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TO THE Earl of Melford, &c. KNIGHT Of the most Noble Order OF THE THISTLE.

To Mrs. B. on her Poems.

Hail, Beauteous Prophetess, in whom alone,
Of all your sex Heav'ns master-piece is shewn.
For wondrous skill it argues, wondrous care,
Where two such Stars in firm conjunction are.
A Brain so Glorious, and a Face so fair.
Two Goddesses in your composure joyn'd.
Nothing but Goddess cou'd, you're so refin'd,
Bright Venus Body gave, Minerva Mind.
How soft and fine your manly numbers flow,
Soft as your Lips, and smooth as is your brow.
Gentle as Air, bright as the Noon days Sky,
Clear as your skin, and charming as your Eye.
No craggy Precipice the Prospect spoyles,
The Eye no tedious barren plain beguiles

But, like Thessalian Feilds your Volumes are,
Rapture and charms o're all the soyl appear,
Astrea and her verse are Tempe every where.
Ah, more than Woman! more than man she is,
As Phæbus bright; she's too, as Phæbus wise.
The Muses to our sex perverse and coy
Astrea do's familiarly enjoy.
She do's their veiled Glorys understand,
And what we court with pain, with ease command.
Their charming secrets they expanded lay,
Reserv'd to us, to her they all display.
Upon her Pen await those learned Nine.
She ne're but like the Phosph'rus draws a line,
As soon as toucht her subjects clearly shine.
The femal Laurels were obscur'd till now,
And they deserv'd the Shades in which they grew:
But Daphne at your call return's her flight,
Looks boldly up and dares the God of light.

If we Orinda to your works compare,
They uncouth, like her countrys soyle, appear,
Mean as its Pesants, as its Mountains bare,
Sappho tasts strongly of the sex, is weak and poor
At second hand she russet Laurels wore,
Yours are your own, a rich and verdant store.
If Loves the Theme, you outdo Ovids Art,
Loves God himself can't subtiller skill impart.
Softer than's plumes, more piercing than his Dart.
If Pastoral be her Song, she glads the Swains
With Livelier notes, with spritelier smiles the plains.
More gayly than the Springs she decks the Bowrs
And breaths a second May to Fields and Flowrs.
If e're the golden Age again return
And flash in shining Beames from's Iron Urn,
That Age not as it was before shall be,
But as th'Idea is refin'd by thee.
That seems the common; thines the Elixir, Gold,
So pure is thine, and so allay'd the old.

Happy, ye Bards, by fair Astrea prais'd,
If you'r alive, to brighter life you're rais'd;
For cherisht by her Beames you'l loft yer grow,
You must your former learned selves outdo,
Thô you'd the parts of Thirsis and of Strephon too.
Hail, mighty Prophetess! by whom we see
Omnipotence almost in Poetry:
Your flame can give to Graves Promethean fire,
And Greenhills clay with living paint inspire;
For like some Mystick wand with awful Eyes
You wave your Pen, and lo the dead Arise.



OR, THE Lover in Fashion, &c.


[A Constancy in Love I'll prise]

A Constancy in Love I'll prise,
And be to Beauty true:
And doat on all the lovely Eyes,
That are but fair and new.
On Cloris Charms to day I'll feed,
To morrow Daphne move;
For bright Lucinda next I'll bleed,
And still be true to Love.


But Glory only and Renown
My serious hours shall charm;
My Nobler Minutes those shall Crown,
My looser hours, my Flame.
All the Fatigues of Love I'll hate,
And Phillis's new Charms
That hopeless Fire shall dissipate,
My Heart for Cloe warms.
The easie Nymph I once enjoy'd
Neglected now shall pass,
Possession, that has Love destroy'd
Shall make me pitiless.
In vain she now attracts and mourns,
Her moving Power is gone,
Too late (when once enjoy'd,) she burns,
And yeilding, is undone.
My Friend, the little charming Boy
Conforms to my desires,


And 'tis but to augment my Joy
He pains me with his Fires;
All that's in happy Love I'll tast,
And rifle all his store,
And for one Joy, that will not last,
He brings a thousand more.

[A thousand Martyrs I have made]

A thousand Martyrs I have made,
All sacrific'd to my desire:
A thousand Beauties have betray'd,
That languish in resistless Fire.
The untam'd Heart to hand I brought,
And fixt the wild and wandring Thought.


I never vow'd nor sigh'd in vain
But both, thô false, were well receiv'd.
The Fair are pleas'd to give us pain,
And what they wish is soon believ'd.
And thô I talk'd of Wounds and Smart,
Loves Pleasures only toucht my Heart.
Alone the Glory and the Spoil
I always Laughing bore away;
The Triumphs, without Pain or Toil,
Without the Hell, the Heav'n of Joy.
And while I thus at random rove
Despise the Fools that whine for Love.


[Poor Lycidus for shame arise]

Poor Lycidus for shame arise,
And wipe Loves Errors from thy Eyes;
Shake off the God that holds thy Heart;
Since Silvia for another burns,
And all thy past Indurement scorns
While thou the Cully art.


[Ah, cruel Love! when will thy Torments cease?]

Ah, cruel Love! when will thy Torments cease?
And when shall I have leave to dye in Peace?
And why, too charming and too cruel Maid,
Cou'd'st thou not yet thy fleeting Heart have stay'd?
And by degrees thy fickle Humor shewn,
By turns the Enemy and Friend put on:
Have us'd my Heart a little to thy scorn,
The loss at least might have been easier born.


With feigned Vows, (that poor Expence of Breath,)
Alas thou might'st have sooth'd me to my death.
Thy Coldness, and thy visible decays
In time had put a period to my days.
And lay'd me quietly into my Tomb,
Before thy proof of Perjuries had come.
You might have waited yet a little space
And sav'd mine, and thy, Honour this disgrace;
Alas I languish'd and declin'd apace.
I lov'd my Life too eagerly away
To have disturb'd thee with too long a stay.
Ah! cou'd you not my dying Heart have fed
With some small Cordial Food, till I was dead?
Then uncontroul'd, and unreproach'd your Charms
Might have been render'd to my Rival's Arms.
Then all my right to him you might impart,
And Triumph'd o're a true and broken Heart.


