The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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The Beauties, to Armida.
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
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The Beauties, to Armida.
Easie to Love, much easier to Change,Uncircumscrib'd my wanton Passions range.
With sure Success each fair Enchanter sets,
Toils for my Heart, and spreads her blooming Nets;
The faithless Wantan soon a Freedom gains,
And from another feels repeated Chains.
To every Saint I most devoutly fall,
My superstitious Love adores them all;
I swear by Love, and by the Pain he brings,
My Soul's inconstant as the Wanton's Wings,
No lovely Maid cou'd ever fix my Mind,
Or all my Heart in Love's soft Circles bind;
Too partial Fate, to frame my Soul for Joys,
Which my uncertain Temper soon destroys:
Whilst for each Fair, successively I burn,
My Roving Heart meets no sincere Return.
Come then, Great God of Love, and take my Part,
And fix for ever my inconstant Heart;
Why will you see your faithful Slave abus'd,
The pleasing Pain of loving long, refus'd?
Why must I make my solemn Vows in vain?
I, who your Empire did so well maintain?
I, who so far did Loves soft Power extend,
And made the Chaste before your Altars bend?
Hear but this once with a propitious Ear,
And by yourself and Venus Eyes, I swear,
A Thousand Offerings each returning Day
My grateful Heart shall most devoutly pay;
Hear me, Great God, and grant my last Request,
Since no Terrestrial Maid can charm my Breast;
Make one on purpose, and from every Fair,
Some Beauty snatch, to make the Charmer rare:
There to begin, whence Love himself does rise,
Let her have Sylvia's kind engaging Eyes,
In which dear Circles all Incentives move,
To cause, confirm, and entertain my Love.
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And as he wounds, about her Eye-balls plays.
Sometimes how soft and charming they appear!
Sometimes Tyrannick, with a Look severe,
They drive the worthiest Lover to Despair.
Wisdom and Sense in vain her Victims aid,
To break her Chains, too strong her Eyes persuade.
Armida's Neck with grateful Motion turn,
Where purple Streams in winding Channels run;
Next Place, Serena's white enchanting Breast,
On which imperial Jove himself might rest;
To meet the Touch, those lovely Hills arise,
And every Motion does our Sense surprize;
But oh! two snowy Mounts so near her Heart,
Still keep it cold, and quench Love's hottest Dart;
Between those Hills, a Milky Way there leads,
Not to the Skies, or the Elizian-Meads,
But here's a Path to greater Pleasures shown,
For which the Gods have oft forsook their own.
Happy's the Man enters this sacred Grove,
And treads the Mazes of Mysterious Love.
And next, great Love, below this charming Breast,
Lesbia's engaging Belly must be plac'd,
A Cupulo to thy most awful Shrine,
Whence comes your Pow'r, which Mortals make Divine.
This is the truest Heliconian Spring,
By which inspired Bards first learnt to sing;
Venus her Charms, Phœbus his Silver Bow,
Jove does his Thunder to the Poets owe.
The Gods themselves by their Assistance live,
Eternal Fame their deathless Pages give.
If more Perfections you expect below,
Her Legs and Feet must bright Almeria show.
Gods! How she takes me with a vast Surprize!
Oh Love, how charming is thy Paradise!
Next, over all, must Phryne's Skin be drawn,
Lucid and clear as the first Orient Dawn,
Thro' which most lovely and unfaithful Screen,
The various Passions of the Soul are seen;
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By Fear, Disdain, or softer Love possest.
To Laura's Waste, let Lydia's Air invite,
A dear Temptation to that strait Delight:
From her Apelles might his Pattern take,
From her alone a brighter Venus make.
Let her, like Cloe, tread an even Pace,
And print in every Step she takes, a Grace;
May she in Measure, like Clarinda move,
And sing as charming as the Saints above.
Let Laura's Air in every Act appear,
Raising Desire, and yet commanding Fear.
And next, great God, that she may nothing want,
Of all that I can ask, or you can grant,
Let her, Oh let her like dear Claria Kiss
Like her transport me with surprizing Bliss.
Help me ye Powers of Love, I faint, I die,
The Thought screws Nature to a pitch too high,
Scarcely my Breast my fleeting Soul retains,
And Gusts of Pleasure hurry thro' my Veins.
One touch of hers—
More Bliss contains than pamper'd Prelates prove
In snacht Embraces of forbidden Love.
To my last Prayer, propitious Love be kind,
And make the Fair bewitching in her Mind,
Good Sense and Wit in the same Person joyn'd,
Seldom our strictest Inquisitions find;
Unite two Stocks to form the witty She,
Dorinda's Sense, and Flavia's Repartee.
The wanton God smil'd on his humble Slave,
As when Adonis he his Mother gave;
When strait Heaven's Gates by Love's supream Command,
Were open set; for what can Love withstand?
Soft breezing Zephyrs bring the Virgin down,
A Gift Divine that must my Passion crown;
I threw myself devoutly at her Feet,
Where all Perfections, all the Graces meet,
But by the God commanded to arise,
I saw Armida, to my vast Surprize;
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The Queen of Love was scarce herself so fair.
With eager Arms I clasp'd the lovely Maid,
My humble Thanks to mighty Love I paid,
And as I wanted nothing else, for nothing pray'd.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |