Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Say, Phæbe! say, did e'er thy Bosom prove
The soft Delights, and pleasing Pangs of Love?
Say, did thy tender Breast e'er feel a Pain,
Beyond whate'er thy cunning Sex can feign?
Does any Youth, of blooming Charms possess'd,
Thy yielding Thoughts engage, and break thy Rest?

104

Then tell me, Phæbe! prithee! tell me true,
And point the pretty Charmer out to View.

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you don't Confess, you do not Love.

When absent from your Sight one long long Day,
Does not your heaving Bosom chide his Stay?
Do not you wish to go where-e'er he goes,
And fondly share a Part in all he does?
Is not your Soul with Jealous Doubts oppress'd,
Lest some more happy Fair should gain his Breast?
Do not you long to clasp the lovely Boy,
Would Modesty dispense with such a Joy?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you are not Fond, you do not Love.

105

When your fond Eyes his sev'ral Beauties scan,
Do not you think him (more than Others can)
The most enchanting, dear bewitching Man—
The gracefulst Youth, you ever yet have seen,
Like Jove his Grandeur and like Mars his Mien?
Do not you think some secret Charm attends
Whate'er he does, and all his Actions mends?
When in the Dance the comely Youth appears,
Does Musick then so sweetly sooth your Ears?
Does not his Presence set your Soul on Fire?
Do not your Eyes his ev'ry Grace admire?
The Step, the nimble Trip, genteel Advance,
And all the Measures of the well-tim'd Dance?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you don't Admire, you do not Love.

When unawares the Charmer steals a Kiss,
Do not you chide him for the ravish'd Bliss,
Call him Rude Thing, yet—think it not amiss?

106

Whene'er he toying calls you Pretty Lass,
And throws you wantonly upon the Grass,
Do not you vow you'll see his Face no more,
Yet softly say—“he knows my Meaning sure?
For Threats, when in the Female Sex display'd,
Are certain Tokens of a Willing Maid.

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you ben't in Jest, you do not Love.

Do not you make it your Peculiar Care,
To mend your Charms, and make you still more fair?
To raise your Beauty to a sweet Surprise,
Still to appear more Charming in his Eyes?
Do not you oft' correct each alter'd Grace,
And think, this Patch becomes just such a Place,
Then vow—it can't be better stuck in all the Face?
Do not you try your Gestures at your Glass,
Trip nimbly back, come forward, pass, repass,
Then solemnly protest—you are a handsome Lass?

107

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you are not Proud, you do not Love.

When Night's dark Shades the drowsy World invest,
Don't pleasing Visions fill your yielding Breast?
Don't the Dear Youth present himself in Dreams,
Whilst All, like Life, a real Action seems?
Don't you then give a Loose to all those Joys,
Which, when awake, your Modesty destroys?
Do not you think you clasp his heav'nly Charms,
Whilst glowing Beauty all your Bosom warms,
Then, waking, find alas! the Pillow in your Arms?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
If you don't dream of Him, you do not Love.

Whene'er to other Nymphs he deals a Kiss,
But passes you, don't you take that amiss?

108

(For oft' our Sex, unwilling to declare
Their Love in publick, baulk their Bosom-Fair.)
Whene'er he plays another Ladies Fan,
Tips an arch Wink, or trifles with her Hand,
Does not strong Jealousy exert it's Force,
And don't you wish, he mayn't do Somewhat Worse?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you're Jealous, 'tis a Sign you Love.

When drooping Griefs his pensive Soul oppress,
Do drooping Griefs torment your Bosom less?
When, wrapt in Thought, he seems cast down with Care,
Don't your sad Thoughts an equal Burden share?
But when gay Pleasure fills his sprightly Mind,
Does not your Heart the self-same-Pleasure find?
Does not your Breast observe a Kindred-Part,
And act in Concert with the Charmer's Heart?

109

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you Sympathize, you truely Love.

When on the Bed of Sickness he is laid,
Do not you wish to lend a friendly Aid?
Do not you Pity, when his Soul complains,
And sigh, and long to bear his raging Pains?
Do not you wish to lull the Boy to rest,
On the soft Pillow of your downy Breast?
But—hard you think it is, that you must bend
To Custom and your Sex, nor be his Friend,
But must denie that Aid, which Nature bids you lend.

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For Pity ever was the Child of Love.

Say, Phæbe! say, are these fond Queries true?
Are all these Symptoms to be found in You?

110

Sincere now tell me, has thy tender Breast
These glowing Signs of artless Love confess'd?
If then 'tis so, e'en name the happy Boy,
Nor let vain Doubts the genial Hour destroy:
For if your Thoughts a real Passion prove,
Believe me, Phæbe! 'tis no Crime to Love.

These 2 Lines are taken from Mr. Amhurst's Test of Love.