['Twas there, I saw my Rival take]

'Twas there, I saw my Rival take
Pleasures, he knew how to make;
There he took, and there was given,
All the Joys that Rival Heaven;
Kneeling at her Feet he lay,
And in transports dy'd away:
Where the faithless suffer'd too
All the amorous Youth cou'd do.
The Ardour of his fierce desire
Set his Face and Eyes on fire.
All their Language was the Blisses
Of Ten thousand eager Kisses.
While his ravish'd Neck she twin'd
And to his Kisses, Kisses join'd.
Till, both inflam'd, she yeilded so
She suffer'd all the Youth cou'd do.


[Why shou'd that faithless wanton give]

Why shou'd that faithless wanton give
Thy Heart so mortal pain,
Whose Sighs were only to deceive,
Her Oaths all false and vain?
Despise those Tears thou shedd'st for her,
Disdain to sigh her Name.
To Love, thy Liberty prefer;
To faithless Silvia, Fame.


[Farewel, my little charming Boy!]

Farewel, my little charming Boy!
Farewel, my fond delight,
My dear Instructer all the day,
My soft repose at night.
Thou, whom my Soul has so carest,
And my poor Heart has held so fast,
Thou never left me in my pain,
Nor in my happier hours;
Thou eas'd me when I did complain,
And dry'd my falling showrs.
When Silvia frown'd still thou woud'st smile,
And all my Cares and Griefs beguile.
But Silvia's gone, and I have torn
Her Witchcrafts from my Heart;
And nobly fortify'd by scorn
Her Empire will subvert;
Thy Laws establish'd there destroy,
And bid adieu to the dear charming Boy.


[That Coxcomb can ne're be at ease]

That Coxcomb can ne're be at ease,
While Beauty inslaves his Soul.
'Tis Liberty only can please,
And he that's Fetter'd is an Owl.


[Not to sigh and to be tender]

Not to sigh and to be tender,
Not to talk and prattle Love,
Is a Life no good can render,
And insipidly does move:
Unconcern do's Life destroy,
Which, without Love, can know no Joy.
Life, without adoring Beauty,
Will be useless all the day;
Love's a part of Human Duty,
And 'tis Pleasure to obey.
In vain the Gods did Life bestow,
Where kinder Love has nought to do.
What is Life, but soft desires,
And that Soul, that is not made
To entertain what Love inspires,
Oh thou dull immortal Shade?


Thou'dst better part with Flesh and Blood,
Than be, where Life's not understood.


[Let Love no more your Heart inspire]

Let Love no more your Heart inspire,
Thô Beauty every hour you see;
Pass no farther than desire,
If you'll truly happy be.
Every day fresh Objects view,
And for all have Complisance.
Search all places still for new,
And to all make some Advance;
For where Wit and Youth agree,
There's no Life like Gallantry.
Laura's Heart you may receive,
And to morrow Julia's prise:
Take what young Diana gives,
Pity Lucia when she dies:


Portia's Face you must admire,
And to Clorin's Shape submit.
Phillis Dancing gives you Fire,
Celia's Softness, Clara's Wit.
Thus all at once you may persue,
'Tis too little to Love two.
The powerful smiling God of Hearts
So much tenderness imparts,
You must upon his Altars lay
A thousand Offerings every day:
And so soft is kind desire;
Oh! so Charming is the Fire,
That if nice Adraste scorns,
Gentler Ariadne burns.
Still Another keep in play
(If One refuse,) to give you Joy.
Cease therefore to disturb your Hours,
For having two desires
A Heart can manage two Amours.
And burn with several Fires,


The day has hours enough in store
To visit two or half a score.

[The God of Love beholding every day]

The God of Love beholding every day
Slaves from his Empire to depart away;
(For Hearts that have been once with Love fatigu'd,
A second time are ne'r again intrigu'd:
No second Beauty e'r can move
The Soul to that degree of Love.)
This City built, that we might still obey,
Thô we refus'd his Arbitrary Sway:
'Tis here we find a grateful Recompence
For all Loves former Violence;
Tir'd with his Laws we hither come
To meet a kinder softer doom.


'Tis here the God, without the Tyrant, Reigns,
And Laws agreeable ordains;
Here 'tis with Reason and with Wit he Rules,
And whining Passion Ridicules.
No check or bound to Nature gives,
But kind desire rewarded thrives.
Peevish uneasy Pride, the God
Has banish'd from the blest abode:
All Jealousies, all Quarrels cease,
And here Love lives in perfect Peace.


[Cease to defend your Amorous Heart]

Cease to defend your Amorous Heart,
Against a double flame;
Where two may claim an equal Part
Without reproach or shame.


'Tis Love that makes Life's happiness,
And he that best wou'd live
By Love alone must Life caress,
And all his Darts receive.


[When you Love, or speak of it]

When you Love, or speak of it,
Make no serious matter on't,
'Twill make but subject for her wit
And gain her scorn in lieu of Grant.
Sneeking, whining, dull Grimasses
Pale the Appetite, they'd move;
Only Boys and formal Asses
Thus are Ridicul'd by Love.
While you make a Mystery
Of your Love and awful flame;
Young and tender Hearts will fly,
Frighted at the very name;
Always brisk and gayly court
Make Love your pleasure not your pain,
'Tis by wanton play and sport
Heedless Virgins you will gain.


[When to the charming Bellinda I came]

When to the charming Bellinda I came,
With my heart full of Love and desire,
To gain my wisht end I talkt of a flame,
Of sighing, and dying, and fire,
I swore to her charms that my soul did submit,
And the slave was undone by the force of her Wit.
To fair Bellimante the same tale I told,
And I vow'd and I swore her fair Eyes
No Heart-Ravisht mortal cou'd ever behold
But he panting and languishing Dys,


And while I was vowing, the ardor of youth
Made myself even believe what I swore was all truth.


