University of Virginia Library

Book II.

THE MISTRESS of LOVE.

Being some Copies, written on Occasions, to Amasia by her own Command.

To Amasia, on her drawing her own Picture.

So just a form you to your Picture give,
So like your own, that it appears to live.
Your very shadow Charms beholders more,
Than any real substance could before.
O view it not, such is its Pow'r to move,
Narcissus like, you may your Image love.
So wond'rous lively is the shade you drew,
That Heav'n alone could finer Painting shew,
In one fair Piece, when it had finish'd you.
In me your skill does fond desires create,
And Painted fires, I find, can cause a heat.
If to your draught my Passion life could give,
I, like Pigmalion soon should make it live.
Great as Prometh'us his, your Work appears,
And from your Eyes it got the fires it bears.
Justly you knew no other's hands could draw,
The killing Charms which in your Face you saw.
Painting your light'nings, any else would prove,
Like him, who flashing from his Bridge above,
Fell by those arms which he assum'd from Jove.
He will with Phaeton dire hazzards run,
Who dares attempt the Chariot of the Sun.
'Tis you alone have Pow'r to play with fire,
And not like Mortal Semele expire.
Her Lover, here, if in your paths he trod,
Had been inflam'd, tho' the great thund'ring God.
He, whilst attempting what by you is done,
Would have felt light'nings fiercer than his own.
This, like Saints pictures, with design I view,
To raise my Zeal, when I would Worship you.

To Amasia, holding a drawn Sword in her Hand.

Thus like destroying Angels do you stand,
Brandishing vengeance with your Charming hand.
Thus with your flaming Sword do you appear
To guard that Paradise Heav'n planted here.
Thus are you like the Ruler of the Skies,
With thunder in your hands, and light'ning in your Eyes.
Attempting you, Man would worse rashness prove,
Than Capan'us, who brav'd the mighty Jove.
All Mortals sure must with this sight be charm'd,
A Venus Naked, and a Pallas arm'd.

To Amasia, tickling a Gentleman.

Methinks, I see how the blest Swain was lay'd,
While round his sides your nimble Fingers play'd,
With pleasing softness did they swiftly rove,
Raising the Sweet, Delicious pangs of Love,
While, at each touch, they made his Heart strings move.
As round his Breast, his ravish'd Breast they crow'd,
We hear their Musick, when he laughs aloud.
You ply him still, and as he melting lies,
Act your soft Triumphs, while your Captive dies.
Thus, he perceives, thou, Dearest, Charming Fair!
Without your Eyes, you can o'ercome him there.
Thus too he shews what's your unbounded skill,
You please, and charm us, tho' at once you kill.
Lodg'd in your Arms, he does in transport lie,
While thro' his Veins the fancy'd light'nings fly,
And, gush'd with vast delights, I see him hast to die.

To Amasia, playing with a Clouded Fan.

With such resistless grace your Fan you weild,
'Tis now your Sword, and 'tis, when spread, your Sheild.
In your Fair hand so great a Pow'r there's found,
You guard your self with what may others wound.
This, your Fam'd Ensign, to the World does prove
You Queen of War, as well as Queen of Love.
Yet, by your charming skill, you make it show
A greater force than is in Cupid's Bow.
For, from your art my growing Passion came,
And what cools you, has set your Slave on flame.
That Windy Wing, on air it causes, flies,
And wafts bright glories from your radiant Eyes.
But should it now bestow me all its aid,
It would but make those fires, it kindled, spread.
To what excess must you Victorious grow,
If, when you cool us, you can burn us so!
This Fan may you from the Sun's-Beams preserve,
But 'gainst your Eyes no such slight shade can serve.
Not all those Clouds the pitying Artist drew,
Can bar those brighter rays, which dart from you.
From your dear Face, as from a fairer Sky,
Thro' the thick painted Fogs, swift, shining glances fly.
So like true light'ning is the flashing flame,
As if, from those dark Clouds, not from your Eyes it came.
The fatal Sword, which Paradise did guard,
With threat'ning fire Mankind from blessings barr'd.
The dreadful Engine with hot Vengeance burn'd,
And with wild Danger, as it flam'd, it turn'd.
But from your Toy thick Clouds of smoak arise,
While in the Cheat much a worse ruin lies,
Hiding the flames of your destructive Eyes.
In all things else, it does like that appear,
And 'tis a Cherub too that does this Weapon bear.
Almost for the same ends they both were giv'n,
To fence from Par'dise that, and this, from Heav'n.

To Amasia asking me if I slept well, after so tempestuous a Night as the last was, when we parted, and desiring me to describe it.

Yes, Dear Amasia, I slept Heav'nly well,
Not Poets raptures could my blessings tell.
Not Jove himself slept more a God than I,
Tho' at thy door I did dejected lie.
He on a flying state-bed richly made,
Rock'd by young thunder, is in transport lay'd,
Where little Gods sit smiling o'er his head.
A gawdy Cloud for his gay quilt he wears,
With Sun-beams fring'd, and studded o'er with Stars.
A little Heaven his Canopy above,
Where the pale Moon with her Attendants move.
The watching lights in drowsy twinklings peep,
And wink by turns, as if they wanted sleep.
There, painted dreams round his lull'd temples Swarm
And Cluster'd fancies break in Forms that Charm.
Whilst profound silence fills the Heav'nly round,
And the Night seems in it's own darkness drown'd.
In purling streams the Chrystal Water flows,
And by its murmurs seals his soft repose.
Thus Jove lay, truly Jove—
I had a dream, O most Cœlestial sweet,
Which but to think of, yields me transport yet:
Mars in possession of the Paphian Queen,
Felt no such Extasies as mine have been.
Such heights of rapture but in thought can lie,
There they will live, but would in Speeches die,
And the glad Winds would with their accents fly.
Not that I dream't I fought, or conqu'ring, rode
In a Triumphant Chariot like an Earthly God.
No, my Amasia, the big breath of Fame
Could not puff me beyond what now I am.
Soon as I found you could no longer stay,
I walk'd near half the lonely Night away.
The Night, which seem'd in gloomy shades to Mourn,
And put on sadness till your bright return.
With me, it seem'd your absence to deplore,
When you, all sparkling lustre, shin'd no more.
The Silver Moon, with Joy, while here you stay'd,
(As if from you her borrow'd stores she had,)
Shone at the full with more than usual Light,
And, swell'd with Pride, reign'd Empress of the Night,
O'er all Heaven's Vault she rode in Pompous show,
As if she glory'd to be seen by you.
But when thou, Fairest charming Sun, wert gone,
She put her darkest, cloudy Mantles on;
No gawdy Star appear'd thro' all the Skies,
But they wept dew, till they lost all their Eyes.
Why should those lights remain, since after thee
There is no object worth their while to see.
From the scorch'd Heav'ns large flakes of light'nings flew,
The very Heav'ns have suffer'd flames for you;
For on the Gods your Eyes have flashes thrown,
More bright, and far more Conqu'ring than their own.
Ev'n Jove himself for thy lost presence hurl'd
His flaming Bolts o'er all the frighted World.
Thus did He once for Semele deplore,
And speak in thunder—She is now no more.
In mildest flames he that lost Mistress Mourn'd,
But in more fierce for bright Amasia burn'd.
His Skies have twice a mighty hazzard run;
By one before, now by a brighter Sun.
The sleeping flowers did their gay Beauties hide,
As if their paint should be no more descry'd,
And hung their heads, rob'd of their blooming Pride.
The Mourning Spheres did with slow motions rowl,
And groans of thunder ran from Pole to Pole.
Themselves the Clouds with pangs of anguish tore,
With their ripe Birth of Vengeance first they roar,
Then fly, as frighted at what late they bore.
The wondring Eccho from the hollow ground,
In fearful Voice return'd the thund'ring sound.
The angry Winds wrought up the Ocean so,
The flashing Seas appear'd to lighten too,
Where curling Clouds of roaring Billows drew.
Then, while I lay, rock'd by the thund'ring Night,
I soon beheld my Scene of vast delight.
Thy dear Idea to thy Lover came,
And I embrac'd thee in a Charming dream.
Our blisses flew not in the Common road,
You were all Heav'n, and Sylvius all a God.
As when in trances ravish'd Infants lie,
They see the boundless Blessings of the Sky,
So, at that time, that happy time, did I.
Alas! how weak's their Judgment, and how poor,
Who call Death sleep, but on a longer score,
For I did ne'er so truly live before.
Oh! that the Night could have for ever stay'd!
Ah! too, too soon it's fleeting glories fled;
When lovelier far, than was the Fairest Day,
Her Shield of Clouds to pointed rays gave way,
And on her Wings bore thee, and all my Joys away.

