University of Virginia Library

II. VOL. II.

[Book I.]

HERO, Priestess of Venus.

Muse, Sing the Torch which did so useful prove,
To Light the Lover on his way to Love;
That Friendly Torch, which o'er the Billows shone,
And nourish'd Fires, far brighter than its own.
Sing him, who purchas'd an Immortal fame,
And boldly ventur'd o'er the swelling Stream,
Nor could it's rowling Surges quench his Flame.
Thro' the rough Seas, and rising Waves he goes,
To Joys tumultuous, and as high as those.
Exalted Joys, which can no Ebbings know,
But in vast Tides of mighty Raptures flow,
And where no Winds, but Am'rous breezes blow.
He need not tremble when the Tempest's near,
Nor the loud threatnings of the Ocean fear,
Who knows Love's Beauteous Goddess ris'n there.
And Venus surely will Propitious be,
To such fierce Flames as can o'ercome the Sea.
Methinks, Leander now is swimming fast,
Methinks, I see him o'er the Billows hast;
Now, now he cuts his proud, Triumphant way,
Where Crowding Waves around his Body play.
There he is lifted o'er the Tow'ring Flood,
And Seas are flashing from the breaking Cloud.
Methinks, the Torch upon the Tow'r I see,
By Hero plac'd, and almost bright as She.
Blown by rude Winds, I hear it's flaring Light,
Which sputt'ring, Sparkles in the Gloomy Night;
That Torch, the Burning Emblem of their Love,
Which the Immortals should from thence remove,
To shine like Stars, and be a Star above.
Where it will more than usual kindness show,
In guiding Lovers, and their Loves below.
Such was it here, 'till the rough Winds arose,
For tender Sighs, Ah! Too unequal Foes,
For Am'rous murmurs, and soft Gales as those.
Fiercely they rag'd, and soon they overcame
That of the Torch, and then Leander's Flame.
Two Neighb'ring Towns, tho' small, are greatly fam'd,
Abydos one, the other Cestus nam'd.
Each had the view of the Adjacent Lands,
Opposite plac'd upon the lonely Strands.
The Ocean's Waves between them Foam, and Roar,
Washing the Borders of the Patient shore.
But Love, Bold Love, will no such Bars allow,
When ev'n for Gold, the raving Seas we Plow.
Rarely, Ah! Too, too rarely is it prov'd,
That Maids will Love as they have been belov'd;
But here a Beauteous, Charming Fair we find,
Was wond'rous Conqu'ring, yet was wond'rous kind.
Leander's Praises thro' Abydos rung,
He was alone the talk of every Tongue.
That was the Place, was blest with his abode,
Renown'd as much as he had been some God,
For Men who can like him such Passion show,
Are sure Divine, and must Immortal grow.
Near Cestus Hero liv'd, from thence she came,
From her Leander, did receive his Flame.
Thus she the greatness of her Pow'r display'd,
Who at such distance such a Wound had made.
From a long Line of Noble Blood she Sprung,
And Venus Priestess, in her Temple Sung.
Closely retir'd, and near the Boist'rous Sea,
In a tall Tower that other Venus lay.
Its Stately Ruines may as yet be seen,
Which shew Spectatours what it once has been.
On it's High Top with her bright Torch she stood,
To Guide her Lover thro' the Obvious Flood.
The Waters now roll Mournful to the shore,
And, as they did Leander's Fate deplore,
They curl their Melancholy Brows, and Roar.
The Beauteous Maid all wanton Sports deny'd,
Extreamly modest, yet untoucht with Pride.
To publick Balls, and Masques she would not go,
Reserv'd her self, and thought all others so.
She did the wits, and cens'ring Beauties shun,
Would from fond Youths, and from their Courtship run,
If she were Lov'd, she thought she were undone.
With earnest care, and pure desires she strove,
To please her Goddess, and her Son to move.
Now would she Songs of her Adonis sing,
And odo'rous Wreaths of blushing Roses bring.
With those she oft the hov'ring Cupids Crown'd,
And strew'd fresh Flow'rs along the Painted ground.
In vain she thought to make the God grow kind,
For guifts are lost, where the receiver's blind.
Now was the time when Venus Yearly Feasts,
For her dead Lover summon'd all the Guests.
A grateful time, when every Charming Fair,
And Am'rous Youth does to her Shrine repair.
Drawn to that place by an uncertain Fame,
All of each Sex from Thrace, and Cyprus came.
Cythera then scarce could one Virgin boast,
All it's Young Men Abydos too had lost.
On Venus Altar they their Off'rings lay,
But their chief Vows to the bright Ladies pay.
A Pow'r there is which every Soul beguiles,
In killing Eyes, and soft seducing Smiles.
Of all the shining Beauties, not a Maid,
Not one there was, that in the Temple stay'd,
But was more pray'd to, than her self had pray'd.
Before each Charmer's Feet sad Hearts were found,
In their own Bleedings panting on the ground,
For the blind God there gave each Youth a Wound.
He near his Mother's Image laughing stands,
And shoots, and Wounds, with his unerring hands.
But now bright Hero thro' the Fane appear'd,
Whom all the Youth at once both Lov'd and fear'd.
New rising Passion in their Breasts began,
Their Eyes, their Hearts, their Souls on Hero ran.
Soft, tender Sighs from their warm Bosoms flew,
And from each look a pleasing pain they drew.
They came, they saw, and they were there undone,
O'er her dear Face their eager Eyes would run,
They wish'd, and gaz'd, and sigh'd, still wishing on.
Richly attir'd, in sparkling Garments gay,
Fit for the Duties of the Pompous Day.
Glorious she past through the admiring Crowd,
Each gave her way, and as she stept, they bow'd.
An air Majestick in her Face did shine,
Her Cloaths, her Dress did with her looks combine,
Her Mien was Sweet, and she was all Divine.
Her Beauties darted many Thousand ways,
As the Noon-Sun which all his Beams displays,
She with her Glances warms, and he, his rays.
While all the Maids, (in other places Fair)
Seem'd but like Clouds which she had Silver'd there.
The Ancient Lovers but three Graces knew,
But Hero's Face did many Thousands shew,
From her each look, and every Glance they flew.
In wanton play around her Conqu'ring Eyes,
A guilded Host of hovering Graces flies.
O Lovely Priestess, who so much can move!
Extreamly worthy of the Queen of Love!
You who can thus each ravish'd Youth subdue,
May seem the Priestess, and the Goddess too.
With boundless Charms you Conquer every Heart,
And Maid to Venus, thou a Venus Art.
The Captiv'd Youths upon her Beauties gaze,
She both Fires them, and makes the incense blaze.
Whilst the Lov'd Virgin at the Altar stands,
She Acts her Conquests with Triumphant Hands.
The fond Spectators Worship her, much more,
Than she the Queen, whom she does there adore.
For her they Burn with purer Flames by far
Than those she offers to her Goddess are.
In vain the Love-Sick Wretches check their Eyes,
In vain alas! They would their pain disguise.
From her dear Charms, and her Attractive Mien,
They turn their sight, yet strait gaze on again.
Her dear Idea every Lover drew,
For with their Souls, their very Souls they view.
Each glance from her their raging Flames did aid,
And every motion fann'd the Fires she made.
While one of all the wond'ring Crouds around,
Thus spoke his Passion, and declar'd his Wound.
O'er Sparta, fam'd for Beauties, did I rove,
Yet still, 'till now, I was untouch't with Love.
Like Hero ne'er did any Charmer Shine,
Never did Mortal seem before Divine,
The Graces only are at Venus shrine,
In her alone do all perfections meet,
So wond'rous awful, and so wond'rous Sweet!
Long have I gaz'd, yet wish to gaze again,
At once delighted, yet at once in pain.
On her I look, and 'tis with Raptures still,
The Sight of her, like Heav'n, Allures my will.
Oh! I could Smile, and thousand Tortures dare,
Could I at last enjoy this Conqu'ring Fair.
In Hero's Arms let me in transport lie,
And then good Gods! I shall all ills defie,
Give me but her, and I shall never die.
Would she but favour my Ambitious Flame,
I were exalted from what now I am.
Had I but her safe at my own abode,
I would not lose her to be made a God.
Not to be Jove would I my Joys Forego,
But here possess a real Heaven below.
But you, bright Maid, do not my suff'rings see,
Oh! You are ne'er to be enjoy'd by me.
Some blooming Youth with more prevailing Charms,
Must press thee melting in his ravish'd Arms.
Some Happy Swain, who shall deserving prove,
Of all thy Beauties, and of all thy Love.
Grant me, O Venus, this is all my pray'r,
Since of thy Sacred Priestess I Despair.
Grant me some other Fair one to prefer,
Some Loving Nymph that may resemble her.
Thus spoke the Youth, thus made his Passion known,
And stirr'd new Flames, while he reveal'd his own,
For ev'ry hearer was his Rival grown.
And now some other, who a Wound sustain'd,
Thought to declare the Conquest she had gain'd.
In doubts, and fears the Youth had strugled long,
But had not Courage to unlock his Tongue.
Close in the Crowd his fond desires he bore,
And hidden Fires rage ever more, and more.
At last, Leander did the Virgin see,
None Lovelier there, none Loving more than he.
Oft had he heard of Am'rous griefs and pain,
As oft been told of Woman's coy disdain.
He therefore Vow'd, he would not only feel
His racking Pangs, and his Tormenting ill,
Vow'd, he would boldy urge his suff'rings high,
He would not fondly, and in silence die.
Like simple Swains, who haughty Nymphs adore,
Content with that, and never sue for more.
He, with soft Murmurs, and submissive Sighs,
Would tell her where her greatest Conquest lies,
And shew the spoils of her Victorious Eyes.
Declare the wounds, which with her looks were made,
Those Wounds, which she, and only she must aid.
Bravely the Youth with such resolves was fill'd,
But Oh! How little are true Lovers skill'd!
One Glance from her would his late Thoughts confound,
Turn his weak, sickly resolutions round,
And cast his Eyes all bashful on the ground.
In hopes, and doubts the Anxious Youth remains,
In pleasing Joys, yet in perplexing pains.
Unusual Symptoms in his Face appear,
Of new disorders, and of growing fear.
Shame, and amaze do there confus'dly move,
The sure Effects of that strong Poyson, Love.
Now Dark, sad Thoughts obscure his Cloudy Mind,
No Glimpse of Joy can any entrance find.
In hideous forms they lie revolving there,
Dreadful they seem, and he grows all despair.
Then, in his Breast feels Infant light begin
To cast bright rays, and cherish all within.
Then, glorious Images of Bliss he frames,
Vast Floods of pleasures in Immortal streams,
And Swims to Heav'n in fancy's Golden dreams.
Ravish'd all o'er with the Transporting tides,
On Tow'ring Seas of Extasies he rides.
In ev'ry Vein a Liquid Fire does Glow,
And swift desires in mighty Torrents flow.
Now, with a seeming boldness does he press,
To ease his Griefs, and make his suff'rings less.
Thro' Crowds of gazing Rivals he appears,
But as he comes to Hero's sight, he fears.
With looks astonish'd, and with folded Arms,
He views his Mistress in her shining Charms,
She sees him too, and as she sees, she warms.
With wishing Glances, and with longing Sighs,
He meets the glories of her Conqu'ring Eyes;
Perceives them darting wand'ring Beams that way,
Gliding by him did their swift Sun-shine play,
As if they wish'd, but were afraid to stay.
He, all the while, stands silent on the place,
And Feasts his Eyes all o'er her Beauteous Face.
Sometimes, themselves they would in pain withdraw.
For Oh! he fear'd least she should know he saw.
Yet he looks on, all ravish'd with the view,
Fresh Thoughts, fresh Doubts, and fresh Desires pursue,
He's more inflam'd, and then he Sighs anew.
Now the Glad Maid Leander's suff'rings sees,
And all his Torments do the Virgin please.
A secret Joy the Charming Tyrant moves,
She Veils her Beauties, Since she knows he Loves.
For what strange ends are Souls of Women made!
They grieve for Lovers in Romances dead;
But a true Passion, and a real pain,
Meets only coldness, and their harsh disdain;
No more that Female softness will they show,
Their scornful Eyes enjoy the killing woe.
They are all mov'd, when painted Flames they see,
Yet burning Lovers shall unpity'd be.
This Charming Fair, howe'er, her Mind betray'd,
Leander found vast kindness from the Maid.
Swift, tow'rds him oft a wand'ring Glance she sent,
A mighty gain, tho' but a Moment lent.
Then, on a suddain, snatch'd her Eyes away,
Ah! Too, too modest, for they wish'd to stay.
Such cruel kindness do the Skies allow,
Which Lighten'd lately, and grow Darker now.
Yet the fond Youth conceives an inward bliss,
And hopes her Fires will rise, sublime as his.
Now, as he wish'd, the Grateful Ev'ning came,
And he resolv'd he would reveal his Flame.
The scatter'd Crowds to their abodes repair,
And leave the Virgin, and her Lover there.
All Venus off'rings, and her Feasts were done,
And he beholds his Goddess left alone.
The growing Darkness does his Courage aid,
And now he ventures to address the Maid;
First, bowing low, submissively he stands,
Then look'd, and sigh'd, and gently prest her hands.
She at the first, dissembled all her Mind,
Forc'd to grow Angry, least she should grow kind.
She made no Answer, but in scorn she flew,
And from his hold her Lovely Hands withdrew,
Yet look'd so fond, she made him hope anew.
With Loving Eyes she did invite his stay,
And all Resentments, which were feign'd, betray.
To the glad Youth her wav'ring Thoughts were known.
As well he knew them, as he knew his own.
Half frowning now, she all her weakness shows,
For now she smiles, and more Serene she grows.
The Tortur'd Lover all Despair appears,
Dejected seems, and sheds unmanly Tears.
No wonder Waters of such sort distil,
When raging Fires his Breast with burnings fill.
Fondly again he does approach his Fair,
With hated force both to himself, and her.
Seizes her Hand with a more eager press,
And now Conducts her to a close recess.
The trembling Virgin seem'd, at first, affraid,
And an unwilling, Faint resistance made.
She seem'd to check him, nor was silent long,
And ask'd him why he offer'd such a wrong.
Pray'd him desist, and give his rudeness o're,
Strugling with him, but with her self much more.
How, Sir, she cry'd, can you such boldness show,
Is this your Passion, this the Love you owe?
How do you dare to use a Virgin so?
A spotless Maid should not be thus pursu'd,
But with pure Words, and awful Homage woo'd.
Be gone, reply not, but from hence repair,
All your rash Acts, and loose desires forbear,
Such Crimes my Kinsmen are too Just to spare.
I thought my Office, and my Goddess Shrine
Might have deterr'd you from your soul design.
But if you still should urge your Passion on,
I shall shriek out, and force you to be gone.
Such Words as these did not Leander move,
He hopes such threats are the effects of Love.
Maids are like Soldiers in beleaguer'd Towns,
With Warlike Pomp they show their Bulwark'd grounds.
They sound their Trumpets, and they beat the Drum,
And to the Ramparts all their forces come.
Fiercely they Fire on the prevailing Field,
But if they find this fail them, then they yield.
The Lover now did all his Loves unfold,
Fond were his Thoughts, which he as fondly told.
A thousand things he spoke to move his Fair,
With pleasing Voice, and with a taking air.
Deeply he sigh'd, and by the Gods he Swore,
By all the Gods that he did e'er adore,
He Worship'd them, but her he Worship'd more.
In Words like these, he did his griefs explain,
With wishing looks told all his Anxious pain,
He Vow'd, and sigh'd, and then he gaz'd again.
Goddess, he says (for thou art sure Divine)
No Mortal e'er had any Charms like thine.
Forgive this Passion, which your Beauty moves,
For none can see you, but of force, he Loves.
And if you would not be reputed dear,
Your only way is, you must ne'er appear.
Whate'er my Actions, and my Gestures be,
They all are caus'd by my desires for thee.
If, I have err'd, from you my error sprung,
You guide my Heart, as my Heart guides my Tongue.
And sure your goodness will not Vengeance show,
And Damn the Sinner, when you made him so.
Your Office too in my behalf I move,
Who are the Priestess to the Queen of Love.
You cannot Duty to your Goddess pay,
Nor, while a Virgin, her Commands obey.
Priestess, and Maid, a Contradiction cause,
You are not her's, till you perform her Laws.
If you for Venus any honour have,
You shew it most, when you admit a Slave.
For your own sake, I beg a soft return,
You may provoke her with a further scorn.
Fair Atalanta was unkind, like you,
She still deny'd to hear her Lovers sue,
But the Just Goddess, for her haughty Pride,
Took full Revenge for all the Youths that dy'd.
Pity me, Hero, nor my Flames despise,
Flames, that were kindled at your Radiant Eyes.
So high they blaze, with such a pure desire,
Brightly they shine, as Elemental Fire.
By Nature always do they upwards move,
A Just excuse for my Ambitious Love.
Beneath the Concave of the Moon they lie,
But mine, more bold, disdain the lower Sky,
To you, my Sun, from whence they came, they fly.
Still Tow'ring up, they somewhat great pursue,
And aim at nothing less than Heav'n, or you.
Hot, Fiery bolts will by the Gods be hurl'd,
And wond'rous burning will consume the World;
At that dread time, when all the Seas shall roar,
With scorchings, louder than with Winds before.
Ev'n then, my Fair, the Earth more ease shall find,
Than there is now in my Tormented Mind.
Believe me, Charmer, by your self I swear,
You fill my Mind, and you are all my care.
While Life shall last, while I have any Pow'rs,
Your true Adorer shall be always yours.
Honours, nor Empires, nor the Joys above,
Shall thy dear Image from my Breast remove,
The highest bliss that is in Heav'n is Love.
For thee, my Passion is excessive great,
I suffer more than Man e'er suffer'd yet.
I love you, Fairest Maid, to that degree,
I cannot live, unless possess't of thee.
This, and much more in pleasing Terms he spoke,
And all the Virgin's resolutions broke.
With bashful Eyes, fixt on the Earth, she stands,
And now, uncheck'd, she lets him Grasp her hands.
His eager presses run thro' every Vein,
Which she almost wish'd to return again.
A conscious Blush her Beauteous Face o'er-spread,
Which shew'd her Coyness, and her scorn were fled.
White Flags hang out, when Warlike places yield,
But 'tis the Red surrenders Beauty's Field.
Leander's Words possess her ravish'd Ears,
And every accent all anew she hears.
Charm'd with his Voice, and it's bewitching sound,
Each Word he speaks does all her senses Wound.
Soft, pleasing pains, and gentle heat she feels,
They fill her Breast, and she perceives their ills.
Her vertue now, that Frozen Snake, does move,
Warm'd by the Fires of a new glowing Love.
Her fonder Passions, and her doubts engage,
Confus'dly met in an Intestine rage.
Her Hopes, and Fears, her Thoughts, and Wishes Jar,
And fiercely strive in an uncertain War.
By diff'rent gusts of an unsetled Mind,
Like a Poor Ship tost by each threatning Wind,
Now to this point, and now to that inclin'd.
By each Tempestuous blast she's wildly tost,
Dasht by each Wave, and in an Ocean lost.
One while, she thinks of Honour, and of Fame,
And the Priz'd blessing of a spotless Name.
Then, she contemns what she before desir'd,
For the Sweet Youth again the Virgin Fir'd,
She saw his shape, and as she saw admir'd;
Was with his Gestures, and behaviour mov'd,
And pity'd kindly, and now kindly Lov'd.
Her pain renews, and every Glance he gives,
Augments his own, and her dear Flames revives.
Each sigh Exasperates her fond desire,
Whispers soft Thoughts, and Fans the raging Fire.
Thus, Love and Vertue did divide the Maid,
He saw the War, and for the Conquest pray'd.
While now all bashful, and in strange surprize,
Fast on the ground she cast her wishing Eyes.
His in vast transport, wond'rous pleasures felt,
For, on her Neck, her Beauteous Neck they dwelt.
Then the blest Epicures had Richer Feasts,
They saw the risings of her swelling Breasts.
Seated, like Gods, upon those Snowy Hills,
They sport, and play, at their own wanton Wills,
And every look the ravish'd Lover Kills.
They Swim in Pleasures, which in Torrents run,
But ah! How soon is the short Ever gone!
The Virgin's Love all further bars denies,
(And Flames by Nature still will highest rise.)
Soft, fond Emotions had o'ercome the Maid,
A sweet Confusion o'er her Face was spread,
And all in Blushes these kind Words she said.
Who, ah! who taught you this great skill in Love?
Such Charms as these the very Rocks might move;
The coldest Rocks, dasht by the roaring Seas,
Might sure be warm'd, with such bright Flames as these.
Such cunning Arts, and taking ways you show,
Too well, I fear, how to deceive you know.
You are a stranger, and are learnt to cheat,
And now would Practise but some new deceit.
Alas! (and then she blush'd) why came you here?
I cannot Love, and you are lost,—I fear.
Would you had never seen me, O ye Power's!
Not seen my Face, nor I have look'd on yours.
Suppose, Sweet Youth, I should return your Flame,
I must be still the same, as now I am.
My Parents will not grant that I should wed,
And so you never can enjoy my Bed.
And secret Pleasures I will ne'er allow,
Against stol'n Joys I made a solemn Vow.
And should I grant them, it would soon be known
In every Village, and Censorious Town.
Tho' Fame flies swifter than the Eastern Wind,
She leaves no story, no report behind.
But gathers something, whereso'er she goes,
And oft tells more, than what she Justly knows.
Howe'er, your Name, and your abode declare,
Tho' not soft Passion, I can Pity bear.
In yonder Tow'r, with my old Maid I lie,
None else inhabit there but she, and I.
The Foaming Waves beneath its ramparts flow,
They are the only Visitants we know.
The Whistling Winds do with the Waters Jar,
And with loud noise Proclaim a dreadful War.
No Nymphs, or Youths do to our Borders come,
We live all Friendless, and alone at home.
No found of Musick does my slumbers break,
The roaring Billows all my Musick make.
No People Travel our deserted ways,
No Neighbours near us, but the Neighbouring Seas.
Thus when she said, the Maid again withdrew,
And hid her Face from her Leander's view,
Which now with Blushes was o'erspread anew.
She thinks she too much fondness has exprest,
And fears her Language has her Flames confest,
For, much she told her self, and Blushes told the rest.
Each Word she spoke her tender Lover mov'd,
Her every look declar'd how well she Lov'd.
And now the ravish'd Youth, with longing Eyes,
By slow degrees, Charms still, and thus replies.
Thus, with Attractive Mien, his silence broke,
And, humbly bowing, languish'd, as he spoke.
Shall Airy nothings our Delights o'erthrow,
Without the forces of a real Foe?
Let Fame, and Honour unregarded be,
Those Shaddows never should discourage me,
Who with my Flames dare venture thro' the Sea.
Not Heaven's bright Flashes o'er the Waves shall fly,
With greater safety, or more swift than I.
Tho' big with dangers every Billow swell,
And tumble down to a low depth, like hell.
Tho' the whole Ocean with loud tempests roar,
And Barks lie scatter'd on the foamy shore,
I ne'er shall meet with any dreadful harms,
Steering my Course to those Lov'd, happy Arms.
The hardship only will encrease the bliss,
(If ought encreases what Immortal is.)
I would scorn Joys got in the common road,
For thee, my Heav'n, I would outdare a God.
Yes, every Night, I will Abydos leave,
And all the Terrours of the Ocean brave,
Outface each Wind, and every faithless Wave.
But this (O Life of Love!) you needs must grant;
(For 'tis a kindness I shall greatly want.)
Let a bright Torch shine from your Tow'r afar,
While I, Love's bark, make that my guiding Star.
For you, my Fair, the Hellespont I'll Plow,
With his own Arms shall your bold Lover Row.
For you I burn with such a fierce desire,
That I would swim to thee thro' Seas of Fire.
I need not beg you of the storms beware,
For, if you Love, you will extreamly fear,
And who, Ah! who would lose the blessing near!
Now, dearest Maid, since you my Name would know,
It is Leander that adores you so.
These, and ten Thousand other things he said,
Soft moving things, which melted down the Maid.
'Till Hero's Flames to such a height were grown,
She says alas! She is no more her own.
In conscious Blushes her consent appears,
In rising sighs, and in new falling Tears.
Whilst the fond Youth drank up the trickling dew,
To all her Conquests still she added new.
Close to her glowing Cheeks his own he prest,
How happy then, how greatly was he blest!
She tells him now, she will a Torch prepare,
And Crys, dear Youth, ah! Dearest Youth, beware.
Not her own Life will she more safely guard,
For Oh! Her Life is not to his prefer'd.
With taking fondness, and in softest ways,
The Lovers languish, and each other please.
To him her grant did rising Joys afford,
He Kiss'd, and stopt her at each broken Word.
In tender Murmurs he declar'd his bliss.
While their Souls met, at every eager Kiss.
Ten thousand now o'er all her Face he spread,
He Kiss'd, and Mark't her, with his Kisses, red.
With willing Lips she the Embrace allows,
And ravisht, he grows lavish of his Vows.
Oft by the Sea, which he must trust, he Swore,
Oft by the Goddess, whom the Ocean bore,
And wish'd, if false, he might not reach the shore.
Without repulse, he would enjoy the Maid,
But with endearments she his suit declay'd.
With interfering Kisses, which she gave,
His bliss was such, he could no greater crave.
Such are the taking ways, which Women shew,
They make their Charming fondness always new,
And that, which raises, can appease us too.
With cunning Arts, our ful-spread Fires they blow,
We inward burn, and a pure brightness show.
His high desires could not have e'er been born,
Had she repay'd them with a killing scorn.
Such rigid coldness would inrage him most,
We feel worst scorchings in the hardest Frost.
But she, kind Beauty! Made a fit return,
And with like Passion, as himself, did burn.
Whene'er the Youth her hand with presses warm'd,
She grew all ravish'd, all o'er-joy'd, and Charm'd.
Vast were Pleasures, nor could his be less,
She gave him Kiss for Kiss, and press for press.
Thus took they earnest of the wish'd delight,
Which she defer'd, till the next happy Night.
Often they sigh'd, and many looks they cast,
Each one of which they did design their last.
Another still did the fond Lovers crave,
Another yet, and yet another last they gave.
Gazing he went, and took a distant view,
Then stepping short, look'd back, and gaz'd anew.
Till in fond wand'rings from her sight he stray'd,
Then, in Idea he beheld the Maid.
Frequent remarks he on the ways did make,
Least the next Night he should the road mistake.
And now on Board, he saw the Active Oars
Plow the rough deep, as they remov'd the shores.
That tedious Night he at Abydos lies,
And fancies Hero still before his Eyes.
In broken slumbers now he Clasps his Fair,
In Dreams he Courts her, and Embraces there.
Thus the Night flies, on slow-Wing'd Clouds away,
But oft he curses the long, ling'ring Day.
The Sun stands still to him, nor does he know,
How to divert himself, or where to go.
With folded Arms, he wanders up and down,
Then, finds Acquaintance in his Native Town.
He, thoughtful still, no talk to Friends affords,
And hears, unnotic'd, all their Pleasant Words.
Whate'er he did, or whatsoe'er he said,
His Mind still ran upon the Charming Maid.
But now the Night it's usual Darkness spreads,
O'er all the Seas, and o'er the flow'ry Meads.
Each Breast it did with Pleasing Calmness fill,
Which was a stranger to Leander still.
And now he Walks, upon the stormy shore,
Slights all the Billows, when he hears them roar,
Impatent grown, and longs to venture o'er.
Fancies, he now has stemm'd the furious tide,
And is already at the farther side.
Fancies, his Hero on the Strands appears,
Conceives, the Marks her tender Passion wears,
And meets her smiling, yet all o'er in Tears.
Again he doubts she may be grown unkind,
Or fears to trust him to the Faithless Wind.
A thousand wild Conjectures does he make,
And still the old one, for some new, forsake.
But now the Maid, who could not brook delay,
Lights the bright guide, to call her Love away.
Now, to the Tow'r his longing Eyes he cast,
And sees the Torch, his Nuptial Star, at last.
To him, it seems Just from the Seas to rise,
Appearing fixt in the far distant Skies.
The grateful object did new Thoughts Create,
And Planet like, as well as light, shot heat.
It made his Extasie of pain the more,
And now, his Veins in boiling rage run o'er.
In other things, whatever Stars may do,
The Stars of Love, 'tis sure, vast Pow'r can shew.
Howe'er, concern'd, the roaring Waves he hears,
The winds raise them, and with them, rise his fears,
And each sunk Sea, like a deep grave appears.
Between two ills did the fond Lover move,
The Ocean's storms, and the worse storms of Love.
Which shall he chose, of these two sad extreams,
To die by Waters, or to die by Flames?
Flames, which the fury of the Floods survive,
The Floods but serv'd to keep the Flames alive.
He calls on Venus, and repeats her Name,
Venus, he knew, from the rough Ocean came;
Venus, the Goddess who had heard his Vow,
To her he prays, and begs her succour now.
Then, bravely Naked, he the Waves divides,
With Manly force, stemms the opposing tides,
And in proud State, like a Sea-God he rides.
His Arms his Oars, he Plow'd the swelling Flood,
While his dear Hero on the Turret stood.
Tost with her doubts, and trembling with her fears,
His mighty toil but small to her's appears.
She watch'd the Wind, and its inconstant blasts,
And her rich Robe round the bright Torch she casts.
Her Robe, which like some Beauteous Streamer flew,
And Born out from her, with each Wind that blew,
Flutter'd, and seem'd, as it was trembling too.
Now the glad Youth had reach'd the Sestian Coast,
While the fond Virgin in her Thoughts was lost.
But soon she sees him on the nearer shore,
She hasts, and meets, and bids him welcome o'er,
And round him casts the Mantle which she wore.
Now, now she clasps him, and with kind Embrace,
She spreads warm Kisses o'er his watry Face,
And brings new Vigour, and new heat apace.
While the cold Youth stood wet, and shiv'ring there,
The trickling drops fell from his flowing Hair.
Strait, was he thence to her own Chamber brought,
Furnish'd with Works, which her fair hands had wrought.
She there provides sweet Essences, and Oyls,
Fit to refresh him, after all his Toils.
Scarce yet recover'd, on the Bed he's lay'd,
And his strong Limbs surpriz'd the ravish'd Maid,
Which she with silent, eager Joy survey'd.
Then, all desire, into his Arms she flew,
And did ten Thousand Marks of kindness shew,
In such fond ways as made him wish anew.
With taking Air she did beside him lie,
While Words, like these, from her dear Lips did fly;
Life's Death without thee, with thee, Life to die.
For me, my Love, what wonders have you done!
Into what Deaths, what Dangers have you run!
Had you been lost, I too had been undone.
To such vast heights no Flames, but yours, e'er flew,
None, none alive so nobly dar'd as you,
A Love, as boundless as the Seas, you shew.
Repose, dear Youth, your weary'd Spirits here,
Upon these Breasts, if any Charms they bear.
These Breasts,—which soon as she had sweetly said,
With a close Kiss her further speech he stay'd.
Thus flows the dearest, softest Night away,
In close enjoyments, and in wanton play,
While she says fondly he shall ever stay.
Sporting they lie, and look, and sigh a while,
Then snatch a kiss, and at each other smile.
No dull, untimely Mirth, or solemn State,
Or dance, or Musick, on their Nuptials wait.
No Barb'rous Fool tells here his loathsom Jests,
Such as are usual at the Marriage Feasts.
Nor, while the Bride by her dear Lover sighs,
Impertinently vex her, where she lies.
No glaring Torches here destroy the Night,
But a still Lamp affords a glimm'ring light.
These stealths were seen but by the Stars alone,
The hasty Sun still found Leander gone.
He, with regret does from his Hero go,
How dreadful then do all the Surges show!
When her dear Arms must now no longer please,
Still with his own he seems to climb the Seas.
By day, she always led a Virgin's Life,
And was, by Night, more blest than any Wife.
So oft Leander did the Ocean Plow,
That he was known to every Dolphin now.
Thus they a while with secret Joys were Crown'd,
With all the Joys successful Love e'er found.
The changing Moon a waining visage wore,
Yet found them constant, and their Flames still more.
The flowing tides, which swell'd the rising Main,
Embrac'd those Strands, which they forsook again.
But still no Ebb was in their Passion known,
The Sea of Love was still the greater grown.
But Oh! How faithless Fortune's gifts appear!
He's rashly fond, who values blessings here.
Now Winter hasts, and dreadful Tempests brings,
And raging Storms on it's fierce, Windy Wings,
Impetuous blasts o'er all the Surges Reign,
And wond'rous outrages infest the Main;
(The Lovers wish for Halcyon Days in vain.)
On the cold shores the Sea-men trembling stand,
And scarce believe they are secure, at land.
But Oh! no danger does Leander Mind,
Love on this score may well be counted blind.
No Jarring Seas or Winds his Soul can move,
Their discord seems but Harmony for Love.
His fierce desire does on his Mind impose,
And nearer much the fatal Turret shows.
He sees the Torch, and he must hast away,
Tho' the loud blasts seem'd to Commands his stay.
In spight of Storms, in spight of Winds, and Rain,
He forces Waves, which dash him back again.
Oft, tho' repuls'd, with all his utmost Pow'rs,
He cuts this Billow, and o'er that he Tow'rs.
Hero, methinks, should grant some respit now,
And tedious absence for a while allow.
The tempting Torch should have more cautious been,
When not one Star dare in the Heav'ns be seen.
It's tender Mistress did no danger know,
For her hard fate alas! had order'd so.
The gloomy Night a double darkness spread,
As if it Mourn'd the black Decrees were made.
Yet oft the light'nings in swift Flashes flew;
Which did the horrors of the Night renew.
While Peals of rowling thunder loudly roar,
And the big Ocean seem'd to thunder more.
Braving Heaven's threats, the breaking Billows fly,
Like dashing Clouds, when Bolts have shook the Sky.
While the fierce Winds, and the rough Surges Jar,
Threat'ning destruction with their dreadful War.
The Poor Leander now, all hopeless, strove,
To make the Sestian shore, and reach his Love.
Here, swelling Seas, like mighty Mountains, show,
There, Vallies Gape, deep, wond'rous deep below.
His frequent Pray'rs the Youth directs, in vain,
To all the Pow'rs presiding o'er the Main.
In vain, to Neptune, whom the Flood obeys,
In vain, to Venus, oft in vain he prays,
Venus, much deafer than her Mother Seas.
In such distress what could complaints perform?
They serv'd alas! But to encrease the storm.
Yet, the rough Boreas he did most asswage,
Orythia nam'd, he could no longer rage.
The stubb'orn Wind did mild, and gentle grow,
And but in Murmurs, and in sighs could blow.
But now the Youth, while strugling with the tide,
Fails of his strength, nor can the Waves divide.
He breaks the Seas no more with Manly toil,
In Triumph, down they bear their wretched spoil.
The Tempest still grows louder in the Sky,
While the tost Floods with angry Pride run high.
And now, a blast, an envious blast takes flight,
Prevailing still on the well guarded Light.
The storm's loud Malice, with success it Crowns,
The Torch goes out, and now Leander Drowns.
Dash'd with the Ocean's rude insulting streams,
Which fill his Throat, as he his Hero Names.
She, all the While, dreads his unusual stay,
Restless, and list'ning, as awake she lay.
Oft, her Wild fears his real Dangers shew,
Then, she hopes fondly they are all untrue.
A fair pretence does oft our sense deceive,
For, what we wish, we can with ease believe.
She thinks that then he would not venture o'er,
For new delights, and Joys unknown before.
But soon she Starts, while her Thoughts strangely rove,
And rising cries, then are you come, my Love?
But disappointed, she more fearful grew,
And fancy'd dismal, hideous things anew:
What cannot fancy, help'd by Darkness, do!
Her Sickly Mind shews her Leander come,
Shews him all wet, and shiv'ring in the Room.
Dropping, and Pale, he stands beside her Bed,
With folded Arms, and with dejected Head;
To Tempt him still with Thousand Charms she tries;
The pleasing Image her Embraces flies.
She, still perplext such by delusions, lay,
Till the approach of the sad, conscious Day.
Mournful she rose, and Clouded as the Skies,
And views the dreadful Sea, with Cautious Eyes.
While her fond fancy, to divert her fear,
Shews him now wand'ring there, now wand'ring here.
But ah! no more it can such visions shew,
It brings false things, but never hides the true.
The bruis'd, torn Body she beholds at last,
Which, some kind Wave beneath the Tower had cast.
The killing object was too quickly known,
And with a sudden Shriek, she leapt all headlong down.

