University of Virginia Library

To Love.

O Love! how cold, and slow to take my part!
Thou idle Wanderer, about my Heart;
Why thy old faithfull Souldier wilt thou see
Opprest in my owne Tents? They Murder me:
Thy flames consume, thy Arrows pierce thy ffriends,
Rather on Foes, pursue more Noble ends.
Achilles Sword, wou'd generously bestow,
A cure as certaine, as it gave the blow.
Hunters, who follow flying Game, give o're
When the Prey's caught, hope still leads on before.
Wee thy owne Slaves, feele thy Tyrannick blows,
Whilst thy tame hand's unmov'd against thy Foes.
On Men disarm'd, how can you gallant prove?
And I was long agoe, disarm'd by Love.
Millions of dull Men live, and scornfull Maids,
Wee'll owne Love Valiant, when he these invades.
Rome, from each Corner of the wide World snatch'd,
A Lawrell; or't had beene to this day Thatch'd.
But the Old Souldier, has his resting place,
And the good batter'd Horse, is turn'd to Grasse.
The Harrast Whore, who liv'd a Wretch to please
Has leave to be a Bawd, and take her ease.
For me then, who have freely spent my blood
(Love) in thy service, and soe boldly stood
In Celias Trenches; wer't not wisely done,
Ee'n to retire, and live at peace at home?
Noe—might I gaine a Godhead, to disclaime,
My glorious Title, to my endlesse flame,
Divinity with Scorne, I wou'd forsweare,
Such sweete, deare tempting Devills, Women are.
When e're those flames grow faint, I quickly find,
A fierce black Storme, poure downe upon my Mind:
Headlong I'm hurl'd, like Horsmen who in vaine
Their (Fury-Foaming) Coursers, woud restraine.
As Shipps, just when the Harbour they attaine,
Are snatch'd by sudden Blasts, to Sea againe.
Soe Loves fantastick-Stormes, reduce my heart,
Half Rescu'd, and the God resumes his Dart.
Strike here, this undefended Bosome wound,
And for soe brave a Conquest, be Renown'd;
Shafts, fly soe fast to me from ev'ry part
You'll scarce discerne your Quiver, from my Heart.
What Wretch, can beare a livelong Nights dull rest?
Or thinke himself in lazy Slumbers blest?
Foole—is not Sleepe the Image of pale Death?
There's tyme for rest, when Fate has stopt your breath.
Mee, may my soft deludeing Deare deceive,
I'm happy in my hopes, whilst I believe:
Now let her flatter, then as fondly chide.
Often may I enjoy, of't be deny'd.
With doubtfull Stepps, the God of Warr, does move,
By thy Example, led Ambiguous Love;
Blowne to, and fro, like Downe from thy owne Wing,
Who knows, when joy, or Anguish thou wilt bring?
Yet at thy Mothers, and thy Slaves request,
Fix an Eternall Empire in my Breast:
And let th'Inconstant, Charming Sex
Whose willfull Scorne, does Lovers vex;
Submit their Hearts before thy Throne
The Vassall World, is then thy owne.