow'r shall boast, deluding Maid,
She threatens high, while she who hears the threats,
The self same things in the same Words repeats.
Now the fair Youth she saw, and strait admires,
She follows silently with fond desires,
Where'er he goes, and still she gathers Fires.
Nearer, and nearer in his steps she moves,
And still pursuing, still the more she Loves.
Her wishes fir'd, when closer now she came,
As Sulph'rous Torches catch approaching Flame.
Often she strove, but strove in vain to tell
The Charming Youth she Lov'd him too, too well.
To her fond mind a Thousands things she brought,
Moving, and melting was her tender Thought,
But all conceal'd; for she could utter nought.
The Pow'r of speaking was deny'd the Maid,
But still, to hear his Speech, she longing stay'd,
That she might Answer to whate'er he said.
His Young Companions gone, the Boy complains,
And calls, and calls them in continu'd strains.
Where do you fly? Fond Eccho hears him cry,
And straits she Answers him, where do you fly?
Around he looks, but he can nothing see,
And much he wonders whence the Voice could be.
Is any near? He crys, she pleas'd to hear
Those Joyful Words, returns, is any near!
Once more the Huntsman hollows o'er the plain,
And utters sounds, which she returns again.
More loud he calls, she of the Office proud,
In hasty Accents, made replies as loud.
Then let us Join, he said, her Thoughts combine,
And all consent, she Answers—let us Join.
Soon as she spoke, strait from the Woods she flew,
And round his Neck her Arms, transported, threw.
With close Embraces fondly lock'd him fast,
Who strugling broke from her weak hold at last.
And proudly crys, rather I'll cease to be,
Than you, loose Nymph, shall have your will on me.
Shall have your will on me? the Nymph returns,
To the ingrateful Boy for whom so much she burns.
Mean-while he flies; disdainful, from her view;
Now, so repuls'd, she will no more pursue.
With all her speed she runs to gloomy Groves,
And grieves to think he should despise her Loves.
Her Flames rejected, she Laments, and Mourns,
And Weeps, and Blushes, with the shame, by turns.
Alone she Pines with her excess of Woe,
But Loves him still, who made her Wretched so.
Her raging Passion, and her fonder grief,
Torment her so, she can have no relief.
Thoughts of her slight the Virgin waking keep,
Restless, and Languishing, for want of sleep.
Now she consumes with her continu'd care,
And all her Moisture is dissolv'd to Air.
Nought of her now remains but empty sound,
Her Voice still heard in Caves, and Hollow ground.
Thus her the Cruel, Young Narcissus's Pride,
Had kill'd, with many other Nymphs beside.
Some born in Rivers, and on Mountains some,
Sure still to ruine, where his Beauties come.
When one who suffer'd by his proud disdain,
Despairing pray'd, when she did long complain,
Thus may he Love himself, and thus in vain.
Her wish was Just, and met with great regard,
She fell reveng'd, for soon Rhamnusia heard.

Narcissus.

Beginning with the Description of a Spring.

Pan and Syrinx.

Ye haughty Maids, let this example warn,
And fright you all from your injurious scorn.
Fair Syrinx liv'd on sweet Arcadia's plains,
The Joy, and Torment of the wondring Swains.
Belov'd by all, yet no one's Flames return'd,
For her the Rival Gods, for her the Sylvans burn'd.
Nay, the rough Satyrs lay their rudeness by,
Such was her Form! And gaze when she is nigh.
For, thro' the Woods oft with her Bow she came,
And like Diana, chac'd the flying game.
At her approach the yielding Branches Bow,
And hasty twigs bend till she passes through.
The darkest Groves are on a suddain bright,
And seem to smile at their new Robe of light.
The Am'rous Trees Bow their Officious heads,
And strew their willing leaves, where'er fair Syrinx Treads.
All who behold her, are her Suitors grown,
But the Chast Nymph resolves to live alone,
To live a Maid, and therefore pities none.
Unhappy fair! By her own Charms betray'd,
Such Beauties sure were for enjoyment made.
Her eager Lovers now in vain pursue,
And strive to Ravish, since in vain they wooe.
Untouch'd, till now, she sported all abroad,
But now is Courted by the Shepherd's God.
As, Crown'd with Pines, Pan from Lycæus came,
He saw the Nymph at her delightful game,
He saw, he Lov'd, and must reveal his Flame.
And with such Words as these, he urg'd her stay,
Why from a God do you thus hast away?
Sweating, and spent, he follows still the fair,
Sees the blest Zephyrs wanton in her Hair,
And all her flying Garments loosely bear.
Her growing Beauties now inflame him more,
And his fresh Crown he from his Temples tore,
A Crown he always much esteem'd before.
Now, to smooth Ladon's Sandry Banks they flew,
She shuns him fast, who does more fast pursue,
In the God's reach the Nymph does now appear,
The Wings of Love out-fly the Wings of fear.
With longing Arms he strives to seize his prey,
Which from his cheated Arms escapes as oft away.
Thus the balk'd Hound snaps at the Hare in vain,
Deceiv'd, Posts on, and is deceiv'd again.
But now the Nymph no more has Pow'r to run,
Nor knows she how the eager God to shun.
She strait the watry Deity adores,
Desires their pity, and their aid implores.
Her Pray'rs are heard, and she is caught at last,
Whom, chang'd to Reeds, the wond'ring Pan embrac't.
Amaz'd, he now for his lost Mistress Mourns,
And speaks her praises, and his griefs by turns.
Stirr'd with his sighs, the Reeds with tremblings move,
And in short Murmurs make complaints of Love.
Pleas'd with the Sound, the God, all Ravish'd cries,
Tho' thee in Person Rigid fate denies,
Thy sweet, thy Charming Musick never dies.
Still shall such converse by thy change be found,
And her own Pipe shall Syrinx praises Sound.

Jupiter and Semele.

Beginning with the Description of Fame and her Palace.

Glaucus and Scylla.

Repuls'd by Scylla, Love-Sick Glaucus flies
To try what Pow'r in Crice's Magick lies.
And now at length, to Flaming Ætna came,
Ætna and he Burnt with an equal Flame.
Thence, soon arriv'd at the design'd abode,
The fair Enchantress welcomes there the God.
To whom in moving Words his Flames he proves,
And sadly thus Reveals his slighted Loves.
'Twas Scylla's Beauty rais'd my fond desires,
And in the Waters kindled raging Fires
On a high Rock close to the Seas she stood,
And cast her Eyes down tow'rds the rising Flood.
There first I saw her, there I Lov'd her too,
Courted, she fled, nor could I fast pursue,
So, to implore your aid, I came to you.
This favour, Goddess, you may soon confer,
Quench not my Fires, but raise the like in her.
To whom thus Circe speaks with taking Air,
Be well assur'd you may enjoy the fair.
I, sprung from Sol, to your Embraces run,
With Radiant Charms, bright as my Parent Sun.
Meet her who seeks thee, her, who flies thee, shun.
Thus let thy fairer suppliant's Pray'rs be heard,
My Love must sure be to her scorn prefer'd.
Glaucus replies to her who Courts him so,
First shady Groves shall on the Billows grow.
Birds thro' the Seas, Fish thro' the plains shall move,
E'er I, while Scylla lives, estrange my Love.
Know then, she Crys, I shall not tamely bear
Your proud repulse, nor fall to vain Despair.
No, there's a Beauty you to me prefer,
To ruin thee, I'll be reveng'd on her.
Thence, utt'ring Charms, strait to a Sandy Bay,
In hast she flies; there Beauteous Scylla lay.
Sad Glaucus too towards the shore return'd,
His Mistress, chang'd into a Rock, he Mourn'd,
Circe refus'd, and still for Scylla Burn'd.

Diana and Actæon.

Beginning with the Description of a Cave.

Coronis and Neptune.

From Royal Blood the fair Coronis came.
As great by Beauty, as by Birth in fame.
From both alike she has a Pow'r to move,
From both alike she draws Spectators Love.
Her awful Charms make suppliant Princes Kneel,
And quit their Crowns to shew the Pangs they feel.
Belov'd by all, none dare her Laws oppose,
Sure still to Triumph, and enslave her foes.
The Neighb'uring Kings, who by their Arms might rise,
Dread less—her Father's Scepter, than her Conqu'ring Eyes.
While now the Maid walks on the nearer shore,
To view the Floods, and hear the Billows roar.
While now she steps upon the Sandy Bay,
And seems another Venus of the Sea.
The Am'rous Fish approach the harder strand,
Most now delighted on the Happy land.
No scaly Armour from her Beauties Saves.
With their short Wings they cut the brighter Waves.
The Sea Nymphs float upon the swelling Flood,
Like Fancy seated on a moving Cloud.
Now Neptune too thro' Waters feels a Flame.
And owns Love's Mother from the Ocean came.
At first he sees the Maid, Serene, and fair,
And tells his suff'rings with a Lover's care.
But now more rough with swelling Passions grown,
When she, his Heav'n, pour'd angry Tempests down.
Like his own Waves, he does to ruine move,
And, all inrag'd, chafes with the storms of Love.
The frighted Virgin from the Ocean flew,
And, swift as Winds, he does in hast pursue.
Tir'd in the Sands, the God approaching near,
She Cries for aid, and Begs the Heav'ns to hear.
As to the Skies her trembling Arms she threw.
On their chang'd skin Black Plumes of Feathers grew.
Turn'd to a Crow, she cuts the upper Air
And leaves her Lover, who stands wond'ring there.

Orpheus and Eurydice.

The Widow'd Orpheus for the Bride he lost,
Undaunted hastens to the Stygian Coast.
Thinking to Charm with Verse the Powers below,
And hopes his Wife may be recover'd so.
Already now the Courts of Death he past,
And mov'd all Hell with his soft Songs at last.
The Fiends with silent Admiration heard,
The Mornful Musick of the Artful Bard.
His Harp and Tongue did Joy to all afford,
While the Black roofs the wond'rous Song restor'd.
No more does Tantalus in vain essay,
To tast the streams which ran too fast away,
Now, ev'n the floods their rapid torrents stay.
The wretch forgets what he desir'd so long,
And only thirsts to hear the charming Song.
The fifty Maids no longer fill their Urn,
Nor the quick'loss of their spilt Waters mourn.
Ixion now does a short respit feel,
And leans, and listens on his quiet Wheel.
The rav'nous Vulture now torments no more,
And Titius Liver is no longer sore.
The Fiends to torture Wretched Souls forbear,
And Furies Weep with a relenting care.
All Hell Harmonious with his Voice appears,
Of equal sweetness with the moving Spheres.
Nor was the Musick, which he made, in vain,
All Hell consents to give his Bride again.
But a short time she with the Youth remain'd,
His Passion loses what his Poem gain'd.
The Pow'rs below did on these Terms restore
His Wretched Wife to leave the Stygian shore.
If, till he quite the Shades of Night had past,
And reach'd the clear Ætherial light at last,
He turn'd his Eyes, his longing Eyes, to see
His doubtful prize, it should for ever flee.
Long now he wanders, and Extreamly burns,
Long he forbears, but urg'd at last, he turns.
And now arriv'd to a faint, glimm'ring light,
Where the Sun's rays pierc'd thro' the gloomy Night,
He casts his eager Eyes, to see the wish'd-for sight.
His Wretched Wife can now no longer stay,
From his last look she fleets in hast away.
In vain he thought to catch the Shade again,
She too bent Backwards, to be caught, in vain.
Her double Death could not her anger move,
He had no fault but his excess of Love.
Gods! What curs'd Thoughts urg'd his rais'd Passions on,
When he perceiv'd she was forever gone!
Fled from his hold, and must return no more;
He thinks he's now in Hell, and was in Heav'n before.
What Anxious ills did in his fancy rowl,
And what Tumultuous Pangs perplext his Soul!
In vain he wish'd he might with her return,
But that deny'd, he could do nought but Mourn.
In vain he Sung, his Notes were all in vain,
No Verse, no Charm could bring her back again.
Stay, dear Eurydice, Ah! Stay, he Cries,
How fast the Lovely, fleeting Shadow flies!
How fast she shuns me, tho' I can't pursue!
This were not Hell, should it receive me too.
She's now already on the farther Coast,
Lost is Eurydice, my Wife is lost.
No track of time again can set her free,
She's gone for ever, ever gone from me.
No Charms a second time Hell's Pow'rs can move,
Oh! They will ne'er release my Wretched Love.
No sacred Verse, no sacred Pray'rs will do,
Hell has her now, would Hell had Orpheus too.
In Titius Place let me his torments bear,
Love's a worse Vulture than that gnaws him there.
It preys, alas! On a much Nicer part,
That hurts the Liver, but this hurts the Heart.
Is this your goodness then? ye Hellish Pow'rs!
Yes, it may easily be known for yours.
Some spightful Fiend releas'd her from the shore,
But with design to make my suff'rings more.
For on such Terms you gave me back my Wife,
You knew I must lose her, and she her Life.
Thus is your Nature plainly understood,
You ne'er intended to be wholly good.
By some damn'd Pow'r contriv'd, I know not how,
You blest a short, short while, to curse me now.
Ah! Yet be kind, and my dear Bride restore,
Let me enjoy the Blessing, yet, once more.
Let my fond Eyes once more their Pleasure boast,
Which but for too much Love had ne'er been lost.
By that dread sway, that horrour which I view,
By those vast Realms which were allotted you,
By that unquestion'd right you rule them too.
By these my Pray'rs, and Tears, which once had Charms,
Once more restore her to my longing Arms.
A little while let her on Orpheus smile,
And she is yours, within a little while.
Life is but short, and when you please to call,
You can have her, you can have me, and all.
Thus Sung the Youth, but had not Pow'r to move,
No Charm the second time could gain his Love.
Rack'd with Despair, he quits the Stygian Coast,
Nor could he stay where his dear Wife was lost.
Back to the light he takes his mournful way,
But was not Chear'd at the approach of Day.
In sad complaints he does his griefs rehearse,
And tells his Sorrows in his moving Verse.
He Sings incessantly in Charming strains,
And draws Stones to him o'er the flow'ry plains.
His Pipe brings Herds, and their pleas'd Flocks along,
Which leave their pasture, to admire his Song.
The Trees Dance round, as if they understood,
By wond'rous Sympathy, the Voice of Wood.
His lays the Nymphs, and Sylvans did rejoice,
And ravish'd Maids lay melting at his Voice.
So much the Poet with his notes could move,
That all who heard them were engag'd in Love.
The wishing Virgins all their Pow'rs bestow,
To Charm the Youth who had o'ercome them so.
But still Eurydice his Thoughts does fill,
Her 'tis he Loves, to her he's constant still.
They, vex'd to bear their fond desires in vain,
Hate where they Lov'd, and furious o'er the plain,
Pursue the Youth, who by their Hands is slain.

Book II.

THE MISCELLANY of LOVE.

On Flowers in Amasia's Bosom. In Imitation of Anacreon.

VVhat? tell me, what, should Flow'rs do there,
Amasia's sweet, as she is fair.
In her, all blooming Beauties meet;
What Flow'r so fair, as she is sweet?
Not Flora's self, shall proudly dare
With my Amasia to compare.
Flora's Breast, I know it well,
Does not like her Bosom smell.
This, Flora too, her self, does know,
For else, she would not Court her so.
Not Eastern Spices, Indian Gums,
Afford us half so rich Perfumes.
Not the Phœnix boasted Nest
Can Rival my Amasia's Breast.
Arabia can't with her's compare,
For Love's the Phœnix, that dwells there.
There, tender sighs and wishes move,
The Rich, the Od'rous Breath of Love.
Why should those Flow'rs, Amasia, stay?
Pluck them, throw them far, away.
Why should they in thy Bosom live?
They come to Rob thee, not to give.
They could, when growing in the Field,
They could—but common Odours yield.
Throw them, Amasia, throw them by,
Then Mark, how quickly they shall die.
You will not thence the Robbers throw;
Sure they are rooted there, and grow.
O happy they, in such a Bed!
Where nothing withers, nor is dead.
Tho' every other Flow'r you spare,
Let no Narcissus Flourish there.
Whilst thus my Rivals blest I see,
I find, thy Bosom can be free,
To any thing, but Love and me.

To a Lady asking me a Thousand impertinent Questions, which she would have Answer'd.

Your swarm of Queries one Just Answer draws,
I did this, that, and every thing—because.
What, wont that Answer do? Now, Jove forbid;
I did this, that, and all;—because I did.

To the Lady above-mention'd, saying I gave her a very senseless, impudent Answer.

In Mazes of impertinence involv'd,
You are not yet, nor can be e'er resolv'd.
I thought,—Because—had fairly play'd it's part;
'Tis very hard, you should more Questions start,
Than your whole Sex can Answer for their Heart.
All the response they practise, won't suffice;
Yes, No;—or shall I Answer you with Why's?
By you, I hope, I shall no more be task'd,
Answer'd, as civilly, as I was ask'd.
Now, since I give you my replies so plain,
Favour me once, and tell me what you mean.
Then, if I yet must Answer you more true,
Start me a thousand Questions all anew.
I'll make replies, as fast as they are said,
Answer me only this—
What 'tis you think, and what you do a Bed.

To the same Lady, saying she would give me a Kiss, if I would tell her what she ask'd me.

I'll take the Bribe, but not my Answers sell;
Madam, you know, we must not Kiss, and tell.
Maids, oft e'er now, (yet oft their aim have Mist,)
Have been impertinent, but to be kist.

To the Lady aforesaid, striking me on the Face with her Fan, for my former Answers.

No longer now I must your rage withstand,
Who brandish thus your Vengeance in your Hand.
How very stupid must my senses grow!
Which ne'er conceive, or what you say, or do,
But this—and this you beat into me too.
To make returns for this last Favour shown;
Now you have Struck my Face, pray, hide your own.

To a Lady, who ask'd me why I writ on such trifling Occasions.

These are the fittest subjects I can choose,
For trifling business, Suits a trifling Muse.
I make my Verse, at least, my own delight,
And, Madam, when I trifle, then I write.

To a Lady, saying I ought to Marry her, because she Lov'd me.

Thus must I pay, by smarting, for your Wound;
If you be Conquer'd, why should I be bound?
O never more to such entreaties move,
You would not have me hate you, if you Love?

To the same Loving Lady, telling me, abuse was an ill requital for soft Passion, but she thank'd her Stars, she was but in Jest.

Such Jugling Tricks I cannot understand;
You hold, unhurt, Coals burning in your Hand.
Long may you sport in the false Am'rous fit;
Love is a Jest, I ne'er could laugh at yet.
I'm pleas'd to find your wrongs already o'er,
For, should I Wed, I might abuse you more.

To a Lady asking my Opinion concerning the Writings of the Ancients and Moderns.

This only I dare positive avow,
The Ancients wrote best then, the Moderns now.

To a Lady, making her a present of Straw-Work.

Let Straw no more in slighting Terms be nam'd,
What she accepts, grows worthy to be fam'd.
Let lab'rers beat the shining sheaf no more,
'Tis now priz'd higher than the Corn it bore.
From your fair hands I may this Knowledge draw;
Your Eyes attract my Heart, as those the Straw.
O happy product, which the Field has giv'n!
From earth it Sprung, but reaches now to Heaven.

To the Bookseller desiring my Sculpture before my Book.

Take it, the Wretched, lifeless Figure take;
'Tis only giv'n for my Amasia's sake.
With Charms, too bright to be repell'd, you move;
Yet, not thro' vanity I yield, but Love.
Amasia's Name does my Book's Title Crown,
Amasia's Name, which gives my Book Renown.
Hence 'tis I grant, with pleasure, your demand;
Shall I not, Join'd with my Amasia, stand?
Let, with a scoff, the World my form disdain,
The Cens'ring World, unknowing Lovers pain;
On this account, I'm proud of being vain.
My self I gave to the bright Maid before;
How in a Picture can I give her more?
Let the World talk, and rail, and rave aloud;
I never yet for sordid praise have Bow'd;
I'll call Fools envious, while they call me proud.

To a certain Gentleman, you must know, very Censorious on me, for assenting to my Bookseller's desire.

I understand you, Sir, and now I see,
(Tho' now too late, I own;) thou can'st not be
My Picture's Friend, much less a Friend to me.

To a Lady, telling me I should Court applause, if I expected to gain it.

If, like a Virgin I should Fame adore,
The more I Court, she would but fly the more.
Courtship for praise, would render me most vain,
For none e'er Courts, but has some hopes to gain.
Fame, if she comes, is welcome; but at worst,
The Poet can't be like the Lover curst.
O'er every sense my Lov'd Amasia Reign'd,
I Courted her, and Courted, she disdain'd.
No other Charmer shall my Mistress be;
For she was Fame, and every thing to me.
Let flatt'ring Fame yield to the flatt'ring Muse;
What I ne'er gain'd, ne'er sought, I cannot lose.
Yet, praise I boast, while the pretence I quit,
For 'tis my Fame, that I ne'er sought it yet.
Let others Court her in a tedious Course,
I'll not pursue, but if I meet her, force.
The God of Verse himself, pursuing, fail'd,
Had He woo'd less, he had, perhaps, prevail'd.
My Charming Daphne, my Amasia lost,
I should not much of bending Laurels boast.
From the chang'd Nymph soft sighing Breezes came;
'Tis Breath, meer Air, that gives the Poet Fame,
How would my Raptur'd vanity run high,
Could I, like Phœbus, hear my Charmer sigh!
But here no pains, no Courtship can succeed;
Amasia sigh?—that would be Fame indeed.

To a Lady, saying with a smile, she fear'd I would not perform my Promise.

O doubt it not; or doubt if Truth be true,
All promise, is performance, made to you.
He that adores, brings Incense in his Hands;
Who dares withhold whatever Heaven demands?
When o'er the Seas Neptune exerts his sway,
In the struck Rock what rebel Wind shall stay?
Sharp as his Trident Flies each Glance you Dart,
But meets no Rock in a soft Lover's Heart.
When the Soul Acts, what thought shall flag behind,
The Flames you raise, mount swifter than the Wind.
But whilst, thus smiling you impose my task,
Your Eyes give more, than what your Lips can ask.
And yet, your Conqu'ring killing Pow'r's so great,
You Force, and Rob me, while you thus intreat.
All gen'rous grants, from the Heart ravisht flow;
What need you ask, my Heart is yours, you know.
Whilst to obey those smiles the Lover flies,
Grant him but this—the promise of those Eyes.

To a Lady, telling me I writ too fast.

'Twere hard, 'tis true, 'twere very hard indeed,
If I should write more fast than you can read.
My Muses Works, thus, to your Summs amount,
Making more Slaves than ev'n the Eyes can Count.

To the same Lady saying—Sure, I never thought, and Commanding me to write on a Feather.

Now I shall think; what Genius can refuse,
When you thus kindly Wing the flying Muse?
No boist'rous Winds my Soul's Emotions bear,
But you know, Madam, Feathers fly with Air.
I think sometimes, (by my best Thoughts,) 'tis true,
On my own wit, and on your Beauty too,
And think them much alike—I think I do.
Strange is your Female sway o'er thoughtful Men,
Strange! That your Feather should Command my Pen.
Rouz'd from a Musing fit, you often Cry,
You think on nothing; why, Just so do I.
Only by chance, for once, one thought I'll write,
Say, is the Feather, or the Fair more Light?

To a Lady saying she imagin'd Poets were all on Fire when they wrote.

When my Amasia Charms my Soul, by turns,
The Poet rages, and the Lover burns.
But any other Theam no warmth insures,
My Breast is then, almost as cold as yours.

To Amasia putting a Paper of my Verses in her Bosom.

Whilst on this Subject you afford, I write,
Concealing some, you bring more Works to Light.
Whilst from your Breast my inspiration flows,
Your Charming Breast a new Parnassus grows.
Two Spiring mounts give the fam'd Hill renown.
Two Spiring mounts Amasia's Bosom Crown.
Take care, soft Charmer, of thy Breast take care,
For thro' my Verse, my Soul will enter there.
Whilst thus my lines are in thy Bosom lay'd,
The Poem's happier than the Poet made.

To a Lady with a very Charming Dimple in her Chin, occasion'd by a scar, which, she said, an unaccountable distemper had left there.

That Wounds leave scars, is known to all Mankind;
But none e'er knew that scars left Wounds behind.
The dire effect, thus, the dire Cause is grown;
I see your Wounds, and smarting feel my own.
Thus, Graces infinite your Features Arm;
What are your Pow'rs! When ev'n Desease can Charm!
Shafts at impassive Heaven are shot in vain,
With Vengeance Wing'd, they kill, when turn'd again.
To Salve my Wounds, grant me one Balmy sigh,
For 'tis thro your Desease I pine and die.
Be kind; and perfectly restore me sound,
Where Love heals ill, a rancour'd Scar is found.

To a Lady Dancing at a Ball.

The Muse appears, all Airy, in my view,
The Muse appears, and Dances, Bright, like you.
Like you, she fleets, and in my fancy flies,
All Wing'd, and gliding fast thro' azure Skies.
Loe! She descends, and hither darts her way,
Like Sun-beams swiftly bright—
All Lust'rous clear, and flashing on the Day.
With moving Air, like thee she passes now,
Welcome, my Muse—oh! Not the Muse—'tis thou.
Forgive me, Virgin, I mistook the fair,
Only thy self could with thy self compare.
You are my Muse, 'tis you, 'tis you inspire,
While your each motion Fans the kindling Fire.
My tuneful Notions rise surprizing new,
At once you Dance, and give the Musick too.
O that my Verse could run on Feet like thine,
My numbers then, would grow, like thee, Divine.
So true you move, yet with such swift surprize,
Tho' rising still, none can perceive you rise.
Stay, British Daphne, 'tis not Sol pursues,
Winning too fast the race, the prize you lose.
My swiftest Thoughts in vain to reach you strive,
Stay, thou hast won the Laurel, yet alive
Take the reward, the Poets Crown's your due,
Both Crowns and Hearts all must submit to you.
O if to thee a fate like Daphne's fell,
How would the Wreath be priz'd—
How would all write, and how would I excel!

To a Lady saying she would Hate me, if I should write Satyr.

Since Satyr, Madam, has her Birth from spight,
If you should Hate me, that would make me Write.
My Satyr's Teeth, whene'er she Bites, draws Blood,
Not sharp; but very Blunt; and that's as good.
Provok'd, like Jove's, my strugling Thunder's hurld,
Broad Sheets of rage, like light'nings, are unfurl'd,
And I could Flash, and Blast, and Tear the World.
I boast an equal Priviledge with you.
Sat'ring my self, in every thing I do.