[Why, fair Maid, are you uneasy]

Why, fair Maid, are you uneasy,
When a slave designs to please you;
When he at your feet is lying
Sighing, languishing, and dying?
Why do you preserve your charms
Only for offensive Armes?
What the Lover wou'd possess
You maintain but to oppress.
Cease, fair Maid, your cruel sway,
And let your Lover dy a nobler way.


[Oh! what Pleasure 'tis to find]

Oh! what Pleasure 'tis to find
A coy heart melt by slow degrees;
When to yeilding tis inclin'd,
Yet her fear a ruin sees.
When her tears do kindly flow,
And her sighs do come and goe.
Oh! how charming tis, to meet
Soft resistance from the fair;
When her pride and wishes meet
And by turns increase her care.
Oh! how charming 'tis to know,
She wou'd yeild but can't tell how,


Oh! how pretty is her scorn
When confus'd 'twixt Love and Shame,
Still refusing (though she burn,)
The soft pressures of my Flame.
Her Pride in her denyal lies,
And mine is in my Victories.


[He that wou'd precious time improve]

He that wou'd precious time improve,
And husband well his hours,
Let him complain and dye for Love,
And spare no Sighs or Showers.
To second which, let Vows and Oaths
Be ready at your will,
And fittest times and seasons chuse,
To shew your cozening skill.


[Cease, cease, that vain and useless scorn]

Cease, cease, that vain and useless scorn,
Or save it for the Slaves that dye;
I in your Flames no longer burn,
No more the whining Fool you fly;
But all your Cruelty defie.
My Heart your Empire now disdains,
And Frown, or Smile, all's one to me:
The Slave has broke his Servial Chains,
And spight of all your Pride is free
From the Tyrannick Slavery.
Be kind or cruel every day,
Your Eyes may wear what dress they please,
'Twill not affect me either way,
How my fond Heart has found its Peace,
And all my Tears and Sighings cease.
I must confess you're wondrous fair,
And know, to conquer such a Heart;
Is worth an Age of sad despair,
If Lovers Merits were Desert:


But you're unjust as well as fair,
And Love subsists not with despair,
No more than Lovers by the Air.
I've spar'd no Sighs nor Floods of Tears,
Nor any thing to move your Mind,
With sacred Vows I fed your Cares;
But found your rebel Heart unkind,
And Vanity had made you blind.
No more my Knees shall bow before
Those unconcern'd and haughty Eyes,
Nor be so sensless to adore
That Saint, that all my Prayers despise:
No, I contemn your Cruelty
Since in a Humor not to dye.


[A Lovers Rage and Jealousie]

A Lovers Rage and Jealousie
One short moment do's confess:
How can they long angry be
Whose Hearts are full of tenderness?


[Oh! how soft it is to see]

Oh! how soft it is to see
The fair one we believe untrue,
Eagar and impatient be
To be reconcil'd a new;
When their little cheats of Love
Shall with reasons be excus'd,
Oh! how soft it is to prove,
With what ease we are abus'd!
When we come to understand
How unjust are all our fears;
And to feel the lovely hand
Wiping from our Eyes the tears.
And a thousand Favors pay
For every drop they kiss away,
Oh! how soft it is to yeild,
To the maid just reconcil'd.


[Thô my Heart were full of Passion]

Thô my Heart were full of Passion,
And I found the yeilding Maid
Give a loose to inclination
While her Love her Flame betray'd;
Yet thô all she did impart,
Pain and Anguish prest my Heart.


Thô I found her all o'r Charming,
Fond and sighing in my Arms;
Yet my Heart a-new was warming
For Bellinda's unknown Charms;
Thought, if Beauty pleas'd me so,
What must Wit and Beauty too?


[When Love shall two fair objects mix]

When Love shall two fair objects mix,
And in the Heart two passions fix:
'Tis a pleasure too severe,
Cruel Joy we cannot bear.
Too much Love for two I own,
But too little flame for one.


[Fly, Lysidus, this hated Place]

Fly, Lysidus, this hated Place,
Too long thou'st bin a slave to Love.
Thy youth has yet a nobler Race
In more Illustrious paths to move.
Glory your fonder flame controuls,
Glory, the life of generous Souls.
Once you must Love to learn to live,
'Tis the first lesson youth shou'd learn;
Useful instructions Love will give,
If you avoid too much concern:
Loves flame, thô in appearance bright,
Deceives with false and glittering light.
But, Lysidus, the time is come
You must to Beauty bid adieu;
Recal your wandering passions home,
And only be to Glory true;
She is a Mistress that will last
When all Loves fires are gone and past.


[Oh! fond remembrance! do not bring]

Oh! fond remembrance! do not bring
False notions to my easy heart.
And make the foolish tender thing
Think, that with Love it cannot part;
Or dy when e're the charming God
Forsak's his old and kind abode.
And thou, my heart, be calm and Pleas'd,
For better hours thou now shalt see,
Of all thy Anxious torments eas'd
From all thy toyles and slavery free,


From Beauties Pride and peevish scorns
From Wits Intregueing false returns.
'Tis Honour now thou shalt persue,
Her dictates only shalt obey;
Yet Beauty en Passant may view
And be with all loves Pleasures Gay,
Quench when you please resistless fires,
But make no business of desires.


[All you Beauties and Attractions]

All you Beauties and Attractions,
That make so many hearts submit;
Soft inspires of affection
Mistresses of dear bought wit.
To whose Empire we resigning
Prove our homage justly due
After all our sighs and whining
Dear delight we bid adieu.
After all your fond Caprices,
All your Arts to seem Divine,
Painting, Patching and your Dresses,
Easy votaryes to incline.
After all your couzening Billets
Sighs and tears, but all untrue,
To your Gilting tricks and quillets,
I for ever bid adieu.


A Miscellany OF POEMS.