Book II.

THE FOREST of LOVE.

Being some Copies Written to Amasia, on particular Occasions.

To Amasia, who made me a present of a Studying-Cap, variously Beautified with Trees and Flow'rs of Needle-Work.

How great's your skill, that you can here restore
What your Dear Sex lost all the World before!
Not readier, Chaos the strange Word Obey'd;
You wave your Hand, and Paradise is made.
Your suddain Plants, at first Appearance, bloom,
And all is Spring, where'er your Fingers come.
Only that sad Narcissus fades away,
As if Self-Love made ev'n the Flower decay.
Your lofty Cedars at full growth appear;
Not sooner Planted, than they Flourish here.
You Charm with Beauty, and you Charm with worth,
Your Needle ne'er Points to a Frozen North.
Where'er I Walk, thro' Pleasant Groves I go,
And I am blest with their dear Shades below.
Your grateful Bow'r diverting Thoughts inspires,
And my strong fancy with New notions Fires.
As, while the Sybills on the Tripos stood,
They grew inspir'd with their Prophetick God.
So, while my Head your Sacred present wears,
I boast a Knowledge, as Divine as theirs.
In polish'd Numbers all my Thoughts shall flow,
And (you my Muse) I shall Immortal grow.
While all those Beauteous, spreeding Trees I see,
Planted by your fair Fingers, seem to be
Still-blooming Laurels, in it, Crowning me.

To Amasia, on her filling a Glass with Water, whereon she had Painted Stags, and Birds, and Trees.

By this, you prove your Pow'r is truly great,
You Kill at Pleasure, and you here Create.
Some of the Herd, which you so lively drew,
Neglect all Food, and Joy to gaze at you.
While others bow to Drink, and bend so near,
We wonder still to see the Water there.
Actæon chang'd, had not been here pursu'd,
He had escap'd, secure among the Crowd;
In a fair Spring, by chance, he once descry'd
A Heav'nly Beauty, and transform'd, he dy'd.
And in this place, he might with wonder view
As bright a Goddess, and as fatal too;
In his own shape, he must have dy'd for you.
Your stately Stags rear high their lofty Heads,
Tall as the Trees, in thick, and fruitful Shades,
And a vast Grove above each Forehead spreads.
They, and your Forests, with each other vie,
Nor can I tell which seems more proudly high.
The Trees, fresh Life, from your late Bounty, drew,
As from the Fountain, which you pour'd, they grew,
Became more Green, and Flourish'd all anew.
One Phænix lives, and that is sprung from Fire,
But many seem to rise from Water here.
Whilst all your sporting Birds prepare to fly,
And cut with gawdy Wings, a strange, unusual Sky.

To Amasia, invested with a Muslin-Nightraile, variously Beautified with Birds, and Beasts of Needle-Work.

The wond'rous Rod set the Red Sea aside,
And here, your Finger can this white divide.
What you created, your invention saves,
You lead your Creatures thro' the Foaming Waves.
Tho' when you please, you make them Ebb, and Flow,
And stand on heaps, at the least touch of you.
A Head must be, whence all this Ocean rose,
Sure, from your Breasts this Beauteous deluge Flows.
Ambitious Waters once o'er-spread the ground,
Here, in a Sea of Milk the World is drown'd.
The wond'ring Flocks all Wisely here withdrew;
What better Ark could they desire, than you?
In all this Flood, give me the blest Command,
To be the Turtle, to find out the land.
I shall, I know, a happy soil descry,
A Heav'n lies hid, within this Silver Sky.
None here can err, none here can ever stray,
He's sure of bliss, that comes this Milky way.

To Amasia, wearing a Muslin-Apron, wrought with Trees and Beasts of Needle-Work.

'Tis said indeed, Achilles Launce could Wound,
And what it hurt, again could render sound.
Your pointed Spear here Acts, with wonder, more,
And thus Creates—these had no form before.
Nor, could the Pen so well describe this Field,
That, and the Sword, must to the Needle yield.
Your Wolf is here Cloath'd in a spotless skin,
'Tis pure without, and 'tis all soft within.
Your Pow'rful dart can make all Creatures tame,
That may, it self, be Shepherd to the Lamb.
Thro' all your Woods, the Dogs pursue the Hare,
Thro' all those Trees, you made so strangely Fair,
To bloom, and spread, and so much Winter here!
I track their Feet, for sure I think they run,
And hope to see them seize their Game anon.
I only fear, whilst thro' this Field they go,
The dropping Blood should Paint it's purer Snow.

To Amasia, on her Beautifying the Lining of her Gown, with Trees, and Groves in Needle-Work.

Not Juno's Bird can brighter glories shew,
That, Nature painted, this is drawn by you.
Where'er you Walk, the Airy People fly,
And, for your Groves, forsake the Silver Sky.
With doubled Force they hasten from above,
And wonder thus to see your Forests move.
Aim, to light fast on your deluding Gown,
And flutt'ring fall, with strange amazement down.
So, Xeuxis Birds snatch'd at false Grapes in vain,
And, fill'd with wonder, they return'd again.
Greater than his, your Charming skill we see,
For, with the Fruit he tempted, you, the Tree.
Like that of Eden, your Plantation spreads,
And Groves, Just set, rear high their stately Heads.
All the fair Draught does such exactness bear,
So wond'rous Curious does the Work appear,
I dread, methinks, a real Serpent here.
This is a glorious Paradise in show,
But the true Paradise is only you.

To Amasia, sticking Gardens cut in Paper, on a large Glass.

We see your Actions here are wond'rous all,
Your fruit Trees spread along this Chrystal Wall.
You make me fancy (they are all so fair)
A sweet Elyzium in this clearer Air.
Your Sissers, far the Pruninghooks outdo,
Those lop off Boughs, but these make Branches grow,
And, if our Eyes deceive not, Blossom too.
Rooted in Ice, your Beauteous Gardens stand,
And shew the wonders of your Pow'rful Hand.
O may no Winter to your Beauties come,
But may they ever, like your Orchards, Bloom.

POEMS ON Several Occasions.

To Three Ladies who presented me their Verses Written in praise of one another, and in return for my Judgment, told my Fortune.

Paris his Beauties must, asham'd, give way,
I Judge three Goddesses, more bright than they.
My bliss beyond what he could boast, has been,
He view'd without, but I have seen within.
Which here excell'd, not Phæbus self could know,
Each seems a Venus, and Minerva too.
The first I like, and I admire the rest,
Still as I read, I think the present, best.
Not any one can the whole Trophie bear,
The Apple, sure, must be divided here.
Let all hereafter on your Beauties gaze,
But none demean them, with a future praise.
Thus, you should all your own perfections tell,
As there is none so fair, there's none can write so well.
The Nine no more shall be ador'd by me,
Henceforth, the Muses shall be only three.
You, our Fair Parcæ, know our Fortunes too,
For, all Mankind receive their doom from you.
This Pow'r of yours, by it's own greatness stands,
You read our Hearts, Just as you read our hands.
A knowledge thence, let none hereafter prize,
But look their fates in your Illustrious Eyes.

On a Fly, that flew into a Lady's Eye, and there lay buried in a Tear.

To a Lady, desiring a Visit.