To a Gentleman, whose Life was indanger'd by his Endeavouring to aderss a Lady in a Sphere above him.

Go on, and speak your Passion uncontroul'd,
For, Love and Fortune both befriend the bold.
Maids are half gain'd, when, once the Suit's begun,
And she deserves to be thro' hazards won.
Storms past at Sea indear the Anchor'd ground;
E'er Drake grew fam'd, he did the World surround.

NEW-YEAR's-DAY, 1699.

Ah! Hapless Day! How thy sad gloom appears!
Rolling o'er me twice Twelve revolving Years.
Thou gav'st me Life, thus art thou doubly curst,
For, by thy Light I saw Amasia first.
Now, since that time, twelve Circling Suns roll on,
Since that sad time I found Amasia gone.
Scarce to compleat thy Circle wouldst thou stay,
You bore in hast, so rich a prize away.
Return, Rapacious, Rival Year! restore
My fair, my Charmer, Charming as before.
O woe Eternal! O Eternal pain!
Nor you, nor she must strike my Eyes again.
My endless Sorrows round thy Circle move;
Twelve fatal Years! Half of my Life was Love.
Love was my Life; and now I plainly see,
That Time and Death are much the same to me.
O Grant me, Phæbus; this is all my Pray'r;
One smiling Sun, let me behold my fair.
For that one Day, Serene I'll bear my doom,
Past Years of Woe, and Ages yet to come.
If, on that Day, I meet Amasia's scorn,
If, on that Day, the Charmer shall not burn,
Never may this, no, never more return.

Seeing a Lady at a Play call'd A Trip to the Jubilee.

The Scene seems now a Melancholy place,
Here gaze, my Eyes, here revel, and Embrace,
And press, and Kiss, at every glance, that Face.
Let both the Author and his Play seek Rome,
Beauty, I'm sure, keeps Jubilee at home.

To a Lady, under the Name of Philomela.

I'm Charm'd, I'm ravish'd with thy tuneful Song;
Ne'er may this Philomela lose her Tongue.
Sweet as the first, Harmoniously you move,
By Sorrow she was taught, and you, by Love.

LOVE in IDEA.

Written to a Friend, who said his Mistress was above Gold, and desir'd my advice in his Suit.

To a Lady, who seeing me in a Languishing Sickness, call'd me—Poor Shadow of Love.

Wounds got in War to Warriours graceful show,
Wounds got in Love, are ridicul'd by you.
But Oh! I acted not the Warriour's part,
They lose their Limbs, but I have lost my Heart.
Like wounded Cowards, I am heartless found,
And every fair, who sees me, now may Wound.
No, Charming Maid! I yield not yet to die,
The best defence of Cowards, is to fly.
In vain, in vain your killing Darts pursue,
I am Love's Shadow, Beauty's substance You.

To a Lady making me a second present of a Lock of her Hair, after I had in an humour return'd the first.

Number thy Hairs, count then my summs of bliss;
The Golden Fleece was a mean prize to this.
With Popish Superstition, every day,
To this Lov'd guift, as to some Saint, I'll pray.
Far brighter this, than Ariadne's Hair
Translated to the Gods, and made a Star.
That sprung from earth; e'er to the Skies it flew,
This grew in Paradise, in Heaven it grew.
Thus, tho' the vanquish'd outworks I have won,
Never, Oh! Never must I gain the Town.
Twice ten Years Siege would here successless prove,
War ends in Peace, but can Despair gain Love?
You gave the gift; I did the gift restore,
Again you gave, now to receive no more.
My Heart was yours, you did the toy disdain,
Again 'tis yours, ne'er to return again.
What shall I give, my gratitude to show?
O may your Hair, fast as you cut it, grow;
But Pray'rs are little, where my self I owe.
See, how the Lock does my blest hands Embrace,
As once it Curl'd about the Charmer's Face.
What is my envy to thy present grown!
How do I envy what is now my own!
O could some God transform my shape to Hair,
And would'st thou me, as once this present, wear,
How were I blest! I would around thee roll,
And Curl, and clasp thy Breasts, and twine about thee whole.
And then, if any Lover should but dare
To Court, and beg the favour of thy Hair.
Up would I start, to Vindicate my right,
And stand an end, with horrour, and affright,
Thy Lovely Hair, where Beauty now is sown,
Should like Medusa's snaky Locks be shown,
And turn the bold beholders stiffen'd into Stone.

To a Lady Singing.

Musick has Charms no Poetry can raise.
That silence, which your Song Commands, is praise.

The Health.

After absence—To a Friend.

An absent Friend, long absent from my Arms,
(Long from my Breast, since I felt Love's alarms.
Return'd—last Night, the Prodigal return'd,
With gen'rous, kind, continu'd Friendship burn'd,
And, in the closest folds, his ruin'd Sylvius Mourn'd.
Both Mourn'd, at once in Pleasure and in pain,
Both Mourn'd that loss, which both esteem'd, as gain.
Strange force of Friendship! Vain and indiscreet,
We Mourn our absence most, when now we meet.
Thus, when the Mariner has reacht the shore,
Tho' he deplores not, till the Tempest's o'er,
Yet then he feels the late-past Anguish more.
Then, when safe landed on the welcome Coast,
Then, he perceives his vanisht dangers most.
Srait, from my Friend a Flood of Questions Springs,
Half Answers made, I ask ten thousand things,
For meeting Friends—
Grow highly ravish'd, as Triumphant Kings.
Our hasty Joys such num'rous Queries Start,
We seem'd not meeting then, but then to part.
We stood, embrac'd, then walk'd, and chang'd the ground,
We lodg'd—the Lov'd Amasia's Health flew round,
Amasia's Health the Golden Goblets Crown'd.

To a Lady, holding her Picture in my Hand, and looking on her Face.

Thus, Ixion like, I have maintain'd the chace,
Pursu'd the Goddess, and her Cloud embrace.
O thou, who fly'st with my despairing Heart,
Thou, more a Shadow than thy Picture, art.
Whilst round this Shade my Circling Arms I cast,
Thy Face, which shuns me, holds my Soul as fast.
Here had the fond Narcissus chanc'd to rove,
He and his Shadow too had dy'd for Love.
Let none attempt thy Picture; 'tis in vain;
Ev'n Nature cannot paint it o'er again.

The Arms.

Written at the request of Amasia.

'Tis she Commands; then, must her Poet Sing
The first bold Man, from whence his race did Spring.
First of the line, first noted of the Name,
Who his by subtle brav'ry purchas'd Fame,
Atchieving deeds, whence his long honours came.
A Castle stood, impregnable of Old,
Scorning assault, like Danae's Brazen hold;
By Steel unconquer'd, and unbrib'd by Gold.
Long had the British Force besieg'd this Tow'r,
Long had it Mock'd Britain's Enervate Pow'r.
This subtle Hero, Champion of his race,
With some few Troops, attempted, gain'd the Place.
Naked of Martial Pomp, unarm'd in show,
Deckt with Plum'd Casks, defenceless all below,
Forsook the Camp, revolting to the Foe.
As Friends they came, and were, as Friends, let in,
By which false Friendship they the Outworks win.
Gallantly Courteous, Fashionably brave,
Their long Plum'd Casks, as in Salute, they wave.
From which, at once, soon as the Signal's giv'n,
Small Pistols drawn; their Casks are tost to Heav'n.
With a loud shout, charging the Guards, they Fire,
Some Fall, some Fly, and Fighting, some Retire.
At the rais'd Clamour, the Besiegers hast,
Rush in, like Floods, the Gates defenceless past,
And by Join'd Forces, Storm the Fort at last.
Hence are his Honours Blazon'd, hence his Arms,
For his close Valour, and secure Alarms.
A Castle for his Crest the Helmet bore,
Three Pistols added in his Field he wore,
Three Roses only were his Arms before.
I envy not, bold Ancestor! Thy Fame,
Amasia mine, I should despise a Name.
Triumphs o'er Beauty I to Worlds prefer;
You Vanquish Castles, let me Vanquish her.
Fam'd much for cunning, not for Courage less,
Yet she's a Fortress thou could'st ne'er possess.
Inspire me, Parent Genius! mild appear,
Useless thy Roses, if they fail me here.
Blushing they fall, her Cheeks more Sweetly Red,
Now, Pale like me, their Sickly leaves they shed,
Behold, they Wither now, and now are Dead.
Degenerate Youth! Thy Arms, thy Honours lost,
What Fame has slothful Sylvius left to boast?
New Arms the Patron of his line had won;
Unworthy thou to be esteem'd a Son,
Losing what long descent had made thy own.
This points the Warriour's, this the Lover's course,
That sweetness always must be Join'd with force.

POEMS ON Several Occasions.

The Complaint.