[As wretched, vain, and indiscreet]


The attribution of this poem is questionable.

As wretched, vain, and indiscreet
Those Matches I deplore,
Whose Bartering Friends in Counsel meet,
To huddle in a Wedding Sheet
Some miserable Pair that never met before.
Poor Love of no account must be,
Tho' ne're so fixt and true,
No Merit but in Gold they see,
So Portion and Estate agree,
No matter what the Bride and Bridegroom do.


Curst may all covetous Husbands be
That Wed with such Design,
And Curst they are; For while they ply
Their Wealth, some Lover by the By
Reaps the true Bliss, and digs the richer Mine.


On the Honourable Sir Francis Fane,

on his Play call'd the Sacrifice. by Mrs. A. B.

Long have our Priests condemn'd a wicked Age,
And every little criticks sensless rage
Damn'd a forsaken self-declining stage:
Great 'tis confest and many are our crimes,
And no less profligate the vitious times,
But yet no wonder both prevail so ill,
The Poets fury and the Preachers skill;
While to the World it is so plainly known
They blame our faults, with great ones of their own,
Let their dull Pens flow with unlearned spight
And weakly censure what the skilful write;
You, learned Sir, a nobler passion shew,
Our best of rules and best example too.
Precepts and grave instructions dully move,
The brave Performer better do's improve,


Ver'st in the truest Satyr you excel
And shew how ill we write by writing well.
This noble Piece which well deserves your name
I read with pleasure thô I read with shame.
The tender Laurels which my brows had drest
Flag, like young Flowers, with too much heat opprest.
The generous fire I felt in every line
Shew'd me the cold, the feeble, force of mine.
Henceforth I'le you for imitation chuse
Your nobler flights will wing my Callow Muse;
So the young Eagle is inform'd to fly
By seeing the Monarch Bird ascend the sky.
And thô with less success her strength she'l try,
Spreads her soft plumes and his vast tracks persues
Thô far above the towring Prince she views:
High as she can she'll bear your deathless fame,
And make my song Immortal by your name.
But where the work is so Divinely wrought,
The rules so just and so sublime each thought,


When with so strict an Art your scenes are plac'd
With wit so new, and so uncommon, grac'd,
In vain, alas! I shou'd attempt to tell
Where, or in what, your Muse do's most excel.
Each character performs its noble part,
And stamps its Image on the Readers heart.
In Tamerlan you a true Hero drest,
A generous conflict wars within his breast,
This there the mightyest passions you have shew'd
By turns confest the Mortal and the God.
When e're his steps approach the haughty fair
He bows indeed but like a Conqueror,
Compell'd to Love yet scorns his servial chain,
In spight of all you make the Monarch reign.
But who without resistless tears can see
The bright, the innocent, Irene die:
Axalla's life a noble ransom paid,
In vain to save the much-lov'd charming maid,
Nought surely cou'd but your own flame inspire
Your happy Muse to reach so soft a fire.


Yet with what Art you turn the pow'rful stream
When trecherous Ragallzan is the theam:
You mix our different passions with such skill,
We feel 'em all and all with pleasure feel.
We love the mischief, thô the harms we grieve,
And for his wit the villain we forgive.
In your Despina all those passions meet,
Which womans frailties perfectly compleat.
Pride and Revenge, Ambition, Love and Rage,
At once her wilful haughty Soul engage;
And while her rigid Honour we esteem,
The dire effects as justly must condemn.
She shews a virtue so severely nice
As has betray'd it to a pitch of vice.
All which confess a God-like pow'r in you
Who cou'd form woman to herself so true.
Live, mighty Sir, to reconcile the Age
To the first glories of the useful Stage.


'Tis you her rifl'd Empire may restore
And give her power she ne're cou'd boast before.

Cato's Answer to Labienus, when he advis'd him to consult the Oracle of Jupiter Ammon.


Being a Paraphrastical Translation of part of the 9th Book of Lucan, beginning at

------ Quid quæri, Labiene, Jubes, &c.

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

What shou'd I ask my friend, which best wou'd be
To live inslav'd, or thus in Armes die free?
If any force can Honour's price abate?
Or virtue bow beneath the blows of fate?
If fortunes threats a steady Soul disdains,
Or if the Joys of Life be worth the pains?
If it our happiness at all import
Whether the foolish scene be long, or short.


If when we do but aim at noble ends
The attempt alone Immortal fame attends?
If for bad accidents, which thickest press
On merit, we shou'd like a good cause less?
Or be the fonder of it for success?
All this is clear, wove in our minds it sticks,
Nor Ammon, nor his Priest's can deeper fix;
Without the Clergy's venal cant and pains
Gods never-frustrate Will holds ours in chains,
Nor can we Act but what th'All-wise ordains.
Who needs no voyce, nor perishing words to aw
Our wild desires, and give his creatures Law:
What e're to know, or needful was or fit.
In the wise frame of human souls 'tis writ,
Both what we ought to do, and what forbear,
He once for all, did at our births declare.
But never did he seek out Desart Lands
To bury truth in unfrequented Sands;
Or to a corner of the World withdrew,
Head of a sect and partial to a few.


Nature's vast fabrick is his house alone,
This Globe his foot-stool, and high Heav'n his throne.
In Earth, Air, Sea, and in who e're excells
In knowing heads and honest hearts he dwells;
Why seek we then among these barren sands,
In narrow shrines and temples built with hands,
Him whose dread presence does all places fill?
Or look but in our reason for his will?
All we e're saw is God! in all we find
Apparent Prints of the eternal mind;
Let floating fools their course by Prophets steer
And always of the future live in fear;
No Oracle, or Dream the crowd is told
Can make me more or less resolv'd and bold.
But surer death, which equally on all
Both on the coward and the brave must fall.
This said, and turning with disdain about,
He left scorn'd Ammon to the vulgar Rout.


To Damon.

To inquire of him if he cou'd tell me by the Style, who writ me a Copy of Verses that came to me in an unknown Hand, by Mrs. A. B.

