THE WORKS OF

APHRA BEHN.

VOL. VI.

THE WORKS
OF
APHRA BEHN

Edited by

MONTAGUE SUMMERS

VOL. VI

The Lover's Watch
Poems upon Several Occasions
A Voyage to the Isle of Love
Lycidus; or, the Lover in Fashion
Miscellaneous Poems

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
STRATFORD-ON-AVON: A. H. BULLEN
MCMXV

CONTENTS.

PAGE

THE LOVER'S WATCH

1

POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS (1684)

113

A VOYAGE TO THE ISLE OF LOVE

223

LYCIDUS; OR, THE LOVER IN FASHION (1688)

293

POEMS APPENDED TO LYCIDUS

343

WESTMINSTER DROLLERY (1671)

364

MISCELLANY (1685)

365

GILDON'S MISCELLANY (1692)

387

GILDON'S CHORUS POETARUM (1694)

390

MUSES MERCURY (1707)

391

FAMILIAR LETTERS (1718)

395

PROLOGUE TO ROMULUS

398

EPILOGUE TO ROMULUS

399

SATYR ON DRYDEN

400

PROLOGUE TO VALENTINIAN

401

TO HENRY HIGDEN, ESQ.

403

ON THE DEATH OF E. WALLER, ESQ.

405

A PINDARIC POEM TO DR. BURNET

407

NOTES

411

INDEX OF FIRST LINES OF POEMS

439

GENERAL INDEX

446

THE LOVER'S WATCH.

INTRODUCTION.

La Môntre: or, The Lover's Watch, 'Licensed 2 Aug. 1686. R.L.S.' is taken by Mrs. Behn from La Môntre of Balthazar de Bonnecorse. After having received an excellent education at Marseilles, where he was born, de Bonnecorse was appointed consul at Cairo, and later transferred to Sidon in the Levant. Whilst at Cairo he composed La Môntre, a mixture of prose and verse, which he sent to the great arbiter of Parisian taste, Georges de Scudéri, under whose care it was printed in 1666 at Paris. It was followed in 1671 by the second part, la Boëte et le Miroir, dedicated to the Duke de Vivonne. Upon his return to France, de Bonnecorse abridged La Môntre and put it wholly into verse, in which form it appears in his collected (yet incomplete) works, 'Chez Theodore Haak.' Leyden, 1720. Bonnecorse died at Marseilles in 1706. He is always piquant and graceful in his madrigals and songs, though both sentiment and verse have faded a little with the passing of time. Boileau immortalized him in Le Lutrin: la Môntre is one of the missiles the enraged canons hurl at each other's reverend pates: 'L'un prend l'Edit d'amour, l'autre en saisit la Môntre.' Bonnecorse's attempted parody on Le Lutrin, le Lutrigot (Marseille, 1686), is of no value, and brought a caustic epigram down on his head.

To Peter Weston, Esq.;
Of The Honourable Society Of The Inner-Temple.

Sir,

When I had ended this little unlaboured Piece, the Watch, I resolv'd to dedicate it to some One, whom I cou'd fancy, the nearest approacht the charming Damon. Many fine Gentlemen I had in view, of Wit and Beauty; but still, through their Education, or a natural Propensity to Debauchery, I found those Vertues wanting, that should compleat that delicate Character, Iris gives her Lover; and which, at first Thought of You, I found center'd there to Perfection.

Yes, Sir, I found You had all the Youth of Damon; without the forward noisy Confidence, which usually attends your Sex. You have all the attracting Beauty of my young Hero; all that can charm the Fair; without the Affectation of those, that set out for Conquests (though You make a Thousand, without knowing it, or the Vanity of believing it.) You have our Damon's Wit with all his agreeable Modesty: Two Vertues that rarely shine together: And the last makes You conceal the noble Sallies of the first, with that Industry and Care, You wou'd an Amour: And You wou'd no more boast of either of these, than of your undoubted Bravery.

You are (like our Lover too) so discreet, that the bashful Maid may, without Fear or Blushing, venture the soft Confession of the Soul with You; reposing the dear Secret in Yours, with more Safety than with her own Thoughts. You have all the Sweetness of Youth, with the Sobriety and Prudence of Age. You have all the Power of the gay Vices of Man; but the Angel in your Mind, has subdu'd you to the Vertues of a God! And all the vicious and industrious Examples of the roving Wits of the mad Town, have only served to give You the greater Abhorrence to Lewdness. And You look down with Contempt and Pity on that wretched unthinking Number, who pride themselves in their mean Victories over little Hearts; and boast their common Prizes with that Vanity, that declares 'em capable of no higher Joy, than that of the Ruin of some credulous Unfortunate: And no Glory like that, of the Discovery of the brave Achievement, over the next Bottle, to the Fool that shall applaud 'em.

How does the Generosity, and Sweetness of your Disposition despise these false Entertainments, that turns the noble Passion of Love into Ridicule, and Man into Brute.

