University of Virginia Library

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.