Oh, Damon, if thou ever wers't
That certain friend thou hast profest,


Relieve the Pantings of my heart,
Restore me to my wonted rest.
Late in the Silvian Grove I sat,
Free as the Air, and calm as that;
For as no winds the boughs opprest,
No storms of Love were in my breast.
A long Adieu I'd bid to that
Ere since Amintas prov'd ingrate.
And with indifference, or disdain,
I lookt around upon the Plain.
And worth my favor found no sighing Swain:
But oh, my Damon, all in vain
I triumph'd in security,
In vain absented from the Plain.
The wanton God his Power to try
In lone recesses makes us yeild,
As well as in the open feild;
For where no human thing was found
My heedless heart receiv'd a wound


Assist me, Shepherd, or I dye,
Help to unfold this Mystery.
No Swain was by, no flattering Nymph was neer,
Soft tales of Love to whisper to my Ear.
In sleep, no Dream my fancy fir'd
With Images, my waking wish desir'd.
No fond Idea fill'd my mind;
Nor to the faithless sex one thought inclin'd;
I sigh'd for no deceiving youth,
Who forfeited his vows and truth;
I waited no Assigning Swain
Whose disappointment gave me pain.
My fancy did no prospect take
Of Conquest's I design'd to make.
No snares for Lovers I had laid,
Nor was of any snare afraid.
But calm and innocent I sate,
Content with my indifferent fate.
(A Medium, I confess, I hate.)


For when the mind so cool is grown
As neither Love nor Hate to own,
The Life but dully lingers on.
Thus in the mid'st of careless thought,
A paper to my hand was brought.
What hidden charms were lodg'd within,
To my unwary Eyes unseen,
Alas! no Human thought can guess;
But ho! it robb'd me of my peace.
A Philter 'twas, that darted pain
Thrô every pleas'd and trembling vein.
A stratagem, to send a Dart
By a new way into the heart,
Th'Ignoble Policie of Love
By a clandestin means to move.
Which possibly the Instrument
Did ne're design to that intent,
But only form, and complement.
While Love did the occasion take
And hid beneath his flowres a snake


O're every line did Poyson fling
In every word he lurk't a sting.
So Matrons are, by Demons charms,
Thô harmless, capable of harms.
The verse was smooth, the thought was fine,
The fancy new, the wit divine.
But fill'd with praises of my face and Eyes,
My verse, and all those usual flatteries
To me as common as the Air;
Nor cou'd my vanity procure my care.
All which as things of course are writ
And less to shew esteem than wit.
But here was some strange somthing more
Than ever flatter'd me before;
My heart was by my Eyes misled:
I blusht and trembl'd as I read.
And every guilty look confest
I was with new surprise opprest.
From every view I felt a pain
And by the Soul, I drew the Swain.


Charming as fancy cou'd create
Fine as his Poem, and as soft as that.
I drew him all the heart cou'd move
I drew him all that women Love.
And such a dear Idea made
As has my whole repose betray'd.
Pigmalion thus his Image form'd,
And for the charms he made, he sigh'd and burn'd.
Oh thou that know'st each Shepherds Strains
That Pipes and Sings upon the Plains;
Inform me where the youth remains.
The spightful Paper bare no name,
Nor can I guess from whom it came,
Or if at least a guess I found,
'Twas not t'instruct but to confound.


Hurried by our fantastick wild desire
We loath the present, absent things admire,
Those we adore, and fair Idea's frame,
And those enjoy'd we think wou'd quench the flame
In vain, the Ambitious feaver still returns
And with redoubled fire more fiercely burns.
Our boundless vast desires can know no rest,
But travel forward still and labour to be blest.
Philosophers and Poets strove in vain
The restless anxious Progress to restrain,
And to their loss soon found their Good supream
An Airy notion and a pleasing Dream.
For happiness is no where to be found,
But flys the searcher, like enchanted ground.
Are we then masters or the slaves of things?
Poor wretched vassalls, or terrestial Kings?
Left to our reason, and by that betray'd,
We lose a present bliss to catch a shade.


Unsatisfy'd with Beauteous natures store
The universal Monarch Man is only poor.

To Alexis in Answer to his Poem against Fruition.
by Mrs. B.


Ah hapless sex! who bear no charms,
But what like lightning flash and are no more,
False fires sent down for baneful harms,
Fires which the fleeting Lover feebly warms
And given like past Biboches o're,
Like Songs that please, (thô bad,) when new,
But learn'd by heart neglected grew.
In vain did Heav'n adorn the shape and face
With Beautyes which by Angels forms it drew:
In vain the mind with brighter Glories Grace,
While all our joys are stinted to the space


Of one betraying enterview,
With one surrender to the eager will
We're short-liv'd nothing, or a real ill.
Since Man with that inconstancy was born,
To love the absent, and the present scorn.
Why do we deck, why do we dress
For such a short-liv'd happiness?
Why do we put Attraction on,
Since either way tis we must be undon?
They fly if Honour take our part,
Our Virtue drives 'em o're the field.
We lose 'em by too much desert,
And Oh! they fly us if we yeild.
Ye Gods! is there no charm in all the fair
To fix this wild, this faithless, wanderer.


Man! our great business and our aim,
For whom we spread our fruitless snares,
No sooner kindles the designing flame,
But to the next bright object bears
The Trophies of his conquest and our shame:
Inconstancy's the good supream
The rest is airy Notion, empty Dream!
Then, heedless Nymph, be rul'd by me
If e're your Swain the bliss desire;
Think like Alexis he may be
Whose wisht Possession damps his fire;
The roving youth in every shade
Has left some sighing and abandon'd Maid,
For tis a fatal lesson he has learn'd,
After fruition ne're to be concern'd.


To Alexis, On his saying, I lov'd a Man that talk'd much.
by Mrs. B.

