University of Virginia Library

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.