University of Virginia Library

I. VOL. I.

TO SYLVIUS, ON HIS AMASIA.

I Read; and all your Works my wonder raise,
Thou gav'st me Pleasure, and I'll give thee Praise.
With Wit so Charming thy soft Passions move,
Minerva now should grow the Queen of Love.

Book I.

TO THE GOD of LOVE.

A PINDARICK.

ELYZIUM, OR, THE KINGDOM of LOVE.

A POEM Address'd to AMASIA.

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.

Book III.

THE ADDRESS of LOVE.

AN Epistolary POEM.

You are surpriz'd, I know you blush, and frown,
You tear the Paper, and you hurl it down.
O blame not me, but your own Conqu'ring Eyes,
For from themselves their present troubles rise.
Let them not then, thou dear, prevailing Maid,
Blindly refuse what they have wrote to read.
See here what always in my looks you see,
And mark the Passion that I feel for thee.
The Passion will not a description bear,
Look in my Soul, 'tis fully written there.
My press of Thoughts no way for speech affords,
It can't break out, and scatter into Words.
With no relation will it Justly hold,
I tell it most, to say it can't be told.
Verse after Verse will all but fruitless prove.
Verse after Verse can ne'er declare my Love.
Did I Love less, did I not Love so well,
Then I, perhaps, might all my suff'rings tell;
But oh! I burn to such a high degree,
I scarce have Pow'r to beg a smile from thee.
So, Zealous Men, when in their Souls sincere,
From Meditation cannot fall to pray'r.
Think of the Love I did already show,
Think that the Love will be for ever so,
Think, while I live, that I shall Love thee still,
Think it! Be sure; for, by thy self, I will.
Spight of your scorn, tho' you contemn my flame,
Still shall I own that from your Eyes it came.
Why need I tell you, since too well you know
That I admire you, and must still do so.
Spight of my Soul, spight of all Manly Pow'rs,
Spight of my Self, I find that I am yours.
Vain is all force, I must your Captive be,
I must be thine, ev'n in despight of thee.
For this, you think of no return to make,
Because I give, what you refuse to take.
O still be harsh, the bliss no Man could bear,
If you should grow as kind as you are fair;
If your disdain and scorn so much can move,
How would you Charm with Transport, could you Love!
That would o'ercome me with surprize of bliss,
Too great for Monarchs, by their Crowns, it is,
Yet would I fain to dazling ruin run,
Like the rash Youth, who dar'd attempt the Sun;
Daring as his, does my Ambition fly,
Full of thy Fires, I would run o'er my Sky,
Pursue my great attempt, tho' thunder'd till I Dye.
Proud in the Spicy nest your Bosom frames,
I, Phænix like, would set in glorious flames.
But you are great in Fortune, and will show
Esteem for none, but who like you are so.
Like the Sun's Beams, your radiant Glances hold,
Fixt on no place, but what may turn to Gold.
You have Estates, and I, you know, have none,
I ask them not, they shall be still your own.
They stand beneath the bent of my desires,
For Gold's Reflection makes but seeming fires;
I scorn all such as would for int'rest sue,
My soaring wishes fly at nought but you,
Believe—I Love your self, for, by your self, I do.
Relent then quickly, O thou Charming fair,
And listen kindly to your Lover's Pray'r,
For else—you Mad me, Kill me, with Despair.
Forgive me, Fairest, for I must complain,
How can a wretch, like me, forget his pain,
And lose his torture, while he drags his Chain?
All the unhappy may have leave to grieve,
Despair does in the deepest sorrow live.
Fruitless my cries, fruitless are all my moans,
Fruitless my rising sighs, and my distracted groans.
In vain alas! To move your Soul I try,
In vain alas! I Pine, and Bleed, and Die.
Without redress I bear your proud disdain,
Eccho and you return those Words—in vain.
Can nought this coldness from thy Breast remove,
Soften, and melt thee into warmer Love!
O if you felt my pangs, or if you knew
But half those suff'rings which I bear for you,
Sure, you would pity, and would Love me too.
What pleasures then, what raptures shall I boast,
If your Compassion be not wholly lost!
Believe me, Charmer, by thy self I swear,
By thy dear self, and thou art all that's dear,
For thee alone I bear my fierce desires,
And burn, and rave, wild with my raging Fires.
How can true Passion, such as mine, be born!
How can I live, and you make no return!
No,—Scorn'd! henceforth, I will not stoop to live,
But slight that Life, which you deny to give.
Yet, unreveng'd, I will not poorly fall,
For then, my Rival would engross thee all.
No, by my hopes of happy Joys above,
No other Mortal shall possess thy Love,
No meaner Soul deserves the mighty bliss,
I boast a Spirit nobler far than his;
While he, should he possess thee, would be cloy'd,
And slight those Charms which he had late enjoy'd,
My Tides of Passion should for ever rowl,
And with new springing floods o'erflow thy Soul.
'Tis I alone should have the Pow'r to move,
If Love be Merit in the claim to Love.
O could the wretch but keep his wishes warm,
And sigh, as long as you have ways to Charm,
Such is my Passion, such my sacred flame,
Could he but bless thee, I should quit my claim;
Full of thy image would I hast to go,
Thoughtful of thee, to gloomy Groves below;
Still should my wishing Soul thy Charms pursue,
Ev'n in Oblivion's shades rememb'ring you.
But think, ah! think, thy Charms by me possest,
How we might both be to a wonder blest!
O could your Soul excessive fondness show,
O could your Passion for me freely flow,
Eternal Joys would every smile pursue,
And you, while blessing me, should be transported too.
Such are your Charms, such is your Pow'r to move,
I Love you still, and still must urge my Love,
The Passion grows no greater than before,
For it was boundless, and could ne'er be more,
Theirs that encreases, and can hourly flow,
As well may Ebb, but mine can ne'er do so;
I, like a Watch, to a vast height am wound,
In which no slow, no erring motion's found,
But while Life's Wheels shall last, they shall run ever round;
Still in one constant course of Passion move,
From various Figures still to thee I'll rove,
But ne'er, I fear, point out the hour of Love.
To thee I'll write in everflowing strains,
You shall be sung in all the Flow'ry Plains,
And tender Maids, shall, where thy Fame is born,
Admire thy Beauty much, but more, thy Scorn.
Where any Wit in all my Verse shall shine,
You are my Muse, and it is chiefly thine.
When to a pitch my Tow'ring fancy flies,
My Soul's Emotion with my stile must rise.
And Judge, Amasia, by my fonder flight,
That I feel all, and more than all I write.
You cause soft Thoughts, and all their Charming Pow'rs,
'Tis your bright Rays produce those Blooming flow'rs;
Like Summer's Sun, thro' all my Clouds you shine,
And with your Beams, enlighten every line;
You, by strange Pow'r, my young invention move,
Thro' all my Verse there is an Air of Love;
That makes me write, and write alone of you,
Yours is the Poem, and the Poet too.
To you alone does my whole fancy rowl,
You possess all the flowings of my Soul.
Only by thee shall I acquire a name,
While Love, Eternal Love, stands my continu'd Theme;
Thy wond'rous coldness, which my Passion blames,
Still Fires me more than any other's Flames.
Tho' I must ne'er possess the Charms I see,
I'll smile on Fortune, while she frowns on me.
I shall another wretched Midas prove,
And turn what e'er I touch, to the rich Metal, Love.
If I desir'd less fondly than I do,
Then might I all that I have suffer'd shew,
But to that height, that mighty height I burn,
I cannot hope for any kind return.
'Tis you alone urge my conceptions on,
All but soft Notions from my Mind are gone.
To you alone do all my fancies fly,
Those scatter'd Wings which bore me once so high.
Now all my flights but weak, and flutt'ring show.
Not reaching you, they do but flag below.
Such are your Beauties, such your Pow'r to Charm,
Your Eyes burn Hearts, which others cannot warm.
I thro' my Love am so submissive grown,
You call my Crime, what is my chief renown;
Unhappy Passion! which my Soul has mov'd,