Tir'd of the Town, and the Wild tumults there,
Pensive I Walk'd, to Breath the Vernal Air.
Along the Banks of Silver Thames I stray'd;
Alike both wander'd, thro' the grateful Mead.
Only, more Calm the River gilded by,
Shook by no Storm, it murmur'd not, as I.
Beneath a shade, form'd of a Shrubby Wood,
I lay, and look'd on the adjacent Flood.
The Beamy Sky All-lustrous from above,
With wav'ring Light seem'd on the Streams to move.
Heav'n, there display'd before me, I could boast,
Yet Plunging in, I had been ever lost.
Thus to those Wretches whom their Crimes pursue,
Ev'n Heav'n shows false, and Damns them in the view.
Strait, was the Sun o'ercast with sullen Clouds,
And gloomy Mists sat heavy on the Floods.
The Tempest gather'd, and from Pole to Pole,
The light'nings Flash, and the loud Thunders roll.
Whole Heav'n was darken'd—Calm I lay a while,
And with a Pleasing sadness, seem'd to smile.
But now, the Sun forc'd out his Glorious way,
Dispell'd the gloom, and made the Skies look gay,
Clad thick in brightest Beams, and Flashing on the Day.
On Airy Wings the gloomy Mists were fled,
And gladsome Sun-shine glided every Shade,
But that, where Sylvius, where the Wretch was lay'd.
A thick, dark Fog spread horrid, all around,
And dull'd the Springing Beauties of the ground.
On both sides, near, I saw delightful Groves,
And happy Lovers, Whisp'ring tender Loves.
The Odorous Bow'rs, their Scenes of bliss, so nigh
I heard the Swains protest, the Virgins sigh.
Damp't with my fate, no wishing glance I cast,
Gay looks of Pleasure die, when Joys are past.
The Wretch his Courtship needs must purchase hate,
For Beauty yields, but to the rich, and great.
I saw—unenvying saw their rais'd delight,
Blest both their day, and my own gloomy Night,
That grateful Fog, which fenc'd me from their sight.
Hear me, I Cry'd, ye Heavens! Auspicious hear,
Kind Eccho too, part in my Sorrows bear.
In that low Vale try there thy utmost Skill;
Now, if thou can'st, redouble all my ill.
In vain, in vain—alas! What speaks the wrong,
In vain, in vain thou cry'st—'tis all thy Song.
Be dumb—I'll now a new Narcissus be,
Fond of my grief, as of his Beauty he.
More blest than him I shall appear in woe;
In this respect none will my Rival grow.
In all the Crowd of that imperious Town,
Find me that gen'rous Soul, find one alone,
Willing to Join in any other's moan.
Of all the shining Beauties, where's the Maid,
That sells her Love, where only Love is paid.

To Mr ---

Written before the Representation of his First Comedy.

Enough—I know thy strength, nor need delay,
The dawning Muse fore-shows the Springing Day,
Nor will the rise of her own Phæbus stay.
Let others wait the Glory of the Skies,
I know, I know, the Sun and you must rise.
Strong in thy solid Beams, maintain thy Sphere;
Thy vig'rous Fires will Foggy Vapours rear.
I know thy Orb of Sence to fulness grown,
And by thy kind Reflection, Judge my own.
Thence, all my borrow'd, fainter glimm'rings shine,
I can't be wholly dark, while thou art mine.
In vain, once dampt, to weaker helps I run,
Yet Vesta's Fire was kindl'd by the Sun.
Hard fate of Debt! if I return thee Praise,
I send but smoak, for thy enliv'ning rays.
Languid my heat, void of the Flame of Wit.
Censur'd for what I have, and have not Writ.
Against what's mine, let Criticks Blunder on,
They may excuse me, what I have not done.
Tho' to no haughty Genius will I bend,
My Muse must still her utmost Plumes extend,
And clap her Wings, and soar, to reach my Friend.
She, safe like Danae, from mortal Pow'rs,
Yields but to Jove, in his Celestial show'rs.
Tho' I, the weak born Castor, must decline,
In thee, my stronger, Brother-star, I'll shine.
Go on, Lov'd Youth! And lofty structures raise,
Already founded strong, in solid praise.
Congreve, Vanbrook, and Wicherly must sit,
The great Triumvirate of Comick Wit.
Where can I place my Friend; and sense approve?
Do thou excel thy self, then rise above.
Ascend not proudly, tho' thou can'st not fall,
Be what thou art, thou art already all.
Maintain thy own, nor scorn to Conquer slow,
And Young Octavius shall Augustus grow.
But Oh! Forgive thy undesigning Friend,
I cannot all, tho' all be thine, commend,
For thou, I own, ev'n thou thy self, may'st mend.
Let nought, offending Chastest ears, be told;
Make thy Muse modest, she may still be bold.
Safe shall you rise, from every Censure free,
And still be Courted, as you pass, by me.
Shun the Just rage of Collier's sacred Pen,
The truly great, must be the best of Men.
From Heav'n immediate, Flows such Sence as thine
Warm, like the Poet's God, as well as shine.
Let the strong Muse, Divine in Numbers rise,
'Tis then, 'tis only then, she strikes the Skies.

To Mr ---

On his Second Comedy.

All Court the Rising Sun; some, from the morn,
Conclude what Lustre shall the Day adorn.
Your earliest dawn, my Friend, was chearful day,
You shone out first with a Meridian ray.
Tho' dusky Clouds some Beams did hov'ring hide,
The Work was Day, 'twas perfect Day descry'd.
This all infer from the succeeding Skies,
After one Day, another Day must Rise.
O may thy Phæbus never set in Night,
For, all the God shines in each Scene you write.
Why should my Voice pronounce the labour good?
'Tis praise enough to say 'tis understood.
Loud are the Clamours which applauses Fire;
You force much more, we silently admire;
When seen, you ravish, but when read, inspire.
All Judge you hence, in the first piece you writ,
Loose, but thro' Fashion, not thro' want of wit.
For now, more new, (tho' Genuine Garbs) you choose,
And deck, with modest Charms, the Comick Muse.
At once such profit, such delight you raise,
Collier himself (if Collier can) should praise.
But hold—
While here to stay the Reader's Eyes I strive,
You of your best Applause, by praising, I deprive.

The Petition.

To her Royal, and Illustrious Highness, the Princess.

Written in the Name of Mr. ---, being deny'd to Tread the Stage.

To a Lady, my Friend's ingrateful Mistress.

To Dr Gibbons.

Let Gibbons Live, long let Great Gibbons Live,
Possest of Health, which he so well can give.
Such strength to sinking Patients you restore,
Scarce Nature's Hand in bounteous Birth gave more.
In Sickness plung'd, like Divers in the Main,
We bring up Health, when we appear again;
Health is the Gemm, which by your Art we find,
Firm in the Body set, and glitt'ring in the Mind.
O Gibbons! Whilst thy Name inspires my Muse,
Thou dost fresh Vigour in her flights infuse.
With Joy she soars to Sing her Patron's praise,
And stretch those Wings, which only you could raise.
Thou gav'st her Life, and whilst she sings thy Name,
Thou giv'st to her, as she to others, Fame.
Fame she returns, given by the Justest Law,
For thou draw'st Fame from every Breath I draw.
What can I give, my gratitude to show?
My Thanks? my Thanks are Poor, my self I owe.
Gen'rous like Heav'n, our Vital heat you give,
And in return, would'st only that we live.
Such is your care for all your Patients shown,
As if from others Health you drew your own.
O would our God, the Radiant Phæbus shine,
And bless my skill, as he has Cherish'd thine.
Then should thy Art be in my Song Renown'd,
And Verse and Physick should at once be Crown'd.
Then might I Sing the vigour you impart,
But artless Verse can never reach thy Art.
From thee the darkest Black distempers run,
As Shades and Phantoms from the mounting Sun.
Thy Power whole Legions of Diseases fly,
You Cure the Sick, and make the Sickness die.
Nature to thee does all her secrets show,
And all her secrets are improv'd by you.
New Life, new force to Nature you impart,
And Nature's self we find reviv'd by Art.
Wisely to you her choicest seeds she gives,
Nature, who grants all Life, thro' Gibbons Lives.
In vain the Poet boasts Immortal Pow'rs,
Life is Heaven's gift, 'tis only Heaven's, and Yours.

To a Lady, asking me why I did not apply to Dr. Gibbons to be Cur'd of my Love too.

Phæbus himself, who did the pain endure,
In all his Art of Physick found no Cure.
All means I try'd, all means have Fruitless prov'd;
Art only Cures, where Art the Passion mov'd.
Love is like Poyson; by some secret spell,
Poyson does Poyson, Love does Love expel.
But this, ev'n this, should I attempt, were vain;
'Tis Poyson; nay, 'tis Death, and Damning pain,
To think she Lives, and I should Love again.
Love is like Death to me; I will not try,
For I can Love but once, but once can die.
Gibbons has Art, Gibbons has Matchless skill,
Gibbons can save more Lives, than others Kill.
Love's a Disease free from ill-temper'd Air,
And ev'n Great Gibbons self is Artless there.
Life he restor'd, by Neighb'ring Death Annoy'd.
But Life is easier rais'd, than Love Destroy'd.
The cause dies not, till the effect remove,
We know that Life is but the Act of Love.
This too we know from all Conclusions try'd,
Love shall leave me, when you abandon Pride.