Methinks I cou'd form another Watch (that should remain a Pattern to succeeding Ages) how divinely you pass your more sacred Hours, how nobly and usefully You divide your Time: in which, no precious minute is lost, not one glides idly by; but all turns to wondrous Account. And all Your Life is one continu'd Course of Vertue and Honour. Happy the Parents that have the Glory to own You! Happy the Man, that has the Honour of your Friendship! But, oh! How much more happy the fair She, for whom you shall sigh! Which surely, can never be in vain.

There will be such a Purity in Your Flame: All You ask will be so chaste and noble, and utter'd with a Voice so modest, and a Look so charming, as must, by a gentle Force, compel that Heart to yield, that knows the true Value of Wit, Beauty, and Vertue.

Since then, in all the Excellencies of Mind and Body (where no one Grace is wanting) you so resemble the All-perfect Damon, suffer me to dedicate this Watch to You. It brings You nothing but Rules for Love; delicate as Your Thoughts, and innocent as Your Conversation. And possibly, 'tis the only Vertue of the Mind, You are not perfectly Master of; the only noble Mystery of the Soul, You have not yet studied. And though they are Rules for every Hour, You will find, they will neither rob Heaven, nor Your Friends of ther Due; those so valuable Devoirs of Your Life; They will teach You Love; but Love, so pure, and so devout, that You may mix it, even with Your Religion; and I know, Your fine Mind can admit of no other. When ever the God enters there (fond and wanton as he is, full of Arts and Guiles) he will be reduc'd to that Native Innocency, that made him so ador'd, before inconstant Man corrupted his Divinity, and made him wild and wandring. How happy will Iris's Watch be, to inspire such a Heart! How honour'd under the Patronage of so excellent a Man! Whose Wit will credit, whose Goodness will defend it; and whose noble and vertuous Qualities so justly merit the Character Iris has given Damon: And which is believed so very much your Due, by

Sir,
Your most Obliged, and
Most Humble Servant,
A. Behn.

To the Admir'd ASTREA.

I Never mourn'd my Want of Wit, 'till now; That where I do so much Devotion vow, Brightest Astrea, to your honour'd Name, Find my Endeavour will become my Shame. 'Tis you alone, who have the Art, and Wit T' involve those Praises in the Lines y'have writ, That we should give you, could we have the Sp'rite, Vigour, and Force, wherewith your self do write. Too mean are all th' Applauses we can give: You in your self, and by your self, shall live; When all we write will only serve to shew, How much, in vain Attempt, we flag below. Some Hands write some things well; are elsewhere lame: But on all Theams, your Power is the same. Of Buskin, and of Sock, you know the Pace; And tread in both, with equal Skill and Grace, But when you write of Love, Astrea, then Love dips his Arrows, where you wet your pen. Such charming Lines did never Paper grace; Soft, as your Sex; and smooth, as Beauty's Face. And 'tis your Province, that belongs to you: Men are so rude, they fright when they wou'd sue You teach us gentler Methods; such as are The fit and due Proceedings with the Fair.

But why should you, who can so well create, So stoop, as but pretend, you do translate? Could you, who have such a luxuriant Vein, As nought but your own Judgment could restrain; Who are, your self, of Poesie the Soul, And whose brave fancy knocks at either Pole; Descend so low, as poor Translation, } To make an Author, that before was none? } Oh! Give us, henceforth, what is all your own! } Yet we can trace you here, in e'ery Line; The Texture's good, but some Threds are too fine: We see where you let in your Silver Springs; And know the Plumes, with which you imp his Wings.

But I'm too bold to question what you do, And yet it is my Zeal that makes me so. Which, in a Lover, you'll not disapprove: I am too dull to write, but I can love.

Charles Cotton.

To the Incomparable Author.

While this poor Homage of our Verse we give, We own, at least, your just Prerogative: And tho' the Tribute's needless, which we pay; It serves to shew, you reign, and we obey. Which, adding nothing to your perfect Store, Yet makes your polisht Numbers shine the more: As Gems in Foils, are with Advantage shown; No Lustre take from them, but more exert their own.

Male Wits, from Authors of a former Date, } Copy Applause; and but at best, translate; } While you, like the immortal Pow'rs, Create. } Horace and Pindar (tho' attempted long } In vain) at last, have learnt the British Tongue; } Not so the Grecian Female Poet's Song. } The Pride of Greece we now out-rival'd see: Greece boasts one Sappho; two Orinda's, we.

But what unheard Applause shall we impart To this most new, and happy piece of Art? That renders our Apollo more sublime } In Num'rous Prose, but yet more num'rous Rhime; } And makes the God of Love, the God of Time. } Love's wandring Planet, you have made a Star: 'Twas bright before, but now 'tis Regular. While Love shall last, this Engine needs must vend: } Each Nymph, this Watch shall to her Lover send, } That points him out his Hours, and how those Hours to spend. }

N