And makes me hated, where I would be lov'd.
Now all my Gestures, fond, and humble show,
My Eyes revolt, when Beauty is my foe,
Rack'd with your scorn, let me no longer lie,
Raise me to Life, or urge me on to die.
You, my bright Sun of Beauty, light me here,
Just as you make them, all my Days appear,
Like you, when Clouded, or like you, when clear.
For, still of lov'd Amasia shall I sing,
With thy dear Name shall all the Vallies ring,
To you alone shall all my Numbers flow,
And all my Verse shall be adorn'd with you;
To you no Mortal can due Trophies raise,
Above my Thoughts, much more above my praise;
You shall be fam'd, wherever Swains can read,
In ev'ry City, ev'ry Flow'ry Mead,
And you shall live, when many Ages dead;
Whilst I, my self, shall likewise deathless grow,
Esteem'd for Love, Immortal Love of you;
For that alone I shall be nam'd aloud,
For 'tis thro' that, I rise above the Crowd.
Me Fortune plac'd not with her wealthy heirs,
Yet sure my Soul sits as Sublime as theirs.
With bold Ambition I to greatness move,
For only you shall e'er my flames approve,
I am not poor, who have a World of Love.
The haughty Tyrants, and the humble Swains,
In ev'ry Court, and throughout all the Plains,
Blest with my Verse, shall soft Emotions find,
And every Beauteous Virgin shall be kind.
With me no Man shall ever equal be,
No Mortal Lover shall be great, like me.
On Love's bright Throne I shall in Triumph sit,
Like mighty Dryden on the Throne of Wit.
O'er Earth and Seas our lasting praise shall fly,
The greatest Poet, He, the greatest Lover, I.
While Winds shall blow, & while the Seas shall roar,
Whilst Billows beat against the foamy shore,
Till Day, and Night, and all things are no more.
While Heav'n and Earth shall last, while Stars shall shine,
Thy constant Lover shall be ever thine.
Such Love, so great, can't be by Mortal born,
How then, Amasia, shall I bear your scorn!
Above all thought my wond'rous Passions move,
Hear, good and gracious Pow'rs! all Pow'rs above!
For I am Sick, quite Mad, and Lost in Love.
When e'er from thee my suff'ring Heart is giv'n,
May I by Dæmons to despair be driv'n,
Dash't against Rocks, and struck with bolts from Heav'n.
O thou Regardless, Happy, Charming fair,
You can't imagine how belov'd you are,
Nor know I how to tell you, but I know,
I Love, as never Mortal Man lov'd so.
I Love you, for (by Love it self 'tis true,)
Above what e'er Romantick Lovers knew,
I Love you now, as I shall ever do.
My Flames are such as to the Gods are giv'n,
I Love Amasia as I Love my Heav'n.
How could I wish you would Love Sylvius so!
That you would this return of Passion show,
That you would Love him—Just as Heav'n Loves you.
Oh! when you know but half my mighty ill,
You may relent, Amasia, yes, you will.
When once my racking griefs are understood,
You will relieve me, for I know you good.
When you but find what thro' your scorn I bear,
You will the blessings of a Goddess share,
You will be Heav'nly kind, as Heav'nly Fair.
Then, you no more will use your Sylvius so,
To doubt those truths, which, well as Heav'n, you know.
No room for falshood my desire affords,
You rule my Thoughts, then sure you rule my words.
Speak, is my Passion unsincere believ'd,
Or can you think you can be e'er deceiv'd!
You all my tender Declarations blame,
And you deny that I have felt a flame,
Deny at least, that from your Eyes it came.
'Tis then decreed, that I must rack my Mind,
To prove my Passion, when you prove unkind.
Believe, Amasia, who does truly Love,
Can't by expressions half his Passion prove.
True Flames can never, never be exprest,
He, who speaks most imperfect, speaks them best.
How shall I, all my racks, and suff'rings shew?
You know I Love you, and Love none but you;
Love you! Like truth—I Love you Heavenly well,
How, not my Tongue, no, nor my Eyes can tell:
If it could be that Man could Love you more,
Feel fiercer pangs than I have felt before,
O I would spend an Age, to tell the story o'er.
Heav'n Witness for me what my flights should be,
All made of Love, and all adorn'd with thee,
'Till Ecchoing Hills proclaim that thou alone art She.
As some poor Youth, who, by his Parents crost,
Submits himself to be by Billows tost,
Submits to all the threatnings of the Sea,
For those, he knows, are less inrag'd than they:
Howe'er, concern'd, he thinks on Friends behind,
Weeps with each show'r, and sighs with ev'ry Wind;
His Native soil with sad remorse he leaves,
A soil, less safe than the tumultuous Waves;
When first he hears the dreadful Oceans roar,
And Tempests louder than he fear'd before,
With wat'ry Eyes he views the less'ning shore.
So, I, when urg'd by your unkind disdain,
In absence hop'd to find a Calmer Main,
But Storms of Thought thus drove me back again.
Think! How we parted, we did ne'er embrace,
I spread no balmy Kisses o'er your Face.
Prest not your hand, nor did I sigh, or swear,
I did not speak, for oh! You would not hear.
I should have look'd, and gaz'd, and talk'd a while,
Murmur'd, and Kist; and then receiv'd a smile;
I should have melted, when my silence broke,
Farewel—farewel—with fonder looks have spoke.
In softer Voice I should those Accents tell,
And bid a thousand, thousand times, Farewel;
With trembling Lips I should have drawn from you,
With trembling Lips, and with Eyes trembling too,
Forc'd my fixt feet, and groan'd a long Adeiu.
Sure, lov'd Amasia will my Flames approve,
Sure you will make me some returns of Love.
How happy then must ravish'd Sylvius be,
Who now is fill'd with Anxious Thoughts of thee!
Thy Beauteous form still dances in my sight,
By day in Visions, and in Dreams by night.
Oft my wild Thought thy darling Image frames,
Oft do I see thee wanton on the streams.
Where you look always so divinely Fair,
Where, in such Charms you to my view appear,
You seem a brighter Venus risen there;
O'er the calm Floods with Wings of Rays you fly,
An Angel posting thro' a Cloudy Sky.
My flames more raging from the Waters grow,
And while I see the Dear, Deluding show,
I bless my self that I could fancy so.
Oft, when alone, and in my silent Bed,
I think, Ah! whither is Amasia fled,
Where is the Beauteous, Lovely, Fatal Maid.
Then, thro' my Curtains, strait I see you come,
And fill, with shinings, all the gloomy room.
With airy flights, and with deluding Eyes,
You loosly dance where your fond Lover lies,
And I, to seize you, all in Transport rise.
Then how I catch! then, how I rave to find,
That you could go, and leave me there behind,
I spend my Breath, and rack my troubled Mind.
Like swelling Waves, my Thoughts come raging on,
A second rises, e'er the first is gone,
They rowl, and dash me, when their rowling's done.
Then, mad with all my Anxious griefs and pain,
I lie dejected on my Bed again,
And gaze to find you, but I gaze in vain.
Then, do I strive, but no repose can take,
For, Thoughts of you my short'ned slumbers break,
And rack me equally as when awake.
Restless I drag each tedious Minute there,
For all my Joys are vanish'd with my Fair.
'Tis too much Love has wrought my Rigid fate,
And do I Love you? Is that cause for hate!
Command me all things, and your lover prove,
Command me all,—but to forbear my Love.
That is the only thing I cannot do,
And that alas! is all requir'd by you.
Believe, Amasia, Cruel fair believe,
I shall die yours, since yours I cannot live,
And this is all I ask you now to give.
While glimmering Tapers light my Darken'd room,
And my near Friends to see my end are come,
While now, all pale, and in my pangs I lie,
I beg, Amasia may sit Mourning by;
Ev'n then, my Passion will be Nobly great,
My flames more raging, tho' in fainter heat,
Not rising brighter, than they then shall set.
I shall embrace you in my trembling Arms,
And there admire your lovely, fatal Charms,
Those Fairest Eyes, which I esteem Divine,
Those Fatal Eyes, which do so brightly shine,
And have such Pow'r to rule the looks of mine.
All over Rapture, while all over pain,
I'll look, and sigh, and then I'll look again,
Still will I gaze, with ravishment, on thee,
And thy dear, lovely Face shall be the last I see.

Female Epistles OF LOVE.

Deidamia to Achilles.

Epist. I.

Read this Achilles, and be griev'd to see
How Deidamia Mourns, and Mourns for thee,
Read, and then think who must the Author be.
Who, but fond I, would the weak Passion tell?
Fond, foolish I, who Love you, too, too well.
You seem to doubt, and in amaze you stand,
Having my Heart, you needs must know my Hand.
What here you find, my dear desires indite,
Ah! kindly read, what I too kindly write.
Nought but her tender wishes thus could move
Thy Deidamia to confess her Love.
Nor need I blush the noblest Flame to own,
I boast I yielded, since to thee alone.
To thee, whose Charms, wound tender Virgins far;
O may you so be prosp'rous in the War.
May you Victorious, and Triumphant be,
And Conquer all, as you have Conquer'd me;
But let no Laurel shades about you rise,
To bar the glances of my longing Eyes,
Their sacred wreaths can free from thunder live,
But not from flashes Beauty's light'nings give.
I'll think you not a Lover, while I sue,
But call you Warriour, the Name's dear to you.
Ah! then, be gen'rous to the yielding Foe,
I have surrender'd to your Arms, you know.
Proud of submitting to Achilles, more
Than all the Conquests I had gain'd before.
When I was gaz'd at by a Noble Crowd,
And other Princes with Submission bow'd.
When, all around, far as my Eyes could see,
There was no Youth but would my Captive be,
Then, then it was, I gave my Heart to thee.
I gave thee that, I gave thee all my Soul,
Gave Deidamia, you possess'd her whole.
My Virgin spoils I offer'd to thy Arms,
The Thought alas! My tender Bosom warms,
You rifled all my Beauties, all my Charms.
My dearest Treasures, and my Richest stores
Were all your own, and I was wholly yours.
To my lov'd Bed, full of a Vig'rous flame,
Dress'd like a Woman, oft Achilles came.
Your publick Gestures still did Female show,
But, when in private, sure they were not so.
My Maids of thee were in no sort afraid,
For they believe thee, like themselves, a Maid.
Think, in what sweet, what soft, and wanton play,
Lock'd in my Arms, you past the Hours away!
Alas! My Love, writing these tender Words,
The very Thought some Extasies affords.
Some faint Emotions of my Soul it frames,
All our past Pleasures now appear but Dreams.
Ah! Lovely Youth, oft in my Widow'd Bed,
I think of you, and wonder why you fled;
Admire, that War should so delightful be,
To make it's Horrours be prefer'd to me.
I thought my Voice Breath'd far more pleasing Ayres,
Than the shrill Trumpets could Proclaim in theirs.
Why should you rashly Combat in the Field?
And slight such spoils as I would gladly yield.
There you must hazard, and buy Conquest dear,
When all your business was to triumph here.
Ah! Come again, once more, my Life, return,
To comfort me, who now extreamly Mourn.
How should I Joy to hear what you have done,
To hear of Battles by your Valour won!
To hear your self, in my Embraces, tell,
How such a Hero in the onset fell.
Then would I clasp thee closely to my Breast,
And Sigh, and Kiss thee, more securely prest,
And, still endearing, lull you so to rest.
Hast then, Achilles, from the Battle flee,
And join in Combat with no Foe, but me.

A Lady to her Lover.

Epist. II.