The Charmer.

Each Love-sick Youth, by partial Passion torn,
Thinks that faint Star the brightest Fires adorn,
Beneath whose smiling Reign the Youth was born.
That Planet Clouded, and depriv'd of Light,
He thinks some other, and some other bright.
Amasia thus, shed pointed glories far,
In the first dawn, the Poet's Morning Star.
Yet still new Beams her Charming aspect wears,
Daily ador'd twice six long rolling Years.
First in Hibernia was the Nymph admir'd,
There first her Charms the ravisht Sylvius Fir'd.
Blest Gallia now is with her influence Crown'd,
Not shining still on his sad, Native ground,
What he thought fixt, a wand'ring Star is found.
Tho' long remov'd from my deluded Eyes,
She seems the brightest Planet of the skies,
In France she sets, nor must in Brittain rise.
Whilst Lov'd Amasia's Charms the Poet Sings,
He speaks, admiring Subsolary things.
Sol's stronger rise we see Aurora shun;
Here, none compares, Grafton is Beauty's Sun.
If to her Face our Sick'ning Eyes we move,
Blind grows all Admiration, Blind as Love.
Sight, not Immortal, should not rashly dare
To tempt that Lustrous view it cannot bear.
Conscious of Fires, which by Reflection warm,
I stand at distance, and perceive the Charm.
View Grafton's Face reflected by her Fame,
As Men view Phæbus in the Silver Stream.
This bliss, in pity to our weakness giv'n,
We view the Sun, but gaze not at the Heaven.
Next her, immediate, Shall Amasia shine
In every dazzled sight, as well as mine.
While Grafton's self, first shall the Throne maintain,
Let her, the fairest Fair Vicegerent Reign.
The Poet's Venus, whom his Muse has Sung,
Not from the Sea, but from a Deluge Sprung.
Greatly deriv'd, the Beauteous Charmer Flow'd
From a long line of Royal, old Hibernian Blood.
Her Country delug'd in a fatal War,
Her House's Ark tost on rude Billows far.
Succeeding Wars, to me more fatal bred;
From the curs'd Land this fair Astræa fled.
To her, their Regent Queen, does Gallia Bow,
The Fruitful Gallia is her Empire now.
Her Eyes their Souls at once inspire and awe,
Imperial grown, spight of their Salick Law.
O'er Spacious France her shining Scepter's hurl'd,
She Reigns o'er France and me, but Grafton o'er the World.

The Vision of the MUSE.

Book III.

THE FRIENDSHIP of LOVE.

To Mr ---

[In vain, My Friend, your kind advice you send]

In vain, My Friend, your kind advice you send,
Bid me Love on, you will be more my Friend,
The Fetter'd Wretch, not strugling, feels no pain,
'Tis he's Tormented, who would stretch the Chain,
Not the Eternal links of fate can prove,
More firm and strong, than are my links of Love.
Bound to my fair Amasia I appear,
(O would to Heav'n, I were bound truly here!)
'Tis more than freedom, to be so confin'd,
She's all the Charm of her whole Beauteous kind.
Homage to her would you confinement call?
We know the Deity is every where, and all.
Confin'd to her! alas! it cannot be,
But bless me, Heaven's! Make her confin'd to me.
No more advise me to forsake my fair,
I must Love on, yet, while I Love, Despair.
In vain you strive my Passion to remove,
For Oh! I cannot live, unless I Love.
If you are griev'd I bear Amasia's scorn,
Quench not my Fires, but make her kindly burn.
Love is a Weight to me indeed severe,
But should she help, I could the burthen bear.
Beneath the load I should no longer Bow,
For that would raise me, which depresses now.
Tho' no such hope does to your Friend remain,
I boast the freedom to embrace my Chain.
A Slave how Wretched must your Sylvius grow,
When not permitted to be longer so?
Kind tho' you are, you seem not kind to me,
For he Enthrals me, who would set me free.
By no device you can obtain your end,
I can't my Mistress lose, but may my Friend.
In vain, oft practis'd methods you devise,
'Tis all in vain, Amasia still has Eyes.
No more to me your hard addresses move,
For, I assure you, by the Gods above,
I can't—I will not part from what so dear I Love.

To Mr ---

[Much am I pleas'd, to hear your new design]

Much am I pleas'd, to hear your new design,
For, my Friend's happiness I reckon mine.
I should repine, to bid these Shades adieu,
Not fond of praise my self, but wish it you.
Still may applause your undertakings bless,
Your rising Muse be Wing'd with swift success,
Esteem'd by all, for you deserve no less.
As some young Bird, who late has taken Wing,
With fond desire in the warm Air to Sing.
When he has felt the Sun's enliv'ning Ray,
Flutt'ring sometimes around his Nest does Play,
And Chirps to call his Fellow Bird away.
So you, now Cherish'd by your Patron's Love,
With fonder hopes of a warm Season move,
And Sing to me, to meet you, in the Air above.
But more assurance than the Bird's you find,
For, trusting him, you do not beat on Wind.
Scarce can I hold, for I would fain commend
That gen'rous Man, who is the Muses Friend.
Long in full Tides may his smooth Fortunes flow,
He Merits Plenty, who bestows it so.
Whilst from his lasting Springs small Streams distill,
His over-flowings shall your Current fill.
Such bounty sure may be dispens'd to you,
Poets, like Kings, are Heav'n's Anointed too.
But ah! Their Art is now debas'd, and low,
It only serves to make a gawdy show.
The shining Light their Phæbus gives, they use,
But the productive, vig'rous heat, abuse.
They, whose true merits can a Patron claim,
(And such there are, who part with Gold for Fame,)
Should Honours, worthy their true greatness, raise,
The gen'rous few deserve the nobler praise.
You, to grow fam'd, must lofty'st Subjects choose,
For still applause bears up the Tow'ring Muse.
While round your Head a Crown of Laurel spreads,
Me shall my Groves content, and grateful Shades.
I on no other's greatness would depend,
But make my own Humility my Friend.
On Flow'ry Banks, in Bow'rs the Lover Lies,
He wants no Prop, who will not strive to rise.
'Tis not thro' Pride, I am thus careless grown,
And slight applause, to make it more my own.
I don't disclaim the Favours of the great,
But I can't stoop, and Cringe to meer estate.
If from great Men to me their Favours came,
I should respect the Person, not the Name.
Thro' me, the World should his kind bounty know,
And my rais'd Muse should tell who rais'd her so.
Nay, from a Prosp'rous Friend, I could receive,
Favours, I found him truly fond to give.
This, as my highest Friendship, I may boast,
For grateful sense in this still struggles most.
To be oblig'd, costs gen'rous Souls some pain,
When in Despair to make returns again.
Your Sylvius only to his fair one sues,
Her, only her, I for my Subject choose,
Amasia's both my Patroness, and Muse.
My Love for her no Rival Charm endures,
Were I not her's intire, I should be

To Mr ---

[As some blest Youth, who, led by chance, has found]

As some blest Youth, who, led by chance, has found
A blooming Maid, that has his longings Crown'd.
Whose every Charming Beauty can surprize,
And draw soft glances, from his wishing Eyes.
Stands silent long, and in a fond amaze,
Admires, what 'tis, that thus his Soul could raise,
Above his wonder, and beyond his praise.
But when he finds the gen'rous fair inclin'd
To Love like him, like him, intirely kind,
Gush'd with the Joys, he no endearments shows,
Because, he can't express, to the vast height he owes.
So, you, dear Daphnis, I admir'd, and prais'd,
In me, long since, you have fond wishes rais'd.
I view'd you always with a Loving Eye,
Yet fear'd to Court you, for I thought you shy.
But, when I found that I had ought could move,
In you a fondness to return my Love.
I grew amaz'd, and strugling I supprest
The soft Emotions of my swelling Breast.
Ev'n now I feel the Flowings of my Soul
With an Unusual, Ardent vigour roll,
I can't the risings of my Thoughts express,
Inlarging on them, does but show them less.
I, like the Sybils, by Strange heats inspir'd,
Am with a rage of Sacred Friendship Fir'd.
In Verse, like them, I my Conceptions show,
They by their God possess'd, and I by you.
But mine, not dubious as their Speech, assures
That I am certainly, and wholly yours.
As the fond Youth, who has divulg'd his pain,
Has own'd his Love, and is belov'd again.
Burns, for the dear enjoyment, of that fair
Who heard his Vows, and who receiv'd his Pray'r.
So I, who Justly may my self commend
A constant Lover, and a real Friend.
Long to enjoy you, to possess you whole,
For, he does truly so, who gains the Soul.
In your Embrace, I would my Thoughts express,
Declare my Love, and hear from you no less.
This fond desire, no hope of int'rest Frames,
For I feel earnest, and transporting Flames.
I would the dearest Friendship here improve,
Not a dull Duty like Fraternal Love.
A near Alliance Nature form'd before,
Blest me with that, but you have blest me more.
Your gen'rous Temper does your greatness show,
And proves you highest, when you stoop so low.
To what excess must my vast Blessings fly,
If we grow nigher, when already nigh!
The strictest Union moves the most delight,
And that must needs be so, where Hearts and Souls Unite.