I am unwel, and my Desease you know,
For who could e'er see you, and not be so?
Like light'ning Flashes your bright glances flew,
To blast my Sight, when I but look'd at you.
Yet wonder not that I should now desire
To see again, and so renew the Fire.
Thus, Men in Feavers, scorch'd, and raving lie,
And beg for Drink, tho' if they Drink, they die.
Thus, the Rash Semele entreated Jove,
For Flames, much fiercer than the Flames of Love,
Yet, like Achilles Launce, your Eyes are found,
For, they can cure, what they themselves did wound.
Come then, fair Charmer, like the breaking Day,
And drive my ills, those Cloudy mists away.
All pains,—but Love's, will from thy Presence run,
Like flying shades, from the approaching Sun.

Seeing a fair Young Lady, just a dying.

See how the Virgin Fades, like sweetest Flow'rs,
Pluckt in their Bloom from their delightful bow'rs.
Behold her Eyes, so Charming, and so Young!
See how they Dart their Glimm'ring Beams along.
In Beauteous Blushes now they set to rest,
Like Suns dismounting in the Golden West.
Their sparkling Lights Death's gloomy darkness Shrouds.
O'ercast by their bright lids, like Silver Clouds.
With pointed Lustre on her Cheeks they play,
Like Evening rays, which shine themselves away.
Those Lovely Cheeks, whose wonted Glory's fled,
Are now streakt over with a fainting Red.
The flying shadows hover to, and fro,
Now, fast they Fleet, now quite away they go.
Who can enough this fatal loss deplore,
The more I look alas! I feel it more.
In this alone, I some repose can find,
This only thought can ease my troubled Mind;
She will be Happy wheresoe'er she treads,
In all Death's Mansions, where her fancy leads,
In Fragrant Grots, and pleasant, flowry Meads.
Some Royal shade the chief of all below,
In those blest Lands, where she made hast to go.
The noblest far, in the Elyzian Groves,
The greatest Hero, fam'd for greatest Loves.
Who at their Chrystal, wide, expecting Gates,
With folded Arms, and longing wishes waits;
Impatient still for her arival there,
To see this wond'rous Celebrated fair;
Now, in his Breast, feels rising Joys begin,
And now, all transport, when she first is seen,
With airy Bows, receives, and leads her in.
Whilst all the Joyful happy dwellers smile,
And gaze, all ravisht, on her, all the while.
They Paint her way, with strewing Fragrant Flow'rs,
And glide admiring thro' their silent Bow'rs.
To those bright, grateful Groves, where she must dwell,
And that she's come—
In pleasing Whispers, to each other tell.

A Dialogue between a living Nymph, and a Youth who was drown'd. Written thus at the Request of a Lady.

Nymph.
Tell me, Dear Youth, why hence you fled?
Why shunn'd you mine for Thetis Bed?

Youth.
For me she spreads her Liquid Charms,
I wanton in her Chrystal Arms,
And she, the watry Nymph, burns for me dead.

Nymph.
Ah! why would you not stay with me?
Am I not yielding soft as she?
My Love, as flowing too appears,
As in its highest tides is her's;
Nor shall it ever know an Ebb for thee.

Youth.

To Amasia, who Commanded me to avoid her presence, whenever she appear'd.

A strange Command I have receiv'd of you,
You bid me fly, and yet you still pursue,
Where'er I go, or whatsoe'er I do.
For in my Breast, you, dear prevailing fair,
Have got possession, since you Conquer'd there.
You bid me fly, and yet too well you know,
That, while I live, I cannot e'er do so;
Sylvius as well may fly himself, as you.
Since I am vanquish'd, 'tis alas! too late
To think of safety by a forc'd retreat.
I wish to shun thee, but my Love denies,
I have a Heart, and you have Charming Eyes,
Nay, when you kill me, for that soon must be,
My Ghost shall haunt you, for your wrongs to me.
How shall I fly, how from thy Presence run?
I am the Fog, You, my attracting Sun.
As well the Needle from it's North might move,
For I, my fair, do with like tremblings Love.
Could I avoid thee, I should baseness show,
A mean, poor fear, and undeserving you.
So fly the Clouds, when by the light'nings torn,
And so fly Phantoms from the rising Morn.

The Description of the Palace of the Sun, and Conflagration of the World, partly imitated from Ovid.

On lofty Pillars Sol's high Palace stands,
And shews the Pow'r of it's Creatour's Hands.
The two leav'd Doors were of bright Silver made,
Which the Sun's-Beams with equal Beams repaid.
On them were Carv'd, the Heavens, the Earth, and Floods,
Vast Cities, Rivers, Mountains, Plains, and Woods.
Large, flowry Fields, with straying Flocks appear,
Here, twining Streams, and Nymphs, and Fawns seen there,
And the fair Doris drying, on the Rocks, her Hair.
Tritons, with Shells, here, sounding on the Sea,
While, the blew Gods o'er all the Billows play.
Far above these, Heav'ns radiant Image shines,
Deckt on each side, with six refulgent Signs,
The Iv'ry roof shone bright with burnish'd Gold,
Clearer than Flames, when Circled round with cold
The Chrystal Floor supports a glorious Throne,
Which is around with hallow'd Light o'erflown.
Sol, Cloath'd in Purple, here in State appears,
And a bright Crown of pointed rays he wears.
His Seat's rich Stones a sparkling Lustre raise,
The Emraulds shine, and to the Eye they Blaze.
Beneath this Throne, plac'd most profoundly low,
That vast, and boundless, Sea, Eternity, does flow.
On this, the Sun his fiercest Beams displays,
Ages begetting, with his Vital rays.
Well may the Poets Fiction be allow'd,
Here Phæbus sets, in this unfathom'd Flood.
Thus he, at first, did the twin Seasons get,
Cold was their Mother, and their Father, Heat.
From Sol's bright rays, the shining Day to come,
And Night, from deep Eternity's dark, gloomy Womb.
Hence Time's vast River swiftly glides along,
Floating to which, the Cluster'd Ages throng.
The rip'ning Years, from the thick Clusters break,
From them, the Months, and Days, their Motion take.
Thence, spring the hours, which on time's surface play,
And in soft incest, wear their Lives away.
On her loose Bosom, they all sporting lie,
Begetting Minutes, shorter liv'd, than they.
Which soon as wing'd; with the Sun's Fleeting Light,
Thence nimbly take their Everlasting flight.
Till the World Ends, thus shall their Motions show,
Then shall Time's River Start, and backwards flow,
And all it's Whirling Years sink in the gulf below.
Now to his steeds the Glorious Phæbus came,
Which from their Mouths, and Nostrils vomit Flame.
Swiftly, by them, his shining Chariot's born,
Whose Harness, Jewels, and rich Gemms adorn.
On Chrystal spokes the Silver Fillies roll'd,
And the large Beam was made of Massie Gold.
The fiery Steeds of their rich Burthen proud,
Inflame the Æther, as they Neigh aloud.
The Obvious Clouds they cut with flying Feet,
And with their thund'ring Hoofs the Barriers beat.
Now swiftly Traverse all the roaded Sky,
And Chace the Night, o'er every path they fly.
Fiercely they now thro' unknown Regions run,
And the sad Earth, with tremblings, views the Sun.
Whilst light'ning's hurl'd from Jove's Imperial throne,
Who grasps his Flaming Bolts, and Thunders down.
Now the whole Heav'ns, in Man's destruction join,
And all the Clouds, like dreadful Comets, shine.
From their scorch'd Wombs, they pour out all their Rain,
Which Show'rs in Fire, down on despairing Men.
Trees feed the Flame which to their ruine turns,
And Corn, by that, which first produc'd it, burns.
Loud Ætna roars, with more than usual Fires,
And high Parnassus bears two Flaming Spires.
Large Fields of Sand no swelling Seas infold,
Yet Tagus now flows with dissolving Gold.
The Alps appear no longer Cloath'd in Snow,
And Mountains tops in Cinders mourn below.

To the Lord Sy***ney, Created Lieutenant of Ireland, about the time his Majesty went to Flanders.

As when the Sun hastes to renew his Toils,
And sets in glories, to return in Smiles.
He lies in Seas, and rises thence more fair,
As if he got new Fires, new brightness there.
So, the great Nassaw, when thro' Waves he goes,
Renews his Terrors on his trembling Foes.
With Joy he Fights, of every Laurel sure,
While, what he Conquers, you alone secure.
Sacred to him the Gods that Tree shall own,
It shall dread Nassaw, not Apollo Crown,
And he shall, e'er his mighty course is run,
Ride round the Globe,—Triumphant, like the Sun.
Janus, his Gates, no more shall open stand,
Their Keys lie safe, in your securer hand.
Hibernia free from tumults, and from fears;
No danger there but Luxury appears.
Soon William's Arms shall round the Earth be hurld,
And You deputed o'er the Conquer'd World.
Whilst all Fame's thousand Trumpets Sound afar.
You, Prince of Peace, and Nassaw, God of War.

To a Lady Lamenting her Lover, who was Drown'd.

Nor Pen, nor Pencil, can describe thy Woe,
Scarce thy Dear Eyes can their own sorrows show.
Such Floods of Tears from their fair Springs run o'er,
In such vast streams you pour your Liquid store,
As might have drown'd the Swain, had he escap'd before.
Those Gales of sighs, which thus your Bosom fill'd,
Cause vaster blasts, than what your Lover kill'd.
Yet sure those show'rs, which o'er your Cheeks we find,
Might be of force to have suppress'd the Wind.
Those Sunny smiles which late adorn'd your form,
Are now Eclips'd, and you are all a storm.
Sad, gloomy Clouds spread o'er your Lovely Eyes,
So fell the Youth, by Just such angry Skies.
Thus, while those Tempests in your looks appear,
A harder fate, than what he felt, we bear,
And with worse Deaths, you wreck beholders here.
Since once the Seas o'er all the Lands did flow,
And the Waves roll'd, wherever Winds could blow,
Blaming Jove's Promise, your complains are found,
For, in his loss, you think the World is drown'd.
This may consistent with your Notions be,
For the Lov'd Youth was all the World to thee.
But while your Eyes spread all your Face with rain,
Not Earth, but Heav'n endures the Deluge then.
For you, the Youth bore such a gen'rous Fire,
As nought but Oceans could have made expire.
His height of Passion, like Leander's, flew,
And he would cross a Hellespont for you.
Instead of Lamps to guide him in the Night,
With your fair Eyes you should have shown him light.
So had he safely thro' the Billows rode,
To his Dear Hero's more secure abode.
As in the Floods he drew his Liquid Death,
Thy name he utter'd with his latest Breath.
Love's Mother first is said from Seas to rise,
And now the Son of Love in the rough Oceans lies.
How, ah! how wretched did the Lover prove,
Tho' he was blest with kind returns of Love!
Since he is drown'd, you scorn our fond desires,
His Waters so have quench'd all other's Fires.
Hibernia's Seas may now insult their Coast,
Their swelling Billows may their Trophies boast,
By them, was your O Neil------
By them, to me, was my Amasia lost.
Thus, only thus, Lov'd Youth, thy fall could come,
Nought but rude Winds would have Proclaim'd thy Doom.
Alas! what pity can rough Oceans bear,
Which dash those Creatures which themselves did rear!
What tender softness can vast rocks receive!
The Flames of Love will not in Surges live.
The sweet Endowments of thy gen'rous Mind,
Boundless, and flowing as the Floods we find,
Free as the Air thy Wit, and Fleeting as the Wind.
In all the ills you suffer'd, all the while,
Your Soul was Calm, and you appear'd to smile.
No Tempest shook your Courage, pleas'd within,
Your Conscience rais'd no rowling Waves of Sin,
Your Death was gentle, as your Life had been.
In that loud storm to have so husht a Mind,
Shew'd Pow'r almost as great—
As it has been, to have appeas'd the Wind.
Thy Vertues mounted to so vast a score,
As all the Waves could hardly number o'er.
For thy vast loss the Seas outragious grow,
They chafe with Foam, while the blasts fiercly blow,
And swell'd with griefs, in wond'rous weeping flow.
Ev'n in the Calmest Seasons of the Year,
The Billows heave their Breasts, and panting they appear.
But you, fair Nymph, Lament in such a strain,
As might have Power to make him live again.
You, Orpheus like, for, sure you Charm as well,
Might raise the Youth, from his low, watry Hell.
So much you Mourn him, he is envy'd more,
Now in his Death, than in his Life before.
Your Passion for him, our despair did move,
But ah! your Sorrow melts us into Love.
Who would not hast to visit shades below,
Could he but hope you would Lament him so?
Those Tears you shed, you think are all his due,
To him you gave the Eyes, which shed them too.
All my desires but from your Sorrows came,
Strange! that those Waters should produce a Flame!
Thus prove those Floods, which issue at your Eyes,
That Love at first did from the Surges rise.

On a Bee inclos'd in Amber.

See this strange Wretch, struck, by this Amber, Dead,
He seems as if in his own Honey lay'd.
As o'er the Banks of Erydane he flew,
And with its Mourning Poplars sorrow'd too.
A fatal drop, loaded with Death, they sent;
So fell the Youth, for whom those Trees Lament.
Thus, since his fall, his Sisters Act it o'er,
With fiercer Light'nings than he felt before.
But he, alone, was beat by Thunder down,
This seems at once the Chariot, and the Sun.
Lost by Feign'd grief the wond'rous Bee appears,
Such weight, such hardness is not found in Tears.
Soon shall this Bead (a grateful gift) be hung,
On some fair Neck, which once it's Venom stung.

On a China Cup fill'd with Water, round the sides of which were painted Trees, and at the bottom, a Naked Woman Weeping.

How fair does sorrow in her Courts appear!
What tempting Charms does sad Affliction wear!
See, her weak hands support her fainting Head,
See her fair Eyes, what Silver streams they shed!
She Bathes in Oceans which her Tears have made.
And in this comely Posture seems to be
A Venus rising from a Chrystal Sea.
See, how, in vain the Beauteous Image strives,
Like Naked Eve, to hide her self with Leaves.
Fain would she move, to what, in show she sees,
But these alas! are all forbidden Trees.
The Artist's self could not this Picture view,
Unmov'd with a worse Passion, than he drew.
Unhappy he, a New Narcissus proves,
And the fair shadow, which he made, he Loves.
Here, that fond Youth indeed might Justly err,
Nor had his Flames been for himself, but her.
Whilst in her Nile she would her Slaves survey,
And like the Crocodile, Lament her prey.

The Description of a Tempest, and a Fight at Sea.

Now, deep in Night, the rowling Surges rise,
And swelling Seas presage Tempestuous Skies.
With angry Foam the raving Billows roar,
And, white with Chafing, make their fury more.
Thro' the thick air each Wave his Waters hurls,
And in thick Clouds Wrap their fierce, foaming curls.
The tossing Seas now proudly mount on high,
And Tow'r still up, as if to scale the Sky.
Whilst the rough Winds encrease the boist'rous War,
And drive on Troops of Billows from afar.
Now raging less, two Rival Vessels meet,
And each, behind them, left a shatter'd Fleet.
From Mount'nous heights they were with horrour thrown,
Into a Hell of Waters tumbled down.
Now both at once, in all their danger struck,
And each believ'd that he had forc'd a Rock.
Toss'd by the storm, they both are Mounted up,
And view each other from the Billows top.
Inrag'd, they now are for the War prepar'd,
Their Foe both scorn, nor is the Tempest fear'd.
Bold Sons of Mortals, who no Laws obey!
Their rage grows fiercer than the Winds, or Sea.
Now both the Fleets are met, and louder roar
Than the mad Floods, and all the storm before.
The Voice of War thro' all the Ships had made,
A mighty Tempest, tho' the Winds were lay'd.
From their rude sides so fierce a Flame was thrown,
None dreaded now, or could expect to drown.
Each is desirous here his Life to lose,
And Deaths, far worse, than what they shunn'd they choose.
A desp'rate Courage from their danger grows,
They fall content among their slaughter'd Foes.
Just so, one Wave does o'er the former Tow'r,
And on it's Head with all his Forces pour.
Each spends it self to dash the other down,
And with his ruines, he involves his own.
Now, in vast sheets the curling light'ning flies,
As if the Guns had set on Fire the Skies.
Dread Jove storms high, and thunders loudly down,
He fears the Victors should invade his throne.
The Sons of Earth dar'd once attempt his Sky,
And these Sea-Gyants sure, are vast as they.
With all their spreading Wings they fly afar,
And every Word they utter, threatens War.
Thick Clouds of smoak from their loud Guns arise,
And in large, gloomy rolls, mount, and obscure the Skies.
So roar the Cannons on the Noisy Main,
The Thunder does but Eccho them again.
Here, the proud Seas so vastly large appear,
A Squadron Fires, and dreads a Navy there.
Beaten by Waves, each fears his party gone,
And thinks he Fights with the whole Fleet alone.
Now, in Confusion they would leave the fray,
Thro' watry Walls, they fly, and Plow the Sea,
For he's the Conq'rour, who can hast away.

To a Lady, who presented me an Orange.

How does the Gift with the fair giver suit!
The fairest hand presents the fairest Fruit;
Had this been thrown, when Atalanta turn'd,
The rolling Gold had by the Maid been spurn'd.
In vain, Acontius his device had try'd,
Had this fair Fruit roll'd by Cydippe's side;
By any Youth this Charming Bribe display'd,
Without her Vow, he might have claim'd the Maid.
With yours, no tempting, Rival Charm be nam'd;
Mankind was never by an Apple Damn'd.
Whilst you, our fairest Tree of Knowledge, stand,
I tast the Fruit of your inviting hand;
And while your Branching Fingers stretch'd I see,
I long to Circle round the Charming Tree.
Deluding Maid! tho' at so near a view,
Like Eden's Plant, thou art forbidden too.
The ravisht Youth, whom thou shalt Love, may boast
As true a Paradise, as once was lost.

To a Lady, presenting her a Box of Patches.

Go, envy'd present, and those Charms improve,
Those killing Charms, which I am doom'd to Love.
Ill thus I lavish Sacred Beauty's store,
To Arm the foe, that vanquish'd me before;
Why should I wing those Shafts, by which I bleed?
And paint the Poyson; when 'tis Death to feed?
Tho' thy least patch shall brighter glories hide,
Than shine in any other Face descry'd;
Such are thy wond'rous Charms, Victorious Maid!
The more I hide them, they are more display'd.
So, the Sun's rays, shine, when allay'd with Clouds;
That shows them fairer, which their glory shrowds.
Thus, dying Stars Deck gay the Spangled Morn,
And with mild Light, the infant dawn adorn.
To Diamonds, thus, their foil does Lustre give,
And thus, the shade makes the fair Picture live.
While thy dear Face these Cluster'd Patches wears,
Thy Charming Face Loves Galaxy appears.
Soft does that Skin, without those Patches, show,
Soft, as the softest Silk, which makes them so.
Thus deckt, tho' Charms, almost Divine, you boast,
Yet wert thou naked, thou would'st ravish most.
Art thus, with Nature is conspiring found;
You wear the Patch, but 'tis I feel the Wound.

To the same Lady, having found a Silver Penny, the first thing she toucht, among the Patches, I presented her.

'Tis Silver; hold, fair, Charming Chymist, hold,
If you, like Midas, touch again, 'tis Gold.
Your hand's, strange Pow'r to your bright-Eyes impart,
Let, thro' my Breast, your shooting glances dart,
When 'tis made Gold, you will accept my Heart.

To Amasia, off'ring me a branch of Gilded Laurel.

See there the Lovely, Lov'd Amasia stand,
The Charming branch held in the Charming hand.
My Temples must not be with Laurels Crown'd,
Throw down the bough, and let thy Arms surround.

To a very Charming Lady, with an unpleasing Name.

Sure, you have more than Female force to Charm,
Who, at first sight, can prejudice disarm.
By different Passions sway'd, my senses move,
My Ears detest you, but my Eyes must Love.
Deaf be those Ears, which dare such Rebels grow,
Deaf, to the Sounds of Love, and Musick too.
How can thy name raise an ungrateful Sound!
Can melting Harmony, like discord, Wound!
Thy Name is tuneful, as thy self is fair;
My Sense is faulty, yes, the Crime lies there.
Unseen, thy Name displeas'd, but now, 'tis fear'd,
'Twas not unseen alone, but 'twas unheard.
While from your Charming Lips the Accents break,
The Name delights, 'tis Musick, when you speak.
While you repeat the Lovely Letters o'er,
I Swear I never heard the Name before.
Each melting Breath runs Thrilling thro' my Heart,
You make each pointed Syllable a Dart.
With Charms profuse, how are your Beauties Crown'd!
When, by your Pow'r, deformity can Wound!
Forgive me, fair, I have Love's Rebel been,
But now must yield; you vanquish all, when seen.
I own, I own since I beheld thy Frame,
At most, Deformity is but a Name.

To a Lady, whose Maid, having given her a Manuscript, I sent her, and being ask'd from whom, she receiv'd it, reply'd—from the Conjurer himself, she thought.

Whilst your Sage Maid does on my Papers look,
And sees Chains, Flames and Altars in my Book,
Light'ning and Thunder scatter'd up and down,
And Heaven and Hell, drawn in each smile and frown,
No wonder, every hint she should improve;
There is a certain Magick dwells in Love.
But while my Thoughts flow from a wounded Heart,
Mine's Magick Nature, 'tis not Magick Art.
All that my skill, my little skill can boast,
Is, not to find my Heart, but know it lost.
Like weak Magicians, who their Spir'ts can raise,
But have not Power their fury to appease,
I, with unwarranted presumption play,
And raise fierce Love, which I can never lay.
But if thou tak'st me to thy Circling Arms,
I'll brave the Fiend, and fear no Counter Charms.

To a Lady, saying she knew I Lov'd her.

It may be so! I fear, it must be so;
You, who receive the Heart, must surely know.
We think not, often, when some toy we drop,
But they must needs perceive, who take it up.
Mine does so like a very trifle show,
It is not worth your pains, to stoop so low.
But if to lift the worthless toy you Deign,
O never hurl it from your Arms again.

To a Lady, who, (while endeavouring to tye up some Linen, with a Ribbond, a little of the shortest.) being ask'd how she would manage, if she Lov'd a Gentleman without a Fortune, reply'd, I'll show you—(and so, drawing harder, made the ends meet.)

'Tis done; and you with just Applause are Crown'd;
For how can Lovers be too closely bound!
Blest be the Hand, which the firm Knot has ty'd;
O thou, who art the Priestess, grow the Bride.
Let Hymen empty from our Nuptials fly,
Our Circling Arms shall make the Marriage tye.
Why should'st thou Wed? Thy Charms can never cloy.
Thou wilt for ever be a Bride in Joy.

To a Lady, Singing frequently these Words,—Youth and Beauty.

From your Sweet Tongue, in vain those Accents Spring,
For, all your Features Youth and Beauty Sing.
Your Eyes, your Smiles, and your expressive Mien,
All Sing those Words, and you are Musick, seen.
Enough you charm'd us, thro' our Eyes before,
You need not pierce our Ears, to Wound us more.
Struck thro' one Sense, more fast your Lovers fall,
Than others Captives, when Attacqu'd thro' all.
'Tis not enough you can soft Passion move;
We must grow ravish'd, and in transport Love.
Were Passion free, thou wouldst fix every choice,
At once Seraphick, in thy Face and Voice.
Hold, Tyr'nous Charmer! tho' no Beam declines,
Yet, the Sun need not burn, to prove it shines,
Hark my Heart beats, and Dances to thy Ayres,
Thy Breath is tuneful, as the tuneful Spheres.
Sing then, the Charms of Beauty and of Youth,
But add these three, Love, Constancy, and Truth.

To a Lady, who, with a Charming Air of Negligence, frequently, when spoken to reply'd—Yes, Sir

Consent, Love's darling blessing, dwells in this,
In this one soft, transporting Accent, Yes.
Still that dear Sound, from those dear Lips should flow,
O may they never, never Answer, No,
If of your late, kind Accents you repent,
When Love's the Theam, be silent; that's Consent.

To Amasia, having dreamt of me.

The God of Sleep, who flies the Lover's Breast,
Yet Acts the Friend, and gives Amasia rest.
Your Guardian Angel slumb'rous dreams inspires,
And Whispers soft rewards, for soft desires.
Whilst in a dream your Bosom I possess,
You but the Image of a Lover bless;
How can Love live upon a Painted Feast?
Love, which is blind, can have no Eyes to tast.
O feed my Senses with thy real Face,
Let my Eyes gaze, and let my Arms Embrace;
Thus let your Swain, your ravish'd Sylvius, feed,
No other Nourishment pure Flames can need.
With their fair Beams let thy bright Glances move,
Amasia, Waken from this dream of Love.
To truer Joys your ravish'd Lover take,
Waken Amasia, or let Sylvius wake.
If only sleep my fancy'd bliss can frame,
Pleasure is all but an imperfect dream.
By Day, let Lov'd Amasia yield delight,
Or let Night last, may it be ever Night.
Love seeks the Shades, but seeks them oft by Day,
Stay, my Amasia, let the Shadow stay;
It flies, alas! as the Sun shines, away.
You thus, unknown the fleeting bliss destroy,
Nor grant me, even the Shadow of a Joy.
This is the Pleasure that the damn'd may boast,
To hear of Blessings, but to know them lost,
Love is it self a Shadow, which will flee
From every Lover, but unhappy me;
What then are dreams?—
They must but Shadows of a Shadow be.
In vain, in vain, for ever I pursue,
You fly me fleeting, as yours dreams do you.

To Amasia, on the Accidental falling of her loose Garments, which discover'd to my view her Breasts.

'Tis hard indeed, (so many Charms you boast,)
Justly to tell, which takes your Sylvius most.
This does alone within my Judgment fall,
All, who have Eyes to see, admire them all.
Piercing, yet soft, your killing looks appear,
And all, bright dazling rays of Lustre bear;
Your Heavenly Voice has Charming Pow'rs to move,
And your Ayrs Fan, and spreads the Fires of Love.
But when your Breasts the falling Garments shew,
How blest a Scene of Beauties did I view!
Ætna, I thought till now, had rag'd alone,
I knew no Rivals to that burning Throne;
Your Breasts, as well may Admiration claim,
For they are Snowy Mounts ejecting Flame.
What falls from Heav'n that Fiery Hill secures,
Nor is it's Frost near so Divine as yours.
Columbus ne'er did such fair Worlds descry,
His Travels could not make him blest as I,
Your Garments show'd me Heav'n, they were the Cloudy Sky.
On your soft Globes Young smiling Cupids play,
And tender Loves your Beauteous Islands sway.
Venus in State does on these Thrones appear,
She keeps her Paphos, and Cythera here.
Your Golden Locks, spread all around, would show
A pleasing soil, where Milk, and Honey flow.
Whose tides of Joys, reserv'd for Babes must be,
It will ne'er prove a promis'd Land to me.
This shews that Infants are more blest than Men;
I for those Breasts would be a Child again.

To the Admir'd Mrs. Cr---fts.

Let other Poets other Subjects choose,
And Sing some Name proportion'd to their Muse.
But be you mine, be you my Charming Theme,
Proclaiming yours, I gain my self a Fame.
Beauty, and Wit are by each other fir'd,
Each raising that, which makes it self admir'd,
Thus shall you spread thro' me, me, whom your Charms inspir'd.
To such vast heights your Tow'ring Fame has flown,
It can't grow more, than 'tis already grown.
Such are your Merits, they transcend our Praise,
But that's a Fog still drawn by Beauty's rays.
No shining Off'ring, worthy you, can rise,
For Mortals incense but obscures the Skies.
Where'er you pass, while Youths around you Crowd,
Your Eyes Flash light'nings thro' the yielding Cloud.
The Swains, enamour'd with your Glances, press,
And, urging theirs, deny the rest access,
Your Charms might more be known, if noted less.
We, when grown fond to view your Beauties, run,
But find the nearer Clouds hide from our sight the Sun.
Thus, since your Eyes first blest Hibernia's shore,
Your Triumphs hinder you to Conquer more.
So, while the vanquish'd scorn a mean retreat,
You might be greater, were you not so great.
To you, fair Goddess, Victims daily fall,
All would adore you, were you known to all.
The Beauteous Warren, long unrivall'd, Charm'd,
No Mortal Breast against her Darts was Arm'd.
She still Triumphant, thro' her Conquests, rode,
For she has Charms which might o'ercome a God.
But you, to share her Empire, hither came,
To share an Empire setled long by Fame.
To you this right, as you deserve it, fell,
So much her equal, you almost excel.
Such are your outward Beauties, all must own,
All those to whom your Wit, and humour's known,
That Face was made but for that Soul alone.
Of what can Paphos, or Cythera boast,
Alas! the fame of those Lov'd Isles is lost,
Venus is now ador'd on blest Hibernia's Coast.
Hear then, thou Beauteous, Celebrated fair,
Exert your Pity, and receive this Pray'r,
Whatever Youths shall be subdu'd by thee,
(And all must be so, who have Eyes to see)
Command them live at least, and mildly prove,
(Tho' in your Empire uncontroul'd you move,)
The Queen of Mercy, as the Queen of Love.

To a Lady having lost three Kisses on a Wager with me, and refusing to pay them.