To you, (false Man) I make my suff'rings known,
Whom once I thought I could have call'd my own.
'Tis only you, who should these lines receive.
Who us'd to Mourn, when I had cause to grieve.
Scarce can my Life of this sad change allow,
When you torment, who shall redress me now?
How many Lovers have I scorn'd for thee,
And is your falshood my reward?—
Speak, thou ingrateful Man!—It cannot be.
When you at first your greater Rivals knew,
And how the meanest far exceeded you,
Full of Despair, lay'd Prostrate at my Feet,
You cry'd, ah! Can you, Can you Love me yet?
No, you will Titles, and their Lords receive,
An honest Love is all that I can give.
The great are false, but I sincerely true,
Ah! Treach'rous Man! Who is so false as you?
Who could have thought this wond'rous change to see,
How can you live so far apart from me!
Here, my Companions think my Mourning strange,
And wonder whence proceeds the dismal change.
Hiding my Sorrows, they their cause explore,
So, by concealing, I reveal them more.
How do they rage, when they the story know;
Yet then, ev'n then, I speak excusing you.
I first Condemn you, call you false, and then
I fondly plead in your behalf again.
Thus arguing for you, I impeach you more,
And make your guilt seem Blacker than before.
Then, in my Soul strange wild disorders move,
With anxious struglings between grief and Love.
A new Confusion in my looks appears,
And, Naming you, I strait dissolve to Tears.
My swimming Eyes can then no object view,
What should they look at, since depriv'd of you!
Since to the North from all your Vows you flee,
And left the City, but to hast from me.
To that cold Air you fled with just design,
A place most fit for such a Breast as thine.
It's Chilling coldness I unjustly blame,
And fear it's Frost less than a New-Born flame.
Ye Northern Beauties, his Embraces shun,
Or yield, like me, to be, like me, undone.
Laugh at his Sighs, and tell the Cheat he lies,
Curse his false Tongue, and his deluding Eyes.
Too late alas! We our Misfortunes see,
There are no Oaths he has not Sworn to me,
Ye heedless Maids, I charge ye, ne'er believe,
He makes it all his business to deceive.
Least my Misfortunes other Virgins prove,
O let them ne'er confess Excessive Love.
My self I blame that I did e'er believe,
For in all Ages your whole Sex deceive.
The Treach'rous Jason, basely perjur'd, fled,
From the Fair Mistress, whom he first did Wed,
And left her's falsly, for Medea's Bed.
Spight of the Winds, which bore his Sails away,
He was more Faithless in his Flight than they.
The injur'd Princess, who first shar'd his Love,
Should by her Rival's Death her wrongs remove,
And to Medea a Medea prove.
She, by her spells, did the fierce Serpents tame,
And still her Charms for Triumph were the same,
She Conquer'd him, as he the Bulls o'ercame.
But soon, from her did the inconstant run,
She found her self, spight of her Arts, undone;
She could the Dragons baleful Fires asswage,
But Fires more fatal in her Breast did rage,
With Poppies Juice in vain she steeps her Eyes,
In vain those spells, which made them sleep, she tries,
All ease, all quiet with her Lover flies.
Proud, and Triumphant, he forsook the shore,
A monster, worse than those he slew before.
The wand'rer next was by Creusa fir'd,
Like thee, false Jason to new Flames aspir'd;
With his rich prize the Villain falsly fled,
And scorn'd Medea's, for Creusa's Bed.
So, am I left abandon'd to despair,
And your Creusa is your present Fair.
He, bore a glorious purchase from the Coast,
But of what Golden Fleece have you to boast?
In vain you with my slender Fortunes flee,
Alas! I lost them all, in losing thee.
Gemms I despise, I can such trifles scorn,
But 'tis my much priz'd honour that I mourn,
For that's a Jewel thou can'st ne'er return.
O may no Virgin be o'ercome by Love;
Man, should he strive, can never Constant prove,
More than I ought, I would thy shame rebate,
And lay my wrongs, not upon you, but fate.
Fame speaks of Nymphs by their false Lovers lost,
Men first submit, but after, Triumph most.
I could an hundred instances renew
Of Treach'rous Men, but none so base as you.
With Vows Achilles did Briseis please,
But Vows as Faithless as his Mother Seas.
While Phaon to hot Ætna's Mount retires,
His Sappho wasted with as scorching fires.
Fair Dejanira of her Lord complains,
Griev'd that the Victor wore his Captive's Chains.
Alcides once put Women's Garments on,
When his vast Club he to a distaff spun;
The Lyon's rugged skin his Mistress wore,
She Conquer'd him, as he the Beast before.
Æneas, sure, from Rocks, or Oceans came,
His Breast so cold, it could not feel a flame;
By the false Wretch fond Dido was undone;
Love's Mother could not sure bear such a Son:
In vain to Cupid did the Queen complain,
She pray'd him pierce his Brother's Heart in vain:
Got by a Tempest, and on Billows born,
He would, in hast, to his Lov'd Seas return.
False Men should fear the loud, insulting Tides,
The Queen of Love rose thence, and there presides.
Why should his Gods, as if by curs'd decree,
In Waters sink, when from the fires got free?
He had a Deity to guide his way,
The same, no doubt, that steer'd him on the Sea.
With that pretence, he left her slighted Coast,
But of what guiding God have you to Boast?
Yes, 'twas a mighty Pow'r your will controul'd,
A Pow'r which Reigns o'er Men, Immortal Gold.
And now another Virgin you have won,
That other Nymph must be, like me, undone.
I wish my Rival could foresee her fate,
Alas! She will repent, when 'tis too late,
So much I pity her, I cannot hate.
She soon, (Poor Innocence!) by scorn opprest,
Will grow as Wretched, as she now seems blest.
Soon will you leave the Sighing Maid behind,
Her Sighs, alas! will but encrease the Wind.
Methinks, I see you fly with Treach'rous Gales,
Loos'ning your Vows, Just as you loose your Sails,
You, the proud Sun of Love, a while Shine bright,
Then, set in Seas, and leave behind you Night.
But, Ah! beware what watry Course you Steer,
Shun Scylla's Rocks, nor dare to venture near,
Ingrateful Men should still her Vengeance fear.
And let me warn you, (for the time is nigh,)
When you shall falsly from my Rival fly,
Take leave at least, nor use your treach'rous tongue,
Just as you did, when round my Neck you hung,
And long-breath'd Kisses meant your staying long.
Tell her how lost she is, your flight declare,
Be honest once, and tell how false you are.
Tell her she never can from care be free'd,
Never, Ah! never, that's Despair indeed.
Oh! Could you know, false Man, what I have born,
Tho' Man you be, you would at last return;
In want, and Sickness I have spent my days,
Not Heav'n, or Earth, but you can give me ease.
In a hot, raging Feaver have I lain,
But why, unkind! should I to thee complain!
Thou wilt rejoice, and Triumph in my pain.
The fierce desease Burn't me with scorching Heat,
It was thy coldness did it's Fires Create.
Yet not so Wild were the last Flames I bore,
As those you kindled in my Breast before.
My Am'rous Fires, spight of your scorn, could lay
Their Sicklier rage, and make their warmth decay.
Where were you then? Where was my Lover fled?
Who should have sat all pensive by my Bed,
And in my Bosom lay'd his Mournful head.
His Weeping Eyes should pour such Constant streams,
As should have force to quench the inward Flames,
Feeling my Pulse, you, Languishing, and Pin'd,
Should have from thence of your own Health Divin'd.
Like me, Cydippe in a Feaver burn'd,
But her's rag'd less, for she had ne'er been scorn'd.
Her Beauteous Cheeks consum'd, and livid grew,
Her Colour such, as she before did view
In the Fair Apple, which her Lover threw.
Ah! Could it be, that you could Faithful prove,
I should no Feaver know—but that of Love.
And could I find where my dear Traytor flies,
My flames should dart like light'ning thro' my eyes,
And melt the Ice, which round your Bosom lies.
So far at least I know my Charms could move,
That I could force you to Dissemble Love.
But now, alas! no more must I receive
Those flowing Joys, which you so well could give.
No more my bliss, no more my Life I boast,
When I lost thee, all that was dear I lost.
Where any Nymph becomes so curs'd as I
The only business of her Life's to die.
About my Neck I'll cast a Silken twine,
That Neck, oft clasp'd by those dear Arms of thine.
My lofty Posts my Wretched weight shall bear,
For thee I'll offer up my latest pray'r,
And hang the Trophie of thy Conquest there.
Yet, I should live, for if my Doom were past,
Heav'n would show'r Vengeance on thy Head at last.
Ah! Perjur'd Man! my ease, my Peace restore,
Give me my Heart, and I demand no more.
Return my own, I shall not vainly sue
To be again belov'd, and dear to you.
Yet, know (false Wretch!) if e'er you dare to wed,
My Ghost shall haunt you in your Nuptial Bed.
No other Fair one shall a sharer be,
Of that dear bliss you once enjoy'd with me;
Tho' you all Love, and she all over Charms,
You ne'er shall clasp her in your Burning Arms.
Whilst Vengeance Prompts me, its effects I'll shew,
Great as the wrongs I have receiv'd of you.
And sure those Pow'rs which heard you falsly Swear,
Will now redress me, when I make my pray'r;
Their Names prophan'd, what Mischiefs may you dread!
Curs't, while alive, they will torment you dead.
Should I avert the Justice they design,
It were my pity, no desert of thine.
Ah! Lovely Traytor! should you yet be true,
I could, methinks, bear an Esteem for you.
One Look, one Sigh, would yet my Passion move,
And Fan the faint, expiring Sparks of Love.
Ah! Where's the hope? I am to write forbid,
Your self forbid me, it was you that did.
Void of a tender Sense to know the pain.
Of absent Lovers, when they wait in vain,
And all their Anxious Thoughts, till met again.
Thy latest Words, hence (thou ingrateful!) know;
Yours I depart, to return ever so.
Nay more, you Wept, by Heav'ns, the haughty you,
Whlist round my Neck your Treach'rous Arms you threw,
And Wip'd my Eyes, for I was Weeping too.
Think on those things, those tender things you said,
Those Oaths you Swore, to Cheat an easy Maid.
When, all the Night, lock'd in my Arms you lay.
And past, in transports, the short Hours away.
Base, Sordid Soul! Which nought that's soft could move,
No dear Remembrance can recall your Love.
When, for Heav'n's sake, you beg'd me Crown your Flame,
I was not sure, despis'd, as now I am.
How many Curses did you wish for then,
If you could ever think one fair again!
When at that time (you perjur'd slave!) I hear,
You had, and lov'd a Mistress, where you are.
One, by whose Gold your Heart is made her prize,
Nor are her Slaves the Trophies of her Eyes.
'Twas Gold that did your sordid Soul subdue,
And that, which hires her Servants, Conquer'd you.
Whilst I, more Nobly, scorn'd such Empty gain,
Nor Sold my Love for less than Love again.
I thought I did so, but too late I know,
I both am Cheated, and despis'd by you.
My right you give to her you now adore,
And Swear again what oft to me you Swore.
She too, like me, will soon complain of you,
The same, ingrateful Man will make her Wretched too.
Then, tell of all the Conquests you have won,
Speak to the wond'ring Crowd, where'er you run,
And name two tender Maids, by your damn'd Wiles undone.
But tell not how they slight, and hate thee too,
And, if they live, will be reveng'd on you.
No Fiend in Hell can such a Fury prove,
As a wrong'd Woman, one that's wrong'd in Love.

Scylla to Minos.

Epist. III.

Hence Triumph, Warrior, hence new Conquests see,
Tho' not our Forts, yet, you have Vanquish'd me.
I am subdu'd by Minos Godlike Charms,
And you may Triumph in your Captive's Arms.
It is my fate to Love my Father's Foe,
I had not known him, had he not been so.
Oft have I seen you Marching from afar,
Wielding your Sword, then resting on your Spear,
While your Cask's Noding Feathers threatned War.
Oft I beheld you in the dusty Field,
And was alas! with every Gesture kill'd.
On our High Walls oft do I wishing stand,
And bless the Launce Grasp'd in your vig'rous hand.
Your shining Arms the longing Scylla views,
And likes and praises all that Minos does.
Well might your Mother's Charms a God subdue,
If she knew ever how to Charm like you.
The Thund'rer sure had his Europa won,
Had he but seem'd like her too Beauteous Son,
By whose dear Eyes poor Scylla is undone.
Oft, as I sat on our fam'd Tow'rs on high,
Often, My Lord, has Scylla wish'd to fly
To your dear Arms, when I beheld you nigh.
How, How alas! shall I be e'er restor'd?
Or how shall Scylla e'er enjoy her Lord?
Mad with desires, I think in what disguise
Shall I find out the Tent, where Minos lies;
How meet the dear disturber of my ease,
And tell the Charmer whom his Beauties please.
Fain would I now betray the Gates to you,
And yield my Country to a potent foe;
Alas! Poor Scylla knows not what to do.
I fear in War dear Minos should be slain,
For, Oh! I doubt he has not Pow'r to gain.
Our Brazen Gates will all his glories bar,
Not to be storm'd ev'n by the God of War.
Oft have I wish'd I were your Captive made,
And the dear Bribe for your Alliance paid.
Then might rough War, and barb'rous slaughter cease,
Minos be blest with Scylla, and with Peace.
But ah! too much, I doubt, my Hero dares,
Nor fears Misfortunes in revengeful Wars,
Oh! tho' he does not, yet his Scylla fears.
Tell me, My Lord, my dearest Minos, tell,
Declare to me, who Love you too, too well,
If, for my Country, for my Virgin-Bed,
My Father's Hair, Nay, for my Father's Head,
For Shrines, for Temples, tho' the seats of Jove,
Will you, Dear, Charming Minos, Crown my Love?