Poems upon Various Occasions Written for the Entertainment of the author, And Printed for the Amusement Of a few friends, Prejudic'd in his Favour [by William Shenstone] |
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The Enchantress.
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 | Poems upon Various Occasions |  |
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The Enchantress.
Anacreontick.
Cupid, on a Summer's Day,
On the flow'ry Herbage lay;
Underneath the myrtle Shade,
Musing on the am'rous Trade.
Round him, in Disorder strewn,
All his warlike Stores were thrown:
Little Spears, and subtle Darts,
Such as pierce the softest Hearts.
Such to grace their Piece or Strain
Painters draw or Poets feign.
On the flow'ry Herbage lay;
Underneath the myrtle Shade,
Musing on the am'rous Trade.
Round him, in Disorder strewn,
All his warlike Stores were thrown:
Little Spears, and subtle Darts,
Such as pierce the softest Hearts.
Such to grace their Piece or Strain
Painters draw or Poets feign.
Hail, he cry'd, my fav'rite Seats!
Pleasing Glooms! and soft Retreats!
Deck'd with all that's sweet or fair!
Pleasures, which I seldom share!
Other Deities are blest,
They have each their time of Rest;
But the time I never knew,
When I had not—What to do.
From this End o'th World to t'other,
Mamma bids me make a Pother;
Or She reaches down the Rod,
Cause I am but tiny God—
Pleasing Glooms! and soft Retreats!
Deck'd with all that's sweet or fair!
Pleasures, which I seldom share!
Other Deities are blest,
They have each their time of Rest;
But the time I never knew,
When I had not—What to do.
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Mamma bids me make a Pother;
Or She reaches down the Rod,
Cause I am but tiny God—
From these Cares to set me free,
I'll create a Deputy.
I'll create a Deputy.
In fair Albion Isle renown'd,
Is a certain Lady found,
Furnish'd well with ev'ry Grace,
That adrons my Mother's Face.
Then her Eyes! no Rivals know:
None—but what her Glass can shew.
They supply the distant Sun,
Have more Hearts, than I, undone.
Phœbus ne'er approaches nigh,
Since She can his Pow'r supply;
Phœbus will not; why shou'd I?
Yet to make her Pow'r divine,
And the more resemble mine,
I'll a share of Darts consign.
She their Business understands,
She shall take it of my Hands—
Is a certain Lady found,
Furnish'd well with ev'ry Grace,
That adrons my Mother's Face.
Then her Eyes! no Rivals know:
None—but what her Glass can shew.
They supply the distant Sun,
Have more Hearts, than I, undone.
Phœbus ne'er approaches nigh,
Since She can his Pow'r supply;
Phœbus will not; why shou'd I?
Yet to make her Pow'r divine,
And the more resemble mine,
I'll a share of Darts consign.
She their Business understands,
She shall take it of my Hands—
Full of's Errand up he rose,
In a Trice to Silvia goes.
Quick his Pinions beat on high,
As the Lark's that scales the Sky,
As my Heart, when Silvia's nigh.
Thus, assur'd he must prevail,
(Pow'r's a Gift that ne'er can fail)
Thrice he raps—then tells his Tale.
In a Trice to Silvia goes.
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As the Lark's that scales the Sky,
As my Heart, when Silvia's nigh.
Thus, assur'd he must prevail,
(Pow'r's a Gift that ne'er can fail)
Thrice he raps—then tells his Tale.
Here my Muse must change the strain,
Female Fury to explain,
Terms abrupt, and broken Lays
Best will suit the Scolding Phrase.
—Pray, Sir Cupid, let me know,
Can I wield your filthy Bow?
Can I—O ye odious Boy!
Your rough Implements employ?—
I'm no Amazon, nor can
Act the Wonders—of a Man—
Go—fantastick Witling—pray go—
Whence you came—I'm no Virago—
These, he cry'd (with Aspect sour,)
Keep, in ev'ry Shape, their Pow'r.
So you wo'nt the Gift refuse,
Be they—e'en whate'er you chuse.
The Points may form ye—Jove knows what—
The Points are Gold—fair Maid—mind that.
Speak the word, the wanton cries,
Hence a Snuff-box shall arise:
Then the Feather, plac'd with Care,
May Demolish—from your Hair:
And the Sticks—while Ten is counting—
Form ye Fan-sticks—fit for mounting.
Female Fury to explain,
Terms abrupt, and broken Lays
Best will suit the Scolding Phrase.
—Pray, Sir Cupid, let me know,
Can I wield your filthy Bow?
Can I—O ye odious Boy!
Your rough Implements employ?—
I'm no Amazon, nor can
Act the Wonders—of a Man—
Go—fantastick Witling—pray go—
Whence you came—I'm no Virago—
These, he cry'd (with Aspect sour,)
Keep, in ev'ry Shape, their Pow'r.
So you wo'nt the Gift refuse,
Be they—e'en whate'er you chuse.
The Points may form ye—Jove knows what—
The Points are Gold—fair Maid—mind that.
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Hence a Snuff-box shall arise:
Then the Feather, plac'd with Care,
May Demolish—from your Hair:
And the Sticks—while Ten is counting—
Form ye Fan-sticks—fit for mounting.
Not Mamma—I needs must tell ye—
Can in guiding these, excell ye;
Which conducted by your Art,
Shall a surer Fate Impart,
Than they cou'd, whence once a Dart—
Agreed! 'twas done—ye Beaus beware
Of whate'er surrounds the Fair!
Who knows what, to please the Dame,
Cupid's other Darts became?—
'Tis a Hazard, I aver,
To receive a Pin of Her.
Can in guiding these, excell ye;
Which conducted by your Art,
Shall a surer Fate Impart,
Than they cou'd, whence once a Dart—
Agreed! 'twas done—ye Beaus beware
Of whate'er surrounds the Fair!
Who knows what, to please the Dame,
Cupid's other Darts became?—
'Tis a Hazard, I aver,
To receive a Pin of Her.
| Poems upon Various Occasions | |