To Amasia speaking an Extempore Verse.

You shoot such darts they cannot fail to hit,
You Charm with Beauty, and you Charm with Wit.
Thus by your Art you raise my envy more
Than all your Charms could my desires before.
Minerva's strife with the Fair Venus ends,
Both join'd in you, the Goddesses grow Friends.
Sweet is your form, and in your Verse we find,
The lovely Notions of as Sweet a Mind.
So softly smooth your Charming numbers flow,
Scarce can your own Fair Bosom smoother show.
You, like creative Heav'n your Labours Frame;
You spoke the Word, and at your Breath they came.

To Amasia, still promising to Sing, but never performing.

Meeting Amasia at a Young Lady's Funeral.

You mourn the Nymph deceas'd, mourn Sylvius too,
For since forgot, sure I am dead to you.
These gloomy Torches, Hymen, hence remove,
And from their fires light thy fair Lamps of Love.

To Amasia, on her Recovery from a fall.

Unhurt, undaunted at the Impious ground,
You only struck, that you might higher bound.
The Am'rous Clay, that it might closer cleave,
Sunk down so deep, that it appear'd a Grave.
But long it could not the lov'd burthen bear,
Not you, but it's own hopes lay buried there.
The ruder stones, with tremblings, looser grew,
And felt a softness, when but touch'd by you.
Oh! had you lay'n, soon all the Winds would Jar,
And, making Love, they would have made a War.
But your recov'ry, from the danger, shows,
You fell like thunder, and like light'ning rose.
No Atlas here of your lov'd weight is proud,
This Heav'n can't fall, tho' it has lately bow'd.

To Amasia, holding a Burning-Glass in her Hand.

Whilst in your hand this Chrystal Glass I view,
It seems almost to be as bright as you.
Whilst your Eyes dazling glories on it run,
You make me fancy 'tis another Sun.
This Glass an Emblem of your coldness proves,
For that encreases, and inflames my Loves.
So, when on me your snowy hand you turn,
The solid Ice you hold, boasts Pow'r to burn.
I now believe the Sun in Oceans lies,
Here, on a frozen Sea, we find Amasia's Eyes,
Ah! charming Fair, you seem, while thus you stand,
Like Heav'n's dread thund'er arm'd, with light'nings in your hand.
Flashes from thence must vain, and useless prove,
For, who but once sees you, feels fiercer flames in Love.
The proud Salmon'us ne'er such light'nings threw,
As from your Silver Cloud are cast by you.
He had with that been thought a God below,
But, had he your fair Eyes, he had been truly so.
His Sky of brass had the vast Heav'ns excel'd,
And the great thund'rer there, had been by him repell'd.
'Tis he the real Deity would prove
Thy Beauty's flashes would have kindled Love,
And, worse than Jove did him, he would have blasted Jove.

To Amasia, looking, at me, thro' a Multiplying-Glass.

By the strange Pow'r, which in this Glass is shown,
You view a thousand Slaves, yet all your own.
Justly, so many Lovers do you see,
For there is Love enough for all in me.
Thus may you find, before your sight display'd,
Almost as many, as your looks have made.
No wonder still I lov'd those Eyes, before,
By whose bright rays this Cloud is Silver'd o'er.
Thus, by your Art, the World your Pow'r descrys,
You make this Glass more Fair than others Eyes.
Strange seems this Charming skill of yours to me,
How can this Winter with your Spring agree!
What rigid Coldness in your Breast must lie,
When all this Ice dwells solid at your Eye!

To Amasia, Singing, and sticking Pins in a Red Silk Pincushion.

To Amasia, on her correcting a line of Mr. Waller's, as she read it.

In reading Waller's, so your Wit is shown,
That, what he wrote, is most esteem'd your own.
If you should think, what might we hope from you,
Who can so carelesly, such wonders do!
Just so, your Beauty's shown in Charming ways;
You are admir'd, yet, take no pains to please.
At once obliging, you at once offend,
You spoil the Poet, and the Poem mend.
If in his Age you had adorn'd the Isle,
He had preferr'd you to his lov'd Carlisle.
Carlisle and you had been in all he writ,
For Beauty she, you fam'd for that, and Wit.
Amphion like, from a disorder'd heap,
You make harsh Words in Beauteous numbers leap.
Your Work shall last, when his is wholly gone,
More firm than that, tho' 'tis compos'd of stone.
High as his Theban Walls, your stile appears,
Yet, like the Plains, a Fruitful crop it bears.
Thro' confus'd letters so your fancy shines,
Like the Sun's Rays, it lightens Waller's lines.
His Sense, like some rude, unform'd Chaos lay,
In gloomy Night till you Commanded day.
From your creating Breath it's form it drew,
His discord is made Harmony by you.
So, jarring seeds, and undigested, came,
By Heav'en's strange Pow'r, to an Harmonious frame.
His happy Verses, tho' obscure a while,
From your Fair Eyes put on new looks, and smile.
Such Charming force in your each Glance I see,
As they light them, they cause a heat in me.
All must admire your Num'rous Pow'rs to move,
The Queen of Wit, and yet the Queen of Love!
We, in your Verse transporting Beauties find,
The Muses most to their own Sex are kind.
Since Charming Daphne to a Laurel turn'd.
For whom so long the young Apollo burn'd.
When brighter Fires shot from her Radiant Eyes,
Than those his Chariot bears thro' Summer Skies.
E'er since that time, for none so much she grew,
With bending boughs, as she does now for you.

To Amasia, troubled with a redness in her Eyes, on her saying, she would Charm me with them.

To Amasia, on the falling of her Terras-Walks.

Such was Amphion, so his Airs could move,
That the stones danc'd to his soft Songs of Love.
Could I like Pow'r in Charming Numbers use,
(Charming indeed, since you inspire my Muse,)
Soon should your lofty Walls delight our view,
Like their Fair Mistress, high, and pleasing too.
Then should my Verse in softest measures flow,
Soft as those streams which gently glide below.
My Thoughts should like their Silver Fishes shine,
With quick, bright glitterings thro' each moving line.
Then might these Walks afford a Noble Theme.
When like the lovely Paphian Queen you seem,
Presiding here o'er your own Native stream.
Then might I sing how from these Walls, afar
Your Guns, and Eyes subdue in Love and War.
Sing, how we might along your dreaded shore,
Your light'nings view, and hear your thunder roar.
How, like a Goddess, from these Walls on high,
You see your Floods beneath spread out a watry Sky.
How justly those transcend the Silver Thames,
How your bright Eyes play on them with their Beams,
And so Love's Fires rise from the Silver streams.
How they would ne'er flow o'er the flowry meads,
Or any paths where their Fair Mistress treads.
Thus might I sing what thoughts the prospect yields,
Nymphs in the Rivers, Sylvans in the Fields;
Describe the flow'ry Banks, and spreading Groves;
Where Swains, and Virgins, tell their Mutual Loves.
But that the Walks, fond of what once they bore,
When they were Crown'd with your dear Feet no more,
Fell, to complain along the murm'ring shore.
And yet such greatness in their ruins lies,
Their fall, methinks, but makes my fancy rise.
So, when your Beauties (if that time can come)
Shall lose the Sweetness of their present bloom,
Ev'n your decays shall raise our wonder more,
Their Ebbs shall show the vastness of their store,
Which Charm'd Admirers Eyes who saw their tides before.

The Dream, beginning with the Description of Night.