To Mr ---

[Tir'd of Mankind, I long have born in vain]

Tir'd of Mankind, I long have born in vain
With silent greatness, my encreasing pain,
But now, my Friend, I must at last complain.
My growing ills, in swelling Torrents roll,
And, with impetuous Tides, o'er-flow my Soul.
All my desires and wishes fly me far,
My Fortunes wreck'd in the loud Storms of War.
Happy I liv'd, while Childish Years did last,
But our best Pleasures are but Dreams, when past.
The Thoughts of those disturb my present rest,
I were not Wretched now, had I not then been blest.
Born to be curst by Destiny, I stand,
And can't, so much as view the happy Land.
Friendless, and all, but Resolution lost,
A mark for Fate I seem, upon a ruin'd Coast.
Kept back by Winds, and tides which loudly roar,
I sit deserted on the Barren shore,
And view the Sea of Time, which I must yet pass o'er.
Heaven's utmost rage, and tortures here I see;
Ill do my Fortunes with my Soul agree;
I have a Spirit form'd to be above
A low submission to ought else than Love.
None but Amasia can my mind controul,
She melts my Thoughts, and softens all my Soul.
How could I hope she should my Flames prefer,
If I knew how to stoop to ought, but her?
Blest were my days, while here the Charmer stay'd,
But I lost all, soon as I lost the Maid.
In her alone, was all my valu'd store,
And rob'd of her, I could be rob'd no more.
War's threat'ning Tempest bore the Nymph away,
This Venus took her flight upon the boist'rous Sea.
The Gallick Court with joy the Virgin saw,
There still she Reigns, spite of the Salick Law.
Of wish'd success, and Triumph I Despair,
France can't be vanquish'd, while Amasia's there.
Her Charms give Courage the to Youth, to wield
Their brandish'd Swords, bold, in the dusty Field.
Bravely they Fight, and Venture for the spoil,
They hope her smiles will soon reward their toil.
For her bright Charms they dare encounter far,
'Tis she's the Goddess, that sustains their War.
She gives them Valour, sets their Souls on Fire,
And so, her Eyes against themselves conspire.
Warm'd by their rays, they to the onset move,
The Youth, so rais'd, must needs successful prove,
And then they claim, for their exploits, her Love.
Around her Brows their Wreaths of Laurel rise,
But all can't Shade them from her Radiant Eyes.
By force, they Conquer Squad'rons in the Field,
Oppose whole Armies, yet to her they yield.
Her dearer Chains to freedom they prefer,
And stoop, when Conqu'rours, to be Slaves to her.
While I, with folded Arms, in fond Despair,
Clasp my sad Breast, to press her Image there.
O let me rush impatient to the War,
Drive, and pursue my flying Rivals far.
None great in Battles should like Sylvius prove,
He should Fight best, who best knows how to Love.
'Tis then resolv'd I'll boldly charge my foes,
For Nassau Conquers, wheresoe'er he goes.
Plac'd in Command beneath a Chief so great,
I'll force my Fortune, or I'll urge my fate.
But ah! I would not undistinguish'd fall,
Grant this, ye Gods! And ye have granted all.
Grant that brave Death I may to flight prefer,
And let Amasia know, I fought, and dy'd for her.
To hopes of Joys, and peaceful Thoughts adieu,
Farewel to them for ever, now to you.
No Words my Melancholy Thoughts can tell,
Let them die with me too; once more, Farewel.

To Mr ---

[As two dear Friends, who, by some fate unkind]

As two dear Friends, who, by some fate unkind,
Wreck'd by the Seas, and by the faithless Wind,
Had liv'd a tedious, Melancholy while
In some dark, barren, unfrequented Isle,
Together still, 'till one, unfit to bear
Unpractis'd Hunger, and so bleak an Air.
Urg'd by Prophetick Dreams of Feasts to come,
With Weepings parts, and round the Isle does roam.
Both for the suff'rings of each other Mourn,
And he that stay'd, prays for his Friend's return.
So, you and I, from the World's noise remov'd,
A Fate like theirs, have in some Measure prov'd,
Alone we Liv'd, and so alone we Lov'd.
Whilst busy Slaves, yet, an unthinking herd,
Past Salvage by, and like meer Brutes appear'd.
'Till diff'rent Thoughts, and some designs that please,
Urg'd me from you, to follow purpos'd ways.
As Famish'd Men, who long had Dreamt of Meats,
Of fancy'd Dainties, in delightful Seats,
Yet still, not they, but their starv'd fancy Eats.
And between slumbers, with regret they find
It was meer Hunger, that had fed their Mind.
'Till some kind hand spreads Spatious Tables o'er,
With choicer Banquets, and with greater store,
Than what were furnish'd by their sleep before.
So, what the Muses did in Visions shew,
Of Love, and Friendship Daphnis proves is true,
For he's at once a Friend, and Mistress too.
The richest Feasts of fondness he prepares,
And fills my Soul with the most pleasing Ayres.
My Thoughs for him rise up to such excess,
As to Amasia in a dear Address,
Her I Love more, yet him esteem not less.
And now, Adonis, since that Name you choose,
And Cytherea, for your Mistress use;
The softest Titles, for the softest Muse.
I wish success, but that I need not do,
For it attends, and waits to fly to you.
Among the rest, two Charming Beauties shine,
Painting, and Poetry intirely thine.
Scarce can I tell, both are so well exprest,
Which takes me most, or draws an image best.
Nature to you those Charming Arts procures,
I Court them most, yet they the most are yours.
Fortune has giv'n you all, to make you great,
All she could give you, but a large Estate.
And had you that, the rest would useless prove,
For that alone can gain a Virgin's Love.
Then Cytherea, that proud fair, would sue,
And beg her self, to be belov'd by you.
But she deserves not the fond Name you give,
If she's like Venus, fair, she should like Venus live.
But you indeed your Title Justly claim,
Soft as Adonis, and as full of Flame.
Your Breast, pierc'd deeper than his Thigh is found,
For Love's the Salvage, that gave you your Wound.
Yours, and my Mistress are almost alike,
With equal Pow'r on both our Hearts they strike.
She with Amasia may for scorn compare,
Amasia is like Cytherea fair.
I, tho' despis'd, for want of Pomp, and show,
Am pleas'd as you are, when my self I know
Above those Slaves, who think me much below.
Alike our Souls, alike our wishes move,
The same our Friendship, and the same our Love.
I never yet to Honour'd Fools have Bow'd,
Born to be slighted, and to slight the proud.
And you I know, as well as I, can boast,
That, where despis'd, you can despise the most.
Yet Cytherea still exempted stands,
Spight of her Pride, she your fond Heart Commands.
So I Amasia Love, but Love in vain,
Tho' she too, proudly Triumphs in my pain.
Believe me, Friend, I have a Miser's Mind,
For, tho' I here my best Lov'd Treasure find,
I want my other store, you, whom I left behind.

To Mr ---

To you, dear Youth, did Sylvius oft complain,
I took delight to tell you all my pain.
I did a Melancholy Pleasure feel,
Breathing the Thoughts of my bewitching ill.
But now, my Muse no more such suff'rings Sings,
My flowing Sorrows damp her Flagging Wings.
Her Tow'ring flight oft Lov'd Amasia bore,
But ah! That Lovely Fair must now be Sung no more
Gods! Let the Happy, who your Blessings know,
Adore your Pow'r, to keep them ever so.
O with what Justice may the Wretch repine!
Amasia's Dead! She's Dead! and dy'd not mine!
Yet do I live, and the Earth's surface Tread?
Meanly survive, when dear Amasia's Dead!
God's! Can I say she dy'd—can I believe
She was not born, that she might ever live!
Eccho my Plaints, ye Groves, and Vales around,
Let the Word Death from all the Hills rebound,
That I, at last, may Credit the repeated sound.
From hollow Rocks, in Murmurs be it made,
For nought, but hardest Rocks, should speak Amasia Dead.
With Sickly Voice, let fainting Ecchoes try
But to reflect Amasia's Name, and die.
Let each return in so much softness break,
As if the very Ecchoes fear'd to speak.
As if they dreaded, least some place might hear,
That would send back the sound, to be repeated there.
Ah! Grieve, dear Youth, think on your Sylvius woe,
Mourn, Mourn, my Friend, if you are truly so.
I ask you not to share in what I feel,
Oh! no—I would be greatly Wretched, and engross my ill.
But bear your part, upon a Friendly score,
To make the mighty Pomp of Sorrow more.
Let meaner Souls in sighs, and Tears complain,
And, with their fond indulgence, soften pain.
Whilst I, with lofty Pride, my suff'rings bear,
And with a sort of Joy, pursue Despair.
What off'rings, Gods! Should at her Shrine be paid.
Had the dear, fatal Charmer dy'd a Maid!
But ah! For Gold she gave up all her Charms,
And, meanly sold, fled to my Rival's Arms.
Hymen incens'd, far off took speedy flight,
Death, with his Torches, did her Nuptials Light.
Oh! Had she liv'd, I might some Blessings know,
I should be Happy still, if she were so.
Her, in my Rival's Arms I could adore,
With Flames as Sacred, as I felt before,
Love her as much, and let her know it more.
But now what satisfaction can there be?
Nought but Despair is left, for Wretched me;
Death is a Rival, more unkind than he.
You kept (False Muse) Amasia in my view,
Thy Fairy Pleasures I'll no more pursue,
To fancy'd Dreams of Happy Loves—Adieu.
All that I hop'd from Poetry to find,
Was to gain praise, to make Amasia kind.
But now, what other Mistress can I choose,
Worthy my Love, and to deserve my Muse?
Now, many shining Nymphs may Justly claim
Some small pretence to an immortal Fame,
And, who deserves it best, shall bear Amasia's Name.
So, when some great, some mighty Conqu'ror dies,
Many, less noted Heroes, share the prize,
And he's Nam'd Cæsar, who does highest rise.
Thus the Pellæan Monarch born away,
Made room for Princes, to divide the sway.
If any fair, henceforth, has Pow'r to move,
With my Amasia's Charms she must renew my Love.
I From my Joys of Paradise am hurl'd,
Condemn'd—Condemn'd alone to wander thro' the World.
Farewel, to all that please the ravish'd view,
Farewel, to Love, with my Amasia too,
To Shades, and seats of bliss, and Golden Dreams, Adieu.

To Mr ---

As parted Lovers, who a while complain,
And then in fears, and Anxious Thoughts remain,
Least they should never meet in Joys again.
Make hast to write, and so, some ease they find,
Tell all their troubles, and reveal their mind.
So, me as much does your short absence move,
Friendship for you is like an other's Love.
What Swain is here, and you departed hence,
Or who instructed by the Muses since?
Dull, Thoughtless Hinds, with lifeless aspects Plow,
And bleaker Groves, with furious Tempests, Bow.
These are the Scenes, which to my view appear,
The only prospects, to delight me here.
No Beauteous Maid is seen in all the plains,
To raise my vigour, or to Fire my Veins.
My Youthful Blood must in one motion roll,
None knows to Charm, or to surprise the Soul.
In vain I walk thro' any pleasing Shade,
With you the Nymphs, and tender Virgins fled.
You, who alone are still successful there,
And gain new Conquests o'er the yielding fair.
But I, whose Flames boast no engaging Pow'rs,
I, whose low Fortunes flow not smooth as yours.
Fam'd for no Arts, nor in the Field renown'd,
Must still Despair to have my Passion Crown'd.
Should now some fair one, shining in her Charms,
Prefer my Fires, and raise me to her Arms.
Exalt me so, nor let me fondly die,
But lift my Passion, and my Fortunes high,
No Man alive could Love her, fixt, as I.
How would that Gen'rous, and that Noble she
Deserve indeed to be belov'd by me!
Success like this, I must not hope to find,
For rarely Virgins are so nobly kind.
Not Daphnis self, whose Wit is vastly great,
Who Lov'd, as never any Swain Lov'd yet,
Could boast a Triumph, perfectly compleat.
His frequent praise Fame's hundred Mouths shall fill,
Her loudest Trumpet is his lofty quill.
His latest Work his greatest glories shews,
The noblest War Sung by the noblest Muse.
Of British Arms such mighty deeds he tells,
As prove that Island the Whole World excells.
Late did his Verse the ravish'd Swains improve,
Taught them to Sing, and Blooming Maids to Love.
But now he's fled, from these Neglected Fields,
To dear delights, the grateful City yields.
Each fair one there shall be his shining prize,
He Charms all Hearts, as he bewitches Eyes.
To share such Joys, I value Groves no more,
Since you and he have left their Shades before.
I come, Dear Youth, past Pleasures to renew,
Pleasures, which none could ever give, but you,
And hast to see you soon, Adieu, Adieu.

To Mr ---

With such delight I did your lines receive,
Your presence only could more transport give.
Tho' here retir'd in close recess I dwell,
I Joy to hear my City Friends are well.
The World's vain noise I can no longer shun.
Since my Amasia dy'd, all hopes are gone.
Perplext, curs'd Thoughts desir'd repose remove,
I find deep Sorrow worse than slighted Love.
For my own quiet I must hast to Town,
I want retirement most, when most alone.
To shun himself your Sylvius flies to you,
And be assur'd 'tis what all Friends may do.
Whatever Youthful Thoughts your Breast may bear,
I can't believe that I inhabit there,
Such Fond, Dear, Airy Notions suit the fair.
Youth does to vain, Fantastick fancies bend,
And Courts, Romantick, Courts a Bosom Friend.
Ravish'd with darling hopes, you entertain,
You view gay Pleasures in the fairy Scene.
So in our sleep, delightful Groves we frame,
But when awake, we know we did but Dream.
Trust me, dear Youth, Friendship is all a cheat,
A light there is, but void of real heat.
No Swain can Passion in another move,
For Man can ne'er Love Man, with Woman's Love.
Friendship indeed bears in it some desires,
It raises wishes, but Creates no Fires.
Such, for my best Acquaintance long I knew,
I boast not many, for my Friends are few,
But of that Number still I reckon'd you.
Thus far a Friend serves his Acquaintance best,
To raise his Fortunes, when by chance deprest,
But Man can ne'er Lodge Man, within his inmost Breast.
Love lives in Sun-shine, or that Storm, Despair,
But gentler Friendship Breaths a Mod'rate Air.
Do not infer, from what my Muse assures,
My Soul feels Passions, less extream than Yours.
No, with such transports, as should never end,
I could caress the darling Name of Friend.
My Thoughts would still with ravish'd fondness Flow,
And from a Friend, I should a Lover grow.
But here's the curse impos'd on all Mankind,
This dear, imagin'd Friend no search can find.
Alike, the Youths must both, by Fortune, stand,
For Friendship stoops not, but goes hand in hand.
Whatever Swain an other's Friend would be,
Must find his humour, with his own, agree.
Thus far indeed may real Friendship rise,
As to stand firm, but sure it never flies.
He that pretends it can a Passion prove,
Makes it much blinder, than we fancy Love.
Believe the honest real Truths I tell,
Withal, believe thus far, I wish you well.

To Mr ---

MARTIN, THE FRIEND.

O Martin! I grow ravish'd, while I write,
And Friendship Works me to a Sacred height.
Martin the Friend! When will the transport end!
Martin, the best, the truest, only Friend!
So much I Love thee, more than Poets Fame,
That I could dwell for ever on the Name.
O Martin! Martin!—Let the grateful sound
Reach to that Heaven, which has our Friendship Crown'd.
And like our endless Friendship, meet no bound.
Friendship, the truest Blessing Heaven can give,
From Heaven descended, does in Martin live.
Heaven gave me you, in you was Friendship giv'n,
Heaven gave me you, and you would give me Heav'n.
O Friend! O Sacred! Ever-Charming Word!
Poetick fury can no sense afford
Fit for the Ecchoes of that sound restor'd.
If e'er we meet, then shall we best commend
The Sense, the Name, the Nature of a Friend.
Sure we meet now, with thine I mix my Soul,
And all, all Friendship does my sense controul,
Exalt the Man, and high as Passion rowl.
Beyond all thought transcendent Friendship Tow'rs,
Beyond the faculties of Mortal Pow'rs,
While with Extatick Pride my ravish'd Soul grows yours.
Fain would I speak; but how can Words express
The Debt I owe? To own would make it less.
You Love with fondness, not Austere, tho' Wise,
Blind to my Faults, yet still with sense advise.
Believe me, Friend, since you the Name will own,
And since my welfare so much yours is grown,
When ever Heaven shall the blest change permit,
The Muse, your Rival long, at last I'll quit.
I'll make no Poet's unsuccessful vow,
The Friend protests, and 'tis to Martin now.
But if by wit, the worst of Follies, curst,
I must write on, still wretched as at worst.
To you I'll still appeal, to you who know
I never thought that Verse was fated so.
Who only errs, his errour may excuse;
I own the Folly, and condemn the Muse.
What's past the World forgive—forgive me Friend,
And, if a Poet ever can—I'll mend.
No more shall Verse delude with hopes of Fame,
No more the Muse my Senses Empire claim,
No more shall numbers Charm—
Nor with Amasia's, nor with Martin's Name.
No more shall Love be as an Art display'd,
Only I'll cure those Wounds my Verse has made.
To every Name, to all, but Heaven and you,
The best-good Man, Martin, my Friend—Adieu.