Why, Charming Maid, should you delude me so?
Can those dear Lips deny the Debt they owe?
Those happy Lips, dissolv'd in Balmy bliss,
Envy'd by me, since they each other Kiss.
How do I long for the Divine delight,
When they refuse, what they at once invite!
He who with you will such a Wager lay,
Must hold the stakes, or you will never pay.
A Kiss would me to hopes of Blessings move,
For 'tis the Prologue to the Play of Love.
Tell me, my fair, what are these Joys I want?
What is that bliss, which you refuse to grant?
A Kiss you say—and prethee what is this?
Why, all you Answer, is, that 'tis a Kiss.
A pretty saying, by thy Lips it is.
Well, it's Existence Just in nothing lies,
It lives unborn, for when 'tis got, it dies;
The sickly Off-spring of a fond desire,
And what begets it, makes it strait expire;
While 'tis enjoy'd with a more warm embrace,
Your ruddy Lips dissolve it's sweets apace,
While Thousands more spread o'er your Beauteous Face.
So Snow on Ætna still is melting found,
Yet still it lies upon the wond'rous ground
O let me Kiss, and rifle all thy store,
O let me Sow, and reap ten thousand more,
I'll Kiss thee thro', I'll Kiss thy Soul all o'er.

Reflections on the Picture of Cupid, Imitated from Propertius.

Whoe'er he was, he does my fancy move,
Who painted first the little God of Love.
Plainly he saw the senseless Lovers snare,
What solid good they lose, for empty care;
Thence did he Justly windy Wings impart,
And made the God fly with a humane Heart.
By Fortune's waves he knew us wildly tost,
While, by each dash, we may be wreck'd, and lost.
Justly he knew what the old Poets sung,
That from the Seas Love's Beauteous Mother sprung.
E'er since which time, unhappy Lovers see,
Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free.
It Ebbs and Flows, unfixt, not long the same,
A rowling Ocean of tumultuous Flame.
He feign'd him blind, with true design, to show
That every Lover, while he Loves, is so.
Justly indeed his Darts were bearded found,
For, what they hurt, can never be made sound;
And 'ere we see him, he is sure to wound.
My Breast his Arrows, and his Image boast,
But sure his Wings, with which he flies, are lost.
My Heart's his Throne, yet Rebel Passions Jar,
Which Fire my Veins, and thro' my Blood make War.
Why Cruel Love, should you the Tyrant Play?
By what pretence can you demand your sway?
But you have Pow'r, and I must still obey.
When I am gone, who shall your praises sing?
And my Light Muse can weighty glories bring.

To Amasia.

Book III.

LETTERS of LOVE.

Written to Amasia.

[As Men untry'd stand shiv'ring on the shore]

As Men untry'd stand shiv'ring on the shore,
And wish, impatient, the first plunge were o'er;
Till at the last—
Boy'd up with fancy'd hopes they shall not sink,
Headlong they leap, and leaping Spurn the brink.
So, doubting long, the ruin'd Sylvius stood,
So plung'd—
But void of hope, down Love's impetuous Flood.
Others by Waters may, unskill'd, expire;
More fierce my wreck; I'm lost in Seas of Fire.
With me, as with some wretch pursu'd, it fares,
Oceans before, behind him Swords and Spears.
Bold does he plunge, or tamely yielding dies;
Easy his fate, or if he stands or flies,
But oh! what Sword—
What Spear can pierce like bright Amasia's Eyes?
You know my fate, you know, and make it too,
All I can be, depends alone on you,
You know I Love you, too, too well I do.
Love with the humblest Passion, yet so high,
That but your scorn can with that Passion vye;
Unhappy Passion! thrice unhappy I!
Ill has the Partial hand of chance assign'd
Fortunes too slender, but too large a Mind.
By this the greatness of my Soul I prove,
I Love with more than with a Mortal Love.
Yet you, the fair, imperious Charmer, you,
Will not believe those Vows I offer true.
Too mean the Captive, and Obscure the Prize;
Under unhappy Stars that Lover lies,
Where Beauty Conquers, and where Pride denies.
In vain the proof of my pretence you shun;
You needs must see what your own Eyes have done.
But to convince you of the pangs I bear,
O do not see alone, but see, and hear.
Hear, tho' you never make the least return,
Hear me declare how I shall ever burn.

To Amasia.

[In vain in slighted Numbers I complain]

In vain in slighted Numbers I complain,
In vain I write, when I have spoke in vain.
Nor Tongue, nor Pen can you, Obdurate, move,
At once disdaining either Wit or Love.
In what a maze of griefs am I perplext!
Love, the first Crime, and writing was the next,
Both Crimes, yet both yield Anguish and Delight,
For while I live—
I'm doom'd to Love, and while I Love, to Write.
Tho' sense like yours permits no soft return,
Be mild at least, ah! do not, do not scorn.
Believe I Love you, be assur'd I do,
Assurd—I Love, and could adore you too;
Why should I urge what seems a Crime to you?
Yet I'll confess, tho' so confessing die,
'Tis I who Love you most, 'tis only I.
Of this, my Crime, as of desert I boast,
Yes, I am Ravish'd here—
To think, to know, and vow I Love you most.
Love is reported blind, tho' blind he be,
I see I Love—
And thou the object, all must own I see,
Spight of your haughty scorn, you see it too,
Tho' you disdain to look at me, you do.
At once your Pride and Reason you display;
Why should you cast the smallest Glance away?
Others with darts from shooting Eyes are struck,
Me you confound, and Kill without a look.
Would I could Learn, O teach this Charming Skill,
Teach me to save my self, tho' not to kill.
It cannot be, here the Obstruction lies,
Unhappy, Eyes I have—
And I must look, as long as I have Eyes.
'Twas they first drew the fatal Poyson in,
Would they—or I my self had never been,
But fate is past, I am, and they have seen.
Seen?—Were that all, your Slave had still been free.
But still the Soul Admires, whene'er they see.
O my Amasia! no, oh! no, ye Pow'rs!
She is not mine—
Nor wilt thou be, tho' I am ever yours.
Would I were yours, but that, ye Pow'rs Divine!
That cannot be, for thou would'st then be mine,
Can it not be?—what can't the Pow'rs above!
To them my slighted, humble suit I'll move.
Rather, to thee—thou art the Pow'r of Love.

To Amasia.

[As Men on Racks feel Tortures, and complain]

As Men on Racks feel Tortures, and complain;
Severer far than theirs, my Mortal pain:
So, do I feel, sigh so, like them in vain.
Like them confessing dying Truths at last,
And blest that Power which Tortures me so fast.
Compar'd with mine—
Small is the greatest Malefactor's smart;
Wheels break their Limbs, Love gnaws, and Tears my Heart.
Stay, let me tell my Num'rous suff'rings o'er,
And think—O no;—no let me think no more.
Ambition vast my Airy Thoughts pursue,
Confus'd, of all things, and yet all of you.
You all my Notions, all my Sense Enthral,
Confin'd—confin'd to you? yet you are all.
Now, to Amasia's Charms alone I bow,
Then she disdains—
My own desire must be my Mistress now.
Where can my Anxious Soul at last have rest?
There is no Calm, but in Amasia's Breast.
Whene'er I see thee, Charmer, step, or move,
My Soul's on Fire, and I am all o'er Love.
Thro' every Vein the subtile Poyson flies,
And dancing, leaps at my enlighten'd Eyes.
Thick on my Heart dashes my boiling Blood,
Wash'd like some Rock by the insulting Flood.
Yet not unmov'd; it trembles at each touch;
Mine's sure no Rock, your Heart is only such.
Believe, Amasia, could you know my Love,
Rock as it is, such Passion needs must move.
Could you but know to what excess I burn,
Soon would you pity him, whom now you scorn.
Whate'er the Female, rigid Pride foretels,
There must be softness, where such Beauty dwells.
O think again, think on the ills I bear,
And do not, do not drive me to despair;
Must all—must all be cruel, who are fair?
Beauty, like light'ning thus it's Pow'r maintains,
And less in Charming than in Terrour Reigns.
O that true Love should with disdain be paid!
O that my Passion should your sport be made!
Late, at your Father's Gates I saw you stand,
And Knock for Entrance with a gentle hand.
The conscious Gates (kind to my Pray'rs) were barr'd,
I saw—
And tho' at distance, fancy'd that I heard.
Long time you stood, tho' then I thought not so,
You enter'd—where I wretched, must not go.
Blessings so great your harsh decree denies,
Yet thou wert follow'd by thy Lover's Eyes.
Not they, ev'n they, could full Admittance gain,
The shutting Gates dash'd back my sight—
My Eyes attempted, like my self, in vain.
Dull, senseless Eyes, which could that object lose!
O Servant, harder than the Doors you close.
Secure, like Danae in your brazen hold,
Not Jove himself can enter, but in Gold.

To Amasia.

[As Men in desarts lost, with wand'rings rove]

As Men in desarts lost, with wand'rings rove,
Thro' ev'ry trackless thicket, every Grove,
So am I lost—
And so bewilder'd in the maze of Love.
To Men, and Gods, and Heav'n, distress'd they cry,
Nor Men, nor Gods, but Ecchoing Woods reply,
And threat'ning Thunder bursting from the Sky.
In vain the Hills their sad complaints restore,
Or worse than vain—
Redoubling back their Woes, they make them more.
In vain, forlorn, they strive themselves to shun,
Their griefs pursue them, wheresoe'er they run,
Like me despairing, and like me undone.
Off'ring their latest Pray'rs, to Heav'n they sue,
Kneel to unpitying Pow'rs, as I to you.
Unknowing where for kind relief to fly,
Accurst like me, like me resolve to die.
Cruel Amasia!—no, I wrong thee there,
For thou art good as Guardian Angels are.
Gentle in Nature, Affable, and Mild,
Courteously soft—
And Sweetly smiling, as a dreaming Child.
What is my fate? What Crimes must I atone?
What?—Tell me Heav'n! and Earth what have I done?
What have I done?—ne'er may the guilt remove;
I own, and boast my Crime, my Crime is Love.
Young tho' I am, I have a Manly Soul,
And full-grown Passions in my Bosom rowl.
Young tho' I am, if you continue cold,
Believe, Amasia, I shall soon grow old.
Already have I felt unsetled Fires,
Already past all Youthful, vain desires.
Whether by chance, or by misfortunes hurl'd,
Too well I know, and now despise the World.
From all it's loose, Fantastick Charms I flee,
Contemning all it's Beauties—all, but thee.
Like some Skill'd Traveller, o'ercast with Night,
Gay, shooting Meteors, and false Stars I slight,
But rise, and bow to the Sun's awful light.
Each Meaner Planet might Attract the Eye;
But Sol in view, all Constellations fly;
What Beauty's seen, and bright Amasia by?
You with peculiar force your Glances Arm,
Nor do they shine alone, but shine and warm:
Lovely in every thing! in all you Charm.
Why should I bring your Image to my veiw?
O would your Image could be very you.
But I unblest, am by all Bars deny'd,
Your Guardian Father, and your Guardian Pride.
Tho' Death it self from your disdain I meet,
I ask but this—
Let me receive it at Amasia's Feet.

To Amasia.

[What can I think; can nothing, nothing move?]

What can I think; can nothing, nothing move?
Is there no way, no means to gain your Love?
As Men in Vessels beaten by a Storm,
By Winds and Waves, and all that fear can form,
Look often back for the forsaken shore,
But that long lost, tho' loud the Billows roar,
Plow up amain the Seas, for passage o'er.
So wish I oft I had not told my pain,
Wish what I told cou'd be untold again,
All I declar'd, since it was all in vain.
Then strugling Passions in my Mind revolve,
Resolv'd to move thee, but in vain resolve.
In spight of Winds, in spight of Waves I'll on,
I can at worst, be, as I am, undone.
Roar on ye Bolts of Thunder from the Sky,
And at my Head broad Sheets of light'ning fly.
Burst, ye charg'd Clouds, hurl fast your Burthens down,
I rage with scorching Fires ye cannot drown,
Fall thick, and save me from Amasia's frown.
Your scorn alone my Breast with trembling moves,
He cannot, no, he cannot fear, who Loves.
Once with your presence blest—but once—kind Heav'n!
Thanks for that once, my humblest Thanks are giv'n.
With beating Heart, and melting Eyes I came,
Catch'd, at each step, and every Glance, new Flame,
Saw all the Charms that fancy rack'd can frame.
Slowly with mingled Love and awe approach'd,
Stood, and gaz'd on, but never, never touch'd.
Tortur'd at once with Pleasure, and with pain,
Smoth'ring my Sighs, for I had sigh'd in vain.
Fast to my Face flush'd up my Mantling Blood,
I stood—O would I had for ever stood.
Chang'd, as Romantick Lovers were of old,
I seem'd enchanted in some Charming hold,
The place show'd Paradise—
And you look'd form'd of an Angelick mould.
As Men in Pangs and Agonies of Death,
With Tremulous Lips Catch thick at parting breath;
So, but with greater pangs your Sylvius strove,
And scarce, ah! scarce could speak those Words—I Love.
Seated, at distance far, far off, with shame,
And down-cast looks I told you why I came.
My business known, you put resentment on,
And seem'd to bid me, with your looks, be gone.
I could not go, or I had then obey'd,
Tho' you, incens'd, oft murmur'd that I stay'd.
How could I go without one smile away?
Why did I move at all?—
Fool that I was, I did not ever stay!
O that those Minutes were so quickly past!
O that those Minutes could not Ages last!
Our pains remain—
But ah! our fleeting Pleasures fly too fast.

To Amasia.

[Think, think, Amasia, on the Wounds you gave]

Think, think, Amasia, on the Wounds you gave,
Think how your Eyes have made my Soul your Slave.
O let your Pride before your Beauty fly,
What will you gain, to see your Sylvius die;
Why am I slighted thus, Amasia, why?
For Adoration are our Temples made;
While there are Altars, vows will there be paid.
At Shrines the suppliant does with Off'rings move,
Heav'n claims our Duty, as you claim our Love.
No wonder then my Breast so soon was fir'd,
For you were only born to be admir'd.
The gazing World shall you the Charmer see,
Ador'd by all, but most belov'd by me.
Where, where deserv'd can you confer your Charms?
Into what happy Youth's successful Arms?
Lovely in all, with form, and Face divine,
With Form and Face Serenely Sweet as thine?
It cannot be—here all desert is Barr'd,
Heav'n cant be priz'd—
'Tis always giv'n, and giv'n as a reward.
Impious the Wretch who thinks thy Charms to buy,
If Mortal Man can purchase thee, 'tis I.
Nor Transient Gold, nor Titles ought to move,
Love only Merits you, immortal Love.
Free from all Servile int'rest do I sue,
I should have all the World, in having you.
Tho' my small Fortunes wreck'd, and lost I own,
I Court your self, but for your self alone.
What more can in Ambition's Circle fall?
Her self? Ye Pow'rs! Thy Charming self is all.
Let others Plow the fierce, Tempestuous main.
And visit Lands, far distant hence, for gain.
Let suppliant Souls for gilded honour bow;
Thou art my Treasure, all I wish for, thou.
Tho' now at partial Fortune I repine,
I should indeed be rich, if thou wert Mine.
O never mine—a thousand Bars deny;
Your Father—think, O think—
Your Father Loves you not so well as I.
When you, by him consenting, shall be led
To the false Joys of a gay Nuptial Bed,
May you abhor the Man, but for damn'd int'rest Wed.
Rather, kind Heav'n! (if such a thing can be)
May he be cold, indiff'rent, dull—yet doated on by thee.
Then may you say, when this curst State you prove,
Tho' Sylvius wanted Fortunes, he had Love.

To Amasia.

[Why did the Day its hateful dawn disclose?]

Why did the Day its hateful dawn disclose?
Why wak'd your Slave so soon, so soon arose?
Why did I wake to be your Slave again,
When in my sleep I did a Conquerour Reign?
Vain Shadow of a Conquest! all is vain!
To thy dear Arms, methought, I ravish'd flew,
And humbly yielding there, Triumphant grew;
Delusion all, all false—but very you.
With soft, submissive force I gain'd the Field,
And found the greatest Triumph there to yield.
To your Command my prostrate Soul I gave,
And was, when most your Conquerour, most your Slave.
O that each Thought could the like Vision Frame!
Sure I wak'd then, and now, 'tis now I Dream.
Methought, Amasia made a kind return,
Methought, soft smiles did all her Face adorn,
And she seem'd Lovely as the blushing Morn.
Young Love, Methought, dawn'd round your gentler Eyes,
You all o'er fondness, I all o'er surprize.
O let me dare my Blessings to relate,
O let me tell thee my transported State,
Extatick Joys beyond the Power of fate.
Not to the happiest Man unknowing Heav'n,
Can such unbounded Floods of flowing Sweets be given.
Free from all loose desires did Sylvius move,
Which real Passion, from it self can prove,
They only feel, who have not Souls to Love.
Low at your Feet, long did I humbly Kneel,
And in soft Sighs breath'd all the Pangs I feel.
Why should my Pains, my racking Tortures stay?
And why my Joys fleet with the Night away!
To smiling looks, methought, you chang'd your frown,
And from your Eyes cast soft Compassion down.
Then, happy then! (but Dreams have fancy'd Charms)
You kindly rais'd me up—
Rais'd me, all bliss to your endearing Arms.
Forgive, Amasia, what I here declare,
For Men may Dream of Heaven—
Ev'n in the deepest Anguish of despair.
Chast are my Thoughts, chast is my Sacred Flame,
Ev'n in deluding sleep, unknowing shame,
For who can Sin, that does of Angels dream?
Close to your Breast the trembling Lover flew,
Which, when awake, no Mortal dares to do.
Then,—ye Propitious Pow'rs! ye Thrones Divine!
Receive, you Cry'd—
Receive me, Sylvius, I am ever thine.
Who could, (and Live) those Heav'nly Accents hear?
O 'twas too much, too much for Man to bear.
Like the fam'd Roman in his Triumphs prest,
I fell—
And falling sunk into Eternal rest.
O would it were Eternal—would no more
I had awak'd, to feel my suff'rings o'er,
Suff'rings, from Pleasures past, far greater than before.
Seldom, ah! seldom do I find repose,
Yet when I do, ev'n thence my Anguish grows;
Ye gentle Slumbers of kind Death—
With your all binding Seals my Eyes for ever close.

To Amasia.

[Enough—'tis done, the fatal Work is done]

Enough—'tis done, the fatal Work is done,
Now, Cruel fair! you may disdain me on.
No further ills has he to fear, who feels
More Mortal Pains—
Than Wretches dash'd on Rocks, or broke on Wheels.
The flourishing Oak shakes, when the tempest blows;
The naked Tree does it's bare Trunk expose,
Nor bows, nor shakes, tho' the Winds fury grows.
Frown, gloomy Heaven! pour fast your Thunders down,
All that I can, I have already known;
Frown gloomy Heav'n, and fair Amasia, frown.
Let me the worst extreams of Rigour try,
Heap on me all at once, I can but die.
Who, who's that Wretch who can your Vengeance flee?
Or where's the Man who dares not die for thee?
Scorning, I laugh at those who boast their fall,
Slighting all Deaths, and yet afraid of all.
Why should I Perish; No, Amasia, no,
So tho' I fell, I could not gain you so;
Love is Romantick in the Shades below.
Death is a Thought should never sooth Despair,
For I can meet no kind Amasia there;
Where shall I find thee then, O tell me, where?
Thro' Seas, thro' Fires, o'er Mountains would I go,
O'er Mountains cover'd with Eternal Snow:
Thro' Salvage Wilds, thro' Dens and Forrests rove,
Thro' the whole Universe, to gain thy Love.
Tho' I disdain with flatt'ring Vows to Whine,
Hear me, yon starry roof, hear me, ye Pow'rs Divine!
There are no dangers under Heav'n—
I would not brave, to have Amasia mine.

To Amasia.

[Whence, whence your Charms; whence your engaging Pow'rs?]

Whence, whence your Charms; whence your engaging Pow'rs?
Why do I wish to be for ever yours?
Something peculiar in your form is seen,
And something strangely taking in your Mien.
Something there is, unknown, allures my Soul,
Does all my Thoughts, and all my sense controul,
Divine in every part, Angelick in the whole.
Now, your Seraphick shape I wond'ring, Praise,
Then, at each motion, every Gesture gaze,
But when your Face I view—
My sense lies Buried in a Thoughtless maze.
Others, to move, may their whole Beauties Arm,
But you with every smallest part can Charm,
Continue cold your self, yet all beholders warm.
Yet this alone ne'er cou'd such Passion move,
This could not make me, ev'n to madness, Love.
Curst be the hour, when I beheld you first,
Curst be the Day, thro' long, long Ages Curst.
Curst be the time, when I presum'd to sue,
And Court, with humblest Love, the proud, imperious you.
Then, then it was your Sense engag'd me more,
Than all that Beauty had display'd before.
Strange! that indulgent Heav'n all Charms should give;
Strange! that Minerva should in Venus live!
But, stranger yet! you Hate, for Love, return;
'Tis hard to know—
Whether your sense be greater or your scorn.

To Amasia.

[At last believe—as thou art fair, be good]

At last believe—as thou art fair, be good,
Believe I Love; you promis'd me you wou'd.
How can I proofs of my-Affection show?
O had I Crowns—
Empires and Worlds, far let those trifles go,
All would I slight, all I can think, for you.
Beyond thy Charms what can Ambition see;
Thou art an Empire, and a World to me.
While Eyes can look, and while thy Beauty blooms,
(And that will be, 'til the Pale Tyrant comes.)
While I have sense to speak, to live, and move,
While I despair, (which must be) while I Love.
While Seas shall roar, while Night and day shall last,
Till the great doom of all Mankind be past,
Still shall my Soul to dear Amasia bow;
And yet she fancies that I Love not now.
O Charming Maid! believe, at last believe,
'Tis all your Sylvius asks you now to give,
Believe that I shall Love you, while I live.
Sure, ev'n from Death my Passion must be free,
Sure, when my Body dies—
Yet the surviving part will think on thee.
What then must come, none, while alive, can prove,
But here, none truly live, who do not truly Love.
O you must needs be full convinc'd I do,
I have no int'rest in the World, but you.
Your self I Court—
And for your self alone, your self I wooe.

To Amasia.

[Could you believe my Flame, would that relieve?]

Could you believe my Flame, would that relieve?
You would but scorn the more, as you the more believe.
A real Passion but disdain Creates,
And Pride's a Monster that on Beauty waits.
Custom has taught all Virgins to be coy,
And feeds their Vanity, but starves their Joy.
O'er Sense, o'er Reason, and o'er Love it Rules,
Custom, the Guardian, and the guide of Fools,
Custom, which leads us out, and brings us in;
And yet, 'tis Custom chiefly makes Men Sin.
When we do ill, the weak pretence we show,
The Poor excuse, is, Custom taught us so,
And all the World must with the Fashion go.
If then, that Phantom must all Acts approve,
Know, that 'tis Customary too to Love.
Common to all as Death;—the Rural Swain
Sighs for the Nymph that Charm'd him on the plain
And sits, and Sings like me, like me, in vain.
Forsakes his Flocks, and seeks some cool Retreat,
Shunning the Sun's, and Love's more scorching heat,
Supine he lies—
Gazing on others Herds, and as he Sighs, they bleat.
The Soldier too, proud in his own Commands,
Receives the Signal from his Mistress Hands,
O'er him Triumphant still, where'er she goes,
At every Glance Alarm'd—
More than with Drums, and Trumpets from his foes.
From Noisy Nonsense Calm, entranc'd he lies,
And Swears not now,—but by his Charmer's Eyes.
The pleading Lawyers from the Bar remove,
And slight all suits, but the soft suit of Love.
An other's case, Loquacious, they make known,
Impertinently loud;—
But as their Clients, silent, in their own.
Love, by strange Pow'r, maintains his Conqu'ring Sway,
And we must, in our own despight, obey,
Speaking the least, who have the most to say.
Amasia, thus I prove my claim to you,
All Mankind Love—
But none of all, as I, unhappy, do.
There I transcend the Custom, bold, extravagantly new.
In other things—
Let all your Sex to their old Law refer,
Amasia is belov'd, Love should be Law to her.
Let others boast their Titles, or their Arts,
But only Hearts should have a right to Hearts.
And yet, I own you are not blindly led,
For Reason bids you shun the humble Bed;
Reason?—who ever Lov'd, that did with Reason Wed!

To Amasia.

[Tho' Sense prevailing Checks a kind return]

Tho' Sense prevailing Checks a kind return,
Tho' Sense, cold sense, permits you not to burn,
Yet Sense can never bid Amasia scorn.
By Fate's decree, Love rages in the Blood;
A Passion cannot be by force withstood,
For I would hate Amasia, if I cou'd.
Can I at once mention thy Name, and hate?
Love Choaks that Word, for Love to me is fate.
Resentment now does with soft Fondness Jar,
Reason and Love wage an Eternal War;
Love Fights—Love Conquers still—
And my own Heart is his Triumphant Car.
In vain I call my Senses to my aid,
In vain Rebel, he will be still obey'd,
For I am soon by ev'ry Sense betray'd.
Now, I resolve thy Beauties to despise,
And look—but look alas! with longing Eyes.
Each pointed Glance, with haughty Courage Arm'd,
Looses its Edge, and at thy sight grows Charm'd.
In all I yield, and strait, ye Pow'rs Divine!
My Heart, and Soul, as well as Eyes, are thine.
Whene'er I touch thee, I transported grow,
Whene'r I touch, which but in Thought I do,
More soft thou seem'st—
Than downy Swans, or than the Fleecy Snow.
Thy Fragrant Breath—
More smelling Sweet than richest Perfumes blows,
Than Scents of Violets, or the blooming Rose.
To catch new Sweets, oft flying Zephirs stay,
Around thy Lips, and with thy Tresses play,
Then pleas'd, with Whistlings fly—
And on their Wings bear the dear spoils away.
In thee all Odours keep their Lov'd aboad,
One sigh of yours would Charm, or make, a God.
From place to place, tastless of Food, I rove,
Loathing all else—my only food is Love.
Musick, be dumb—what Musick can I hear?
Amasia's Voice can only Charm my Ear,
All's discord else—there's only Musick there.
Thy Ayres, at once, Fann, while they raise the Fire,
Thy Words beyond all others Songs inspire,
Charming the Poet more than his Apollo's lyre.
Seraphick strains from every Accent spring,
Sing not Amasia—no—
For I should grow Immortal, should you sing.
Whene'er you speak, fond of the Charming sound,
With the Lov'd Voice the Hills, and Vales rebound,
Scarce, scarce at last by repetition drown'd.
O had the Vocal Nymph such strains restor'd,
Had Eccho's Voice been such, Narcissus had ador'd.
Ravish'd like me, he had Condemn'd his choice,
And had not Burn'd—
For the Reflection of a Face, but Voice.

To Amasia.

[Why am I charg'd to lay aside my claim?]

Why am I charg'd to lay aside my claim?
Why am I charg'd to stifle sacred Flame?
Let the dull Hind Plow up the Patient soil,
And duller Warriors in their Trenches toil.
To gainful Trades their Sons let Fathers bind,
And let the Sailor, go, pursue the Wind!
In their own Spheres let every Mortal move,
And let, (Amasia) let your Sylvius Love.
Bid the bright Sun be now no longer bright,
Bid the succeeding Stars withdraw their light.
O would thou couldst, then might my suff'rings end,
There's not one Star in Heav'n that shines my Friend.
Bid rowling Billows, cease to lash the shore,
Bid the insulting Tempest cease to roar,
Then bid me cease to Love, and to adore.
O Charming Maid! Bid thy own Beauties fade,
Till then, Mankind must Love thee, Charming Maid!
Why wert thou form'd of that Celestial Mould?
Gold's base to thee—O be not bought with Gold;
Beauty should only be for Passion sold.
Freely on me confer the Heav'nly store,
Freely—as Nature gave it thee before,
And Heav'n, by which 'twas form'd—
Will, pleas'd, (if possible) yet make it more.
Where should the Lovely fair her Charms confer?
Where? but to that fond Youth—
Who Burns, and Bleeds, and Sighs, and Dies for her?
Receive me, O receive me to thy Arms,
Or if thou still wilt scorn, withdraw thy Charms.
Let me some ease from Mortal suff'rings find,
O be not too, too Lovely, yet unkind;
But thou art Deaf to Pray'rs—
As raging Seas, or as the Storming Wind.
Oft, when alone, you Dance before my view,
And every thing I think of, turns to you.
Flee, Phantom Love,—or where shall Sylvius flee?
Why should I think—she never thinks of me,
The Cruel, Haughty, Proud, Imperious she.
O say, Amasia, whom all Charms adorn,
Can'st thou feel no Remorse, and wilt thou ever scorn!
Gods! 'tis too much to bear—it can't be born.
It must, alas!—how idly did I rave?
What Charm can succour me, what Pow'r can save?
Now I resolve by force thy House to Storm,
Again I rave—
But what, ye Gods! can't Men in Love perform?
Sometimes, on wiles I think, because I know
Acontius gain'd his fair Cydippe so;
Again resolve near your aboad to stay,
And snatch, and carry thee by force away,
Snatch, like the Bird of Jove, the Lovely prey.
The Thund'rer's Ensigns on his Wings he rears,
Love's light'ning's fiercer than the Flames he bears.
This 'midst a Thousand other Thoughts, comes on,
Orythia so was by Young Boreas won.
Then, as you pass along the Crowded Street,
I think—your Sylvius thinks, his fair to meet,
And fall a Victim, prostrate at her Feet.
Soon will a passage to my Heart be found,
The Sword but ent'ring where Love made the Wound.

To Amasia.