An awful silence, like a full swol'n main,
Does in deep Pomp o'er the Creation Reign.
The quiet night it's gloomy darkness spreads,
O'er all the Plains, o'er all the flow'ry Meads,
And sits in dismal triumph o'er the Shades.
Dissolv'd in silence all the World appears,
As if entranc'd for many thousand Years.
The sullen Heav'n no dusky twilight yields,
But thick, damp Fogs lie heavy on the Fields.
Thro' all the Lawns no fleeting shadow flies,
So drowzy now, they have not Pow'r to rise.
No Golden drops of light the Skies adorn,
Nor ruddy East displays a rising Morn.
The gather'd Heaven it's dull Creation Shrowds,
And drooping Mountains lean their Heads on Clouds.
The bending Trees with full grown Fruits appear,
As so at first they had their being here.
The Ripen'd Corn with it's own burthen prest,
No longer Nods, but seems unmov'd, to rest.
The very Winds no further discord keep,
For they have Sung, and sigh'd themselves asleep.
The absent Moon seems now no Pow'r to know,
Nor are the Oceans heard to Ebb or flow.
No longer now the raving Billows roar,
But softest Breezes lull them on the shore.
The Brooks no more the Woods with Murmurs fill,
But, husht with purlings, as their fish, are still.
All this great Landskip of one Colour seems,
As if the Shining Sun ne'er painted it with Beams.
When rack'd with griefs, which from my pangs arose,
I seek my Bed, expecting there repose.
Methought, while Night thus kept her perfect Noon,
And no faint light came from the watchful Moon,
You, lov'd Amasia, blest your ravish'd Swain,
You fill'd my Soul in a delightful Scene.
On a calm, silent, Silver stream we rode,
Whilst thousand Tritons on the Waters trod,
You like a Venus, I, the Ocean's God.
The River's Banks were with tall Mirtles crown'd,
And spreading Groves, and Shades grew all around.
The tuneful Birds their sweetest Voices rais'd,
As if they knew whom their soft strains had pleas'd.
And the tall trees did all their branches bow,
Not with their weight, but with respect to you.
Our guilded Barge was by Young Dolphins drawn,
Just like a Chariot o'er the flowry Lawn.
Trappings adorn'd with Pearls, and Gemms, appear,
And Plumes of Coral their strong Heads did rear.
Our painted Seats bright, shining Beauties bore,
Which Gods might, (if not Charm'd with thee) adore.
Our Silver Oars, soft, smiling Cupids held,
While, fill'd with Pride, our Silken Topsails swell'd.
The Iv'ry Masts sustain'd Cœrulean Doves,
Which coo'd, and murmur'd in transporting Loves.
With wanton Gales blew Flags in furlings roll'd,
And Scarlet streamers flew, wrought o'er with Gold.
All o'er divine did the great Pomp appear,
The Watry Gods on Shells were sounding there,
And Sea-Nymphs dancing in soft measures here.
All the Attendance, Charming bright, like these,
The Paphian Queen has on her Mother Seas.
At the rich stern we sat, and all the while,
As if delighted, you appear'd to smile.
I saw your Eyes fixt on the Chrystal stream,
And with new longings mine were fixt on them.
Trumpets Marine did at a distance sound,
And all the Virgins softly Sung around,
For then our Joys, Just then were to be Crown'd.
The gentle Zephyrs in mild Breezes flew,
And the waves danc'd, as they were joyful too.
The stately Canopy above our head,
Shone with the blaze which glowing Roses made.
Strew'd all beneath, they in their blushes lay,
Like setting Skies in a Fair Summer's day.
When, O ye Gods! You dear, You darling Fair,
Look'd such kind looks as quite dispell'd my care,
All o'er in transport, with a gush of Joys,
On me you cast your lovely, loving Eyes.
Rush'd to my Arms, and did my Neck entwine,
While I with Extasies hung fast on thine,
And claspt thee closely, as a circling vine.
O all ye Pow'rs! our raptures were above
The vastest heights of any Mortal Love.
Not in the vulgar way did we enjoy
Where short Fruition does the Sweets destroy.
To a more Sacred height our wishes flew,
And our Souls mixt, as others Bodies do.

To Amasia, who, while I awfully admir'd her at her Window, withdrew, and sent a Black in her place.

To Amasia, Dancing before a Looking-Glass.

Thus you in Num'rous measures sport, and play,
Like the Sun dancing to it's Glass, the Sea.
Strange! how you move in Air! if I have Eyes,
If I have any Sense the fleet Amasia flies.
All here subdu'd, your Glances now are hurl'd,
To raise new Trophies in this Chrystal World,
The fam'd Pellæan Conqu'rour bravely won
All lands, and Seas by his bold Arms o'erun.
The Spacious Globe he triumph'd nobly o'er,
But, that suffic'd not, and he wept for more.
Here, in this Icy Ocean he might view,
What yet no Mortal Conqu'rour could subdue,
Here he had wept again, o'ercome by you.
A triumph here had added vastly more,
To his loud Fame, than the whole World before.
O'er all the Earth his spreading Laurels grew,
But, were Amasia won, Heav'n had been Conquer'd too.

To Amasia, on the burning of her Flower'd Musling-Nightraile, which took fire, while she was asleep, and yet she was her self unhurt.

To Amasia, who having prick'd me with a Pin, for a Subject to write on, accidentally scratch'd her self with it, when in my hand afterwards.

Why, Cruel fair one, did you wound me so?
Too well o'er me your mighty Power you know.
Thus sure you thought not to have Conquer'd more,
Whom your Pin enter'd, your Eyes pierc'd before.
Perhaps, you did it with design to see
How small a touch of you prevails on me.
Your harmless Weapon has your wonders shown,
You wound our Sex with what adorns your own.
This little Blood without a wrong you drew,
For all I have I would expend for you.
Yet here by chance, a full Revenge is found,
And thus at least, you feel a Mutual wound.
The Juster Spear against its Mistress turns,
And points revenge for which the Actor mourns.
Your Finger blushes for the wound it gave,
Far deeper that which made me first your Slave.
Your precious Blood with mine is justly paid,
For my Heart bleeds for what my hands have made.

Instructions to a Painter to draw Amasia, with some reflections on the Artist's skill, resolving to describe her, my self, much better with my Pen.

Least future Ages should my Passion blame,
And think my Mistress worthless of her fame;
Least daring Lovers should presume to raise
Some other fair to my Amasia's, praise;
And with an impious boldness proudly boast
Their Conqu'rour greatest, and her Charms the most;
Least of their Chains grown fond, they strive to prove
That theirs excels my vast excess of Love;
Painter, exert your utmost Pow'r and Art,
To draw Amasia just in every part,
As she is drawn here in her Sylvius heart.
Still in my Breast you may her image see,
(O would her Image could be truly She!)
Nay, in my Soul you may her Picture find,
Love drew it there, but drew it soft and kind,
For Love Paints always best, tho' Love is blind.
The famous Artist, that his Work might move,
That he might justly draw the Queen of Love,
Had several Beauteous Nymphs before his view,
And something Charming from each Feature drew;
But ah! no Mortal can Amasia draw,
Unless ten thousand Venus'es He saw.
O that some God would Work his fancy o'er,
To paint her Beauties true, he cannot paint them more.
Not Phœbus self could draw her justly bright,
Tho' for his Pencil he us'd rays of light.
But you, good Artest, Summons all your skill,
Her Charms will raise your Pow'r, I know they will.
Draw her, ah! draw her most Divinely Fair,
Soft, Charming, Sweet, and with a taking Air;
Draw her all Heav'nly, Affable, and Free,
Haughty, yet Courteous let her Carriage be,
O draw her as she is, that all may know 'tis She.
Yet hold—
For sure her Beauties would be lost in Paint;
My Pen must draw her, since the Pencil can't.
—You are a Species, Lovely fair, alone,
A Godlike something in your Face is known;
Which can't by Pencil, or by Pen be shown.
Such are the Charms of your Attractive mien,
They only are exprest by being seen.
Gods! how successful would that Painter be
That could make Pictures look Divine like thee!
Who could those Eyes with all their motions draw!
Alas! it cannot be—
Unless, like thee, the very Picture saw.
What Paint, what Image can with thee compare?
Ev'n our Idea shews not ought so fair.
Could fancy bring some form before my view,
All wond'rous bright, and charming sweet as you,
I with that form would be Enamour'd too.
What reason could I for my Passion give,
Did any equal to Amasia live?
The World will own, all who your Beauties see,
I am not blind as other Lovers be,
For 'tis the Fairest only that can Vanquish me.
Believe, Amasia, since you Cruel prove,
It is thy Beauty, 'tis not thee I Love.
Beauty, which, like the Vestal Fire, may boast,
You the World's Empress, till it's flames are lost.
Beauty, which I so lively will display,
Mankind shall yield to your Imperial Sway,
And every Am'rous Youth, like Sylvius shall Obey.
So shall I Charm, by telling my desires,
All shall feel Flames from the reflected Fires.
And when the World thus shall your Picture see,
Your Sex at once shall wonder at, and envy thee.