Alexis , since you'l have it so
I grant I am impertinent.
And till this moment did not know
Thrô all my life what 'twas I ment;
Your kind opinion was th'unflattering Glass,
In which my mind found how deform'd it was.
In your clear sense which knows no art,
I saw the error of my Soul;
And all the feebless of my heart,
With one reflection you controul,
Kind as a God, and gently you chastise,
By what you hate, you teach me to be wise.


Impertinence, my sexes shame,
(Which has so long my life persu'd,)
You with such modesty reclaim
As all the Woman has subdu'd.
To so divine a power what must I owe,
That renders me so like the perfect—you?
That conversable thing I hate
Already with a just disdain,
Who Prid's himself upon his prate
And is of word, (that Nonsense,) vain;
When in your few appears such excellence,
They have reproacht, and charm'd me into sense.
For ever may I listning sit,
Thô but each hour a word be born:
I wou'd attend the coming wit,
And bless what can so well inform:
Let the dull World henceforth to words be damn'd,
I'm into nobler sense than talking sham'd.


A Pastoral Pindarick.
By Mrs. Behn.

On the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Earle of Dorset and Midlesex, to the Lady Mary Compton.

A DIALOGUE. Between Damon and Aminta.

Whither, young Damon, whither in such hast,
Swift as the Winds you sweep the Grove,
The Amorous God of Day scarce hy'd so fast
After his flying Love?

Aminta, view my Face, and thence survey
My very Soul and all its mighty joy!


A joy too great to be conceal'd,
And without speaking is reveal'd;
For this eternal Holyday.
A Day to place i'th' Shepherds Kalendar,
To stand the glory of the circling year.
Let it's blest date on every Bark be set,
And every Echo its dear name repeat.
Let 'em tell all the neighbouring Woods and Plains,
That Lysidus, the Beauty of the Swains,
Our darling youth, our wonder and our Pride,
Is blest with fair Clemena for a Bride.
Oh happy Pair! Let all the Groves rejoyce,
And gladness fill each heart and every voyce!

Clemena! that bright maid for whom our Shepherds pine,
For whom so many weeping Eyes decline!
For whom the Echos all complain,
For whom with sigh and falling tears
The Lover in his soft despairs


Disturbs the Peaceful Rivers gliding stream?
The bright Clemena who has been so long
The destinie of hearts and yet so young,
She that has robb'd so many of content
Yet is herself so Sweet, so Innocent.
She, that as many hearts invades,
As charming Lysidus has conquer'd maids,
Oh tell me, Damon, is the lovely fair
Become the dear reward of all the Shepherds care.
Has Lysidus that prize of Glory won
For whom so many sighing Swains must be undon?

Yes, it was destin'd from Eternity,
They only shou'd each other's be,
Hail, lovely pair, whom every God design'd
In your first great Creation shou'd be joyn'd.

Oh, Damon, this is vain Philosophie,
'Tis chance and not Divinity,


That guides Loves Partial Darts;
And we in vain the Boy implore
To make them Love whom we Adore.
And all the other powers take little care of hearts,
The very Soule's by intr'est sway'd,
And nobler passion now by fortune is betray'd;
By sad experience this I know,
And sigh, Alas! in vain because tis true.

Too often and too fatally we find
Portion and Joynture charm the mind,
Large Flocks and Herds, and spacious Plains
Becoms the merit of the Swains.
But here, thô both did equally abound,
'Twas youth, 'twas wit, was Beauty gave the equal wound;
Their Soules were one before they mortal being found,
Jove when he layd his awful Thunder by
And all his softest Attributes put on,


When Heav'n was Gay, and the vast Glittering Sky
With Deities all wondering and attentive shone,
The God his Luckyest heat to try
Form'd their great Soules of one Immortal Ray,
He thought, and form'd, as first he did the World,
But with this difference, That from Chaos came,
These from a beam, which, from his God-head hurl'd
Kindl'd into an everlasting flame.
He smiling saw the mighty work was good,
While all the lesser Gods around him gazing stood.
He saw the shining Model bright and Great
But oh! they were not yet compleat,
For not one God but did the flames inspire,
With sparks of their Divinest fire.
Diana took the lovely Female Soul,
And did its fiercer Atoms cool;
Softn'd the flame and plac'd a Chrystal Ice
About the sacred Paradise,
Bath'd it all or'e in Virgin Tears,


Mixt with the fragrant Dew the Rose receives,
Into the bosom of her untoucht leaves,
And dry'd it with the breath of Vestal Prayers,
Juno did great Majestick thought inspire
And Pallas toucht it with Heroick fire.
While Mars, Apollo, Love and Venus sate,
About the Hero's Soul in high debate,
Each claims it all, but all in vain contend,
In vain appeal to mighty Jove,
Who equal Portions did to all extend.
This to the God of wit, and that to Love,
Another to the Queen of soft desire,
And the fierce God of War compleats the rest,
Guilds it all or'e with Martial fire;
While Love, and Wit, Beauty and War exprest
Their finest Arts, and the bright Beings all in Glory drest.
While each in their Divine imployments strove
By every charm these new-form'd l'ghts t'improve,
They left a space untoucht for mightyer Love.


The finishing last strokes the Boy perform'd;
Who from his Quiver took a Golden Dart
That cou'd a sympathizing wound impart,
And toucht 'em both, and with one flame they burn'd.
The next great work was to create two frames
Of the Divinest form,
Fit to contain these heavenly flames.
The Gods decreed, and charming Lysidus was born,
Born, and grew up the wonder of the Plains,
Joy of the Nymphs and Glory of the Swains.
And warm'd all hearts with his inchanting strains;
Soft were the Songs, which from his lips did flow,
Soft as the Soul which the fine thought conceiv'd.
Soft as the sighs the charming Virgin breath'd
The first dear night of the chast nuptial vow.
The noble youth even Daphnis do's excel
Oh never Shepherd pip'd and sung so well.


Now, Damon, you are in your proper sphear,
While of his wit you give a character.
But who inspir'd you a Philosopher?

Old Colin, when we oft have led our Flocks
Beneath the shelter of the shad's and Rocks,
While other youths more vainly spent their time,
I listen'd to the wonderous Bard;
And while he sung of things sublime
With reverend pleasure heard.
He soar'd to the Divine abodes
And told the secrets of the Gods.
And oft discours'd of Love and Sympathy;
For he as well as thou and I
Had sigh't for some dear object of desire;
But oh! till now I ne're cou'd prove
That secret mystery of Love;
Ne're saw two hearts thus burn with equal fire.


But, oh! what Nymph e're saw the noble youth
That was not to eternal Love betray'd?

And, oh! what swain e're saw the Lovely maid,
That wou'd not plight her his eternal faith!
Not unblown Roses, or the new-born day
Or pointed Sun-beams, when they gild the skys,
Are half so sweet, are half so bright and gay,
As young Clemena's charming Face and Eyes!

Not full-blown flowrs, when all their luster's on
Whom every bosom longs to wear,
Nor the spread Glories of the mid-days sun
Can with the charming Lysidus compare.

Not the soft gales of gentle breez
That whisper to the yeilding Trees,
Nor songs of Birds that thrô the Groves rejoyce,
Are half so sweet, so soft, as young Clemena's voyce.


Not murmurs of the Rivulets and Springs,
When thrô the glades they purling glide along
And listen when the wondrous shepherd sings,
Are half so sweet as is the Shepherds song.

Not young Diana in her eager chase
When by her careless flying Robe betray'd,
Discovering every charm and every Grace,
Has more surprising Beauty than the brighter maid.

The gay young Monarch of the cheerful May
Adorn'd with all the Trophies he has won,
Vain with the Homage of the joyful day
Compar'd to Lysidus wou'd be undone.

Aminta, cease; and let me hast away,
For while upon this Theam you dwell,
You speak the noble youth so just, so well,
I cou'd for ever listning stay.


And while Clemena's praise becoms thy choyce,
My Ravisht soul is fixt upon thy voyce.

But see the Nymphs and dancing swains
Ascend the Hill from yonder Plains,
With Wreathes and Garlands finely made,
To crown the lovely Bride and Bridegrooms head,
And I amongst the humbler throng
My Sacrifice must bring
A rural Hymeneal song,
Alexis he shall pipe while I will sing.
Had I been blest with Flocks or Herd
A nobler Tribute I'd prepar'd,
With darling Lambs the Altars I wou'd throng:
But I, alas! can only offer song.
Song too obscure, too humble verse
For this days glory to reherse,
But Lysidus, like Heav'n, is kind,
And for the Sacrifice accepts the Humble mind.


If he vouchsafe to listen to my Ode
He makes me happyer than a fancy'd God.

On Desire By Mrs. B.

A Pindarick.

What Art thou, oh! thou new-found pain?
From what infection dost thou spring?
Tell me—oh! tell me, thou inchanting thing,
Thy nature, and thy name;
Inform me by what subtil Art,
What powerful Influence,
You got such vast Dominion in a part
Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart,
That fame and Honour cannot drive yee thence.


Oh! mischievous usurper of my Peace;
Oh! soft intruder on my solitude,
Charming disturber of my ease,
That hast my nobler fate persu'd,
And all the Glorys of my life subdu'd.
Thou haunt'st my inconvenient hours
The business of the Day, nor silence of the night,
That shou'd to cares and sleep invite,
Can bid defyance to thy conquering powers.
Where hast thou been this live-long Age
That from my Birth till now,
Thou never coud'st one thought engage,
Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage
That made it all its humble feebles know?
Where wert thou, oh, malicious spright,
When shining Honour did invite,


When interest call'd, then thou wert shy,
Nor to my aid one kind propension brought,
Nor wou'd'st inspire one tender thought,
When Princes at my feet did lye.
When thou coud'st mix ambition with my joy,
Then peevish Phantôm thou wer't nice and coy,
Not Beauty cou'd invite thee then
Nor all the Arts of lavish Men!
Not all the powerful Rhetorick of the Tongue
Not sacred Wit cou'd charm thee on;
Not the soft play that lovers make,
Nor sigh cou'd fan thee to a fire,
Not pleading tears, nor vows cou'd thee awake,
Or warm the unform'd somthing—to desire.
Oft I've conjur'd thee to appear
By youth, by love, by all their powrs,
Have searcht and sought thee every where,
In silent Groves, in lonely bowrs:


On Flowry beds where lovers wishing lye,
In sheltering Woods where sighing maids
To their assigning Shepherds hye,
And hide their blushes in the gloom of shades:
Yet there, even there, thô youth assail'd,
Where Beauty prostrate lay and fortune woo'd,
My heart insensible to neither bow'd
Thy lucky aid was wanting to prevail.
In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphear
But thou in crowds we'rt stifl'd there,
Int'rest did all the loving business do,
Invites the youths and wins the Virgins too.
Or if by chance some heart thy empire own
(Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone.
Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate
Thy mighty force thrô every part,
What God, or Human power did thee create
In my, till now, unfacil heart?


Art thou some welcome plague sent from above
In this dear form, this kind disguise?
Or the false offspring of mistaken love,
Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove,
With the bright peircing Beautys of Lysanders Eyes?
Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now;
And found to whom thou dost thy being owe,
'Tis thou the blushes dost impart,
For thee this languishment I wear,
'Tis thou that tremblest in my heart
When the dear Shepherd do's appear,
I faint, I dye with pleasing pain,
My words intruding sighing break
When e're I touch the charming swain
When e're I gaze, when e're I speak.
Thy conscious fire is mingl'd with my love,
As in the sanctify'd abodes
Misguided worshippers approve
The mixing Idol with their Gods.


In vain, alas! in vain I strive
With errors, which my soul do please and vex,
For superstition will survive,
Purer Religion to perplex.
Oh! tell me you, Philosophers, in love,
That can its burning feaverish fits controul,
By what strange Arts you cure the soul,
And the fierce Calenture remove?
Tell me, yee fair ones, that exchange desire,
How tis you hid the kindling fire.
Oh! wou'd you but confess the truth,
It is not real virtue makes you nice:
But when you do resist the pressing youth,
'Tis want of dear desire, to thaw the Virgin Ice,
And while your young adorers lye
All languishing and hopeless at your feet,
Raising new Trophies to your chastity,
Oh tell me, how you do remain discreet?


How you suppress the rising sighs,
And the soft yeilding soul that wishes in your Eyes?
While to th'admiring crow'd you nice are found;
Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound
Informs you, all your virtu's but a cheat
And Honour but a false disguise,
Your modesty a necessary bait
To gain the dull repute of being wise.
Deceive the foolish World—deceive it on,
And veil your passions in your pride;
But now I've found your feebles by my own,
From me the needful fraud you cannot hide.
Thô tis a mighty power must move
The soul to this degree of love,
And thô with virtue I the World perplex,
Lysander finds the weekness of my sex,
So Helen while from Theseus arms she fled,
To charming Paris yeilds her heart and Bed.


To Amintas, by Mrs. B.

Upon reading the Lives of some of the Romans,

Had'st thou, Amintas, liv'd in that great age,
When hardly Beauty was to nature known,
What numbers to thy side might'st thou engage
And conquer'd Kingdoms by thy looks alone?
That age when valor they did Beauty name,
When Men did justly our brave sex prefer,
'Cause they durst dye, and scorn the publick shame
Of adding Glory to the conqueror.


Had mighty Scipio had thy charming face,
Great Sophonisbe had refus'd to dye,
Her passion o're the sense of her disgrace
Had gain'd the more obliging victory.
Nor less wou'd Massanissa too have done,
But to such Eyes, as to his Sword wou'd bow,
For neither sex can here thy fetters shun,
Being all Scipio, and Amintas too.
Had'st thou great Cæsar been, the greater Queen,
Wou'd trembling have her mortal Asps lay'd by,
In thee she had not only Cæsar seen,
But all she did adore in Antony.
Had daring Sextus had thy lovely shape,
The fairest Woman living had not dy'd.
But blest the darkness that secur'd the Rape,
Suffering her Pleasure to have debauch't her Pride.


Nor had he stoln to Rome to have quencht his fire,
If thee resistless in his Camp he'd seen,
Thy Eyes had kept his virtue all intire,
And Rome a happy monarchy had been.
Had Pompey lookt like thee, tho he had prov'd
The vanquisht, yet from Egypts faithless King
He had receiv'd the vows of being belov'd,
In stead of Orders for his murdering.
But here, Amintas, thy misfortune lys,
Nor brave nor good are in our age esteem'd,
Content thee then with meaner victorys,
Unless that Glorious age cou'd be redeem'd.
A. B.


On the first discovery of falseness in Amintas. By Mrs. B.

Make hast! make hast! my miserable soul,
To some unknown and solitary Grove,
Where nothing may thy Languishment controle
Where thou maist never hear the name of Love.
Where unconfin'd, and free, as whispering Air,
Thou maist caress and welcome thy despair:
Where no dissembl'd complisance may veil
The griefes with which, my soul, thou art opprest.
But dying, breath thyself out in a tale
That may declare the cause of thy unrest:
The toyles of Death 'twill render far more light
And soon convey thee to the shades of night.


Search then, my soul, some unfrequented place,
Some place that nature meant her own repose:
When she her-self with-drew from human race,
Displeas'd with wanton Lovers vows and oaths.
Where Sol cou'd never dart a busy Ray,
And where the softer winds ne're met to play.
By the sad purling of some Rivulet
O're which the bending Yew and Willow grow,
That scarce the glimmerings of the day permit,
To view the melancholy Banks below,
Where dwells no noyse but what the murmurs make,
When the unwilling stream the shade forsakes.
There on a Bed of Moss and new-faln leaves,
Which the Triumphant Trees once proudly bore,
Thô now thrown off by every wind that breaths,
Despis'd by what they did adorn before,


And who, like useless me, regardless lye
While springing beautys do the boughs supply.
There lay thee down, my soul, and breath thy last,
And calmly to the unknown regions fly;
But e're thou do'st thy stock of life exhaust,
Let the ungrateful know, why tis you dye.
Perhaps the gentle winds may chance to bear
Thy dying accents to Amintas ear.
Breath out thy Passion; tell him of his power
And how thy flame was once by him approv'd.
How soon as wisht he was thy conqueror,
No sooner spoke of Love, but was belov'd.
His wonderous Eyes, what weak resistance sound,
While every charming word begat a wound?
Here thou wilt grow impatient to be gone,
And thrô my willing Eyes will silent pass,
Into the stream that gently glides along,
But stay thy hasty flight, (my Soul,) alas,


A thought more cruel will thy flight secure,
Thought, that can no admittance give to cure.
Think, how the prostrate Infidel now lys,
An humble suppliant at anothers feet,
Think, while he begs for pity from her Eyes.
He sacrifices thee with-out regreet.
Think, how the faithless treated thee last night,
And then, my tortur'd soul, assume thy flight.


To the fair Clarinda, By Mrs. B.

who made Love to me, imagin'd more than Woman.

Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be
Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee,
Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth:
And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth.


This last will justifie my soft complaint,
While that may serve to lessen my constraint;
And without Blushes I the Youth persue,
When so much beauteous Woman is in view.
Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain
With thy deluding Form thou giv'st us pain,
While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain.
In pity to our Sex sure thou wer't sent,
That we might Love, and yet be Innocent:
For sure no Crime with thee we can commit;
Or if we shou'd—thy Form excuses it.
For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes
A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves.
Thou beauteous Wonder of a different kind,
Soft Cloris with the dear Alexis join'd;
When e'r the Manly part of thee, wou'd plead
Thou tempts us with the Image of the Maid,
While we the noblest Passions do extend
The Love to Hermes, Aphrodite the Friend.