[O Cruel fair! at length, receive my Pray'r]

O Cruel fair! at length, receive my Pray'r,
At length, return my Passion, Cruel fair!
Think what it is to Love, and to Despair.
Whene'er I meet Acquaintance in the Town,
Thoughtful I pass, & look dejected down,
Scarce knowing Friends, and ev'n to Friends scarce known.
Strait, with concern they ask me what I Aile,
And Cry, why Pale, my Sylvius, why so Pale?
Silent I sighing stand, nor speak, nor move,
Soon, ah! too soon, from thence my griefs they prove,
And tell me laughing—Youth, Poor Youth! you Love.
Thinking on thee, Amasia, all the while,
Fond their ill-natur'd Pity to beguile,
Ev'n in Despair I force a racking smile.
With scornful Jests my Friends their Pity show;
Yes, proud Amasia too can pity so.
Almost in Tears, yet forc'd to smile again,
My Pain concealing, I encrease my Pain.
Love, Tyrant Love urges those sad Extreams,
Like Winter Suns, I smile with Watry Beams.
Vain are my weak Devices, and deceit,
They talk of business—and I name you strait.
Why Blush you now; why Pale again; they Cry;
Why?—you should Answer them, Amasia, why.
A Thoughtless Ignorance on Love attends,
Tell me the cause, that I may tell my Friends.
If this, fair Charmer! you refuse to do,
I'll lay it all, charge all my change on you.
Take then the Reason, Friends, Companions, take—
You see me Pale; 'tis for Amasia's sake.
To you (once Dear) and to the World I own,
I Love—I Love Amasia, her alone.

To Amasia.

[Could the true Lover all his ills declare]

Could the true Lover all his ills declare,
Make known his tedious suff'rings to his fair,
Sure, she would kindly listen to his Pray'r,
Sure, all his Woes would some Compassion move,
Sure, she would Pity, tho' she could not Love.
Hear, hear, Amasia, what I feel for you,
For by your self, by your Dear self, 'tis true,
I Love almost to madness—Gods! I do.
My Eyes no rest, my Soul no quiet knows,
Sylvius is tortur'd, whereso'er he goes,
No peaceful slumbers Crown me with repose.
All Day I rave of thee, and all the Night,
Ev'n in the gloom, I have thee in my sight,
Nor am I Cheer'd by the all-Cheering light.
Wing'd with my sighs, the Minutes slowly fly,
When every Mortal Creature sleeps—but I.
Why do you rack me thus, Dear Charmer! why?
Now wild Chimæra's in my fancy grow,
Now, now I think I see thy Beauties glow,
And strait my gushing Tears in Torrents flow.
Flow on, ye Streams, Flow; ye Tumultuous Streams,
Not all your deluges can quench my Flames.
Excuse each Blot, which to your view appears,
I stain the Paper less with Ink than Tears.
Strange force of Love, which can such wonders do!
Raising our Souls to make them lower bow.
Thus, while it Works me to the last excess,
Making me more than Man, it makes me less.
Each tedious moment of the Night I sigh,
As on my Bed, lodg'd like Despair, I lie,
No Creature there, no living Creature Nigh.
Plac'd near my Feet, a silent Taper stands,
But not like Hymen's, when he Joyns kind hands.
Like Death's Pale Torch, a glimm'ring light it yields,
Or like the Glow-worm Fires in Winter Fields.
Sometimes my fancy shows me Pale and dead,
And direful Furies yelling round my Head.
Again—(what ev'n would be in Death deny'd)
I see Amasia Mourning by my side,
And hear her sighing Cry,—I come, thy Bride.
Convinc'd at last, her Charms my Soul could move,
Convinc'd at last, that I did truly Love.
Sylvius, with thee, down to the Shades below,
With her own Sylvius shall Amasia go.
There, thy firm Love, thy Constancy, to Crown,
Thy Lov'd Amasia shall be thine alone.
Rais'd by this Thought, I strive to seize my fair,
But Oh! I find no dear Amasia there.
Your very Image flies—
And nought is left me real,—but Despair.
From side to side, guiltless of sleep I turn,
And now I Freeze, now, as in Feavers, burn.
Oft on thy Name, and oft on Heav'n I call,
And Kneel to every Pow'r, and Pray to all.
Then, hush'd by Weeping, as the Wind by Show'rs,
I speak in softest Murmurs only yours.
Amasia—Dear Amasia—then I sigh,
Amasia sleeps—and all things sleep—but I;
The Virgin sleeps, and will not hear my Cry.
O may the softest, Golden slumbers Crown,
Her Charming Eyes, and every trouble drown,
Since I am Curst, may I be so alone.
On me the worst, the heaviest Sorrows fall,
All may she scape, save her, kind Heav'n from all.

To Amasia.

[Whilst some vain Fops repuls'd, and oft deny'd]

Whilst some vain Fops repuls'd, and oft deny'd,
Turn Love to hatred, and soft Pray'rs to Pride;
I, when the most by your disdain despis'd,
Confess thy Charms are still Divinely priz'd.
He, whose Address the worst success can move,
That Wretch, that False, Mean Wretch could never Love.
Lovers like Beggars should kind Pray'rs bestow,
Whether their cravings are reliev'd or no.
But you, too harsh, will no Petitions meet,
And tho' you wont relieve—
Deny to let me Perish at your Feet.
O tho' you ne'er support me in my want,
Yet hear at least, that is not much to grant.
O 'tis too much—accurst by fate's decree,
The smallest favour is to great for me.
The ragged Wretch, deseas'd, who at your Door
Falls down, and Begs, Decrepid, Friendless, Poor,
At least you Pity, if you give no more.
This, every Day, almost each hour I view;
Who would not beg, so to be pity'd too?
But more for any Slave, than for your own, you do.
Europa thus on the Sydonian shore
Viewing a Bull, with Pleasure hear'd him roar,
Fed him with flow'rs, then, mounting on him, rode,
Till the transported Bull became a God.
More to relieve him so, the Virgin strove,
Than she had done, if she had known him Jove.
O to what form can I this being change,
Into what parts, and whither shall I range?
Strange Love! Strange Wish! Fantastick Notions Strange!
Vain my desires, all fond endeavours vain!
Alter'd from what I was—
I am your Slave, and must your Slave remain.
The humblest, real Love no change endures,
While I have any being, I am Yours.

To Amasia.

[Hark—how I sigh, mark the last dying Groan]

Hark—how I sigh, mark the last dying Groan,
Feel how my Heart beats thick—observe my Moan,
My Breath comes short, and now—
Now in that other sigh my Soul is gone.
Now, do I faint, yet oft, too oft revive;
(Happy the dead; none can be blest alive.
From Tortures freed, but to be kept in pain,
I am, like Sentenc'd Wretches, rack'd again.
See, how my changing Colour comes and goes,
See, how Amasia smiles, yet all my suff'rings knows
See, how my Tears my Sickly visage drown,
See, how they fall—
And drop by drop trace one another down.
Stream on, for there the Lovely Charmer stands,
Stream, till she dries you with her tender Hands.
False Tears! yet Kind, tho' False; O kind surprize!
My Tears afford me what my Sight denies;
My Tears present her Image to my Eyes.
To the true view Amasia ne'er appears,
And yet she kindly Dances in my Tears.
Kindly?—ah! no; such Mirth yields no relief,
She, Dancing, Triumphs in her Lover's grief.
Blindness by Weeping, I to sight prefer,
If only Weeping can present me her.
Since, but by loss of sight, her form I find,
To Weep, is seeing; all sight else is Blind.
Thus, the effect of grief, the grief destroys,
And thus my very sorrows yield me Joys.
In every drop Amasia I espy,
Amasia, always in my Tears, but never in my Eye.
Strange! that your Soul not the least softness bears!
Strange! that thou know'st not pity, yet art lodg'd in Tears!
Still as they flow, they bring thy Image on,
Thy Image is in every Torrent gone;
I think—
I see a thousand Charmers; seeing none.
By some Learn'd Sage I must instructed be,
If 'tis the fancy, or the Eyes that see.
Let me not boast oft so your form I view,
My Sorrows multiply, as fast as you.
Above all Gemms, I prize each flowing Tear,
There 'tis you shine, that's bright Amasia's Sphere,
Thou, the fair Orb art ever rowling there.
Thro' Waters thus enlighten'd fancy Spies,
What the clear Air to eager sight denies;
Thus the Sun's seen in Streams, tho' Clouded in the Skies.
Thus did the Flood to fond Narcissus shew
What no search else thro' the whole World could do.
When with each falling drop Amasia goes,
The next succeeding drop a new Amasia shows.
False Omen that!—I see all's Shadow now;
For thou thy self art fled—
How wilt thou come again? instruct me, how?
For thy true loss—
Think, Charmer, think how Pompous is my woe,
When thus I Weep to see thy Shaddow go?
Like Radiant Sol, from the Tumultuous Main,
From Tears you rise, and set in Tears again.
While thus thy form appears in watry Eyes,
From Floods I see a Second Venus rise.

To Amasia.

[See, how in Sorrows Drown'd I trembling stand]

See, how in Sorrows Drown'd I trembling stand,
See, how my Pen falls from my Feeble Hand.
Why, let it fall—I'll now embrace my Chain,
No more in Words, no more in Sighs complain,
And never, never write, despis'd, again.
To end my Woes, and Life, at once, I'll try,
Burst, burst my Heart—lost Wretch! run mad and die.
Tear first thy Eyes, there let thy rage begin,
Thy Eyes first drew the fatal mischief in,
For thou had'st never Lov'd, if thou had'st never seen.
Hurl, hurl the Bleeding Balls, and let them meet
Their abject Doom, spurn'd by Amasia's Feet.
What have they done? how does their Crime appear;
What could they do, but look, when she was near?
With sight Seal'd up, Men sleep, tho' Stars shine Bright,
But the Sun ris'n—
All Eyes are Open to receive the light.
O let me grow distracted with my Moan,
And roving in some desart land, unknown,
Lose my loath'd Life, and Senseless, stiffen into Stone.
Ev'n then the Marks of deepest Woes I'll bear,
And stand the very Statue of Despair;
A frightful Wildness in my look, and Terrour in my Air.
Strange! I should wish this desp'rate State to prove,
Strange! that no Charm your rigid Breast can move.
Strange! you despise—
The softest, dearest, and the tend'rest Love!
No Charm but Gold?—Oh! wilt thou then be sold?
Wilt thou Debase thy self to Servile Gold?
His Golden wish, when Midas came to die,
He Curst—and wisht him Poor, yes, Poor as I.

To Amasia.

[Too much, too much you Tyrannize, proud Maid!]

Too much, too much you Tyrannize, proud Maid!
More than you ought, you do my sense invade,
Whilst the Commands of Heaven are less than yours Obey'd.
Ev'n when I go to offer up my Pray'rs,
And beg the Gods to ease my Mortal cares,
My Heart is thine, my Words are only theirs.
Where am I safe from this thy Charming Skill,
Thy Eyes, thy Conquering Eyes can at the Altar Kill
In vain to Shrines for refuge I repair,
For I can find no kind Assylum there.
Where shall I fly to shun thee, tell me, where?
Like mine, Leander's Am'rous Passion came,
He saw—admir'd the Maid—
And as she Offer'd incense, Catch'd the Flame.
Like him, to Venus Fairest Maid, I sue,
And as you Pray to Heav'n, I Pray to you.
Your Fan, Love's ensign, painted Flow'rs displays;
Behind that Shrine the Lov'd Amasia Prays.
Hide not thy Face, no paint can be so Fair,
There Roses bloom, and every Sweet dwells there.
O I Conjure thee, by the Pow'rs above,
By those you Pray to, by the Pow'r of Love,
By all that's Dear and Sacred, by thy Charms,
Receive thy ravish'd Sylvius to thy Arms.
So, may thy Beauties have Eternal springs,
Love hov'ring o'er thee with Extatick Wings.
So shall thy Husband still thy Lover be,
And none shall ever Love and Live as we.
But if thy Pride bids thee low Fortunes shun,
May you at last to loath'd Embraces run,
And dully Marry with Consent—
Some Country Booby's awkward, senseless Son.

To Amasia.

[How far will Love his Conqu'ring Wings extend!]

How far will Love his Conqu'ring Wings extend!
O must my Mortal suff'rings never end?
They cannot, no; each sigh Love's flight sustains,
O'er my own Heart in my own Breast he Reigns,
And holds too strong, my strugling Soul in Chains.
Thy growing Beauties yield him fresh supplies,
His Darts are pointed by Amasia's Eyes.
Thy soft Commands are by this Cheif obey'd,
'Tis you, who teach Love warfare, Charming Maid!
And on his Standards is thy form display'd.
I yield, I yeild, thus Prostrate low, I fall,
Love's Goddess thou! thou Conquerour of my all!
You all my Thoughts, you all my Speech employ,
Thou giv'st me pain, and thou can'st give me Joy.
Whate'er you please to do, I pleas'd, approve,
Hate, where you hate, and where you fancy, Love.
Sun of my Days! and Phantom of my Nights!
Source of my Woes! and Spring of my Delights!
Fond of my Life, should you make kind returns,
Yet now I slight it, since Amasia scorns.
Just as you make me, either Curst or blest,
Form'd to your will, my Soul is rais'd, or prest,
And swells and falls, like thy own Charming Breast.
Ill with thy Breast do I my Soul compare,
Thy Breast—the Seat of all that's Sweet and fair,
Thy Breast—O Scene of Pleasures! ever blooming there.
Whilst in my Soul Despair her Court maintains,
And with deep Pomp in solid Darkness Reigns.
Thy Breast!—O never let me lose the Theam,
There, as entranc'd, let my lull'd fancy Dream.
O could I gently melt the Lovely Snow,
Thence, thence the Poet's Helicon would flow,
And I should need no other Muse than you.
If now with Frozen coldness you inspire,
O could you burn, how fierce would mount the Fire,
Flaming with Joy, and sparkling with desire.
To heights sublime would soaring fancy drive,
Amasia's Name should at the Stars arrive,
Amasia long, long Ages should her self survive.
No sad decay should to thy Beauties come,
As in thy Face, when mould'ring in the Tomb,
They should for ever in my Numbers bloom.
More lasting far than polish'd Marble made,
While Men could read, thy glories should not fade.
Thy Lovely Image thro' the World should go,
The World should thee it's greatest Charmer know,
Thy Charms, which seem Immortal, should be so.
Round thro' the Universe thy Fame should flee,
My Verse ador'd should live, by giving Life to thee.
Sound, Fame, thy Trumpet, to the Skies Proclaim,
Amasia lives, for ever lives in Fame.
Sound too her Sylvius lives; Love Life insures,
Known, while the Sun, the God of Verse endures,
Known for my Constant Love, Amasia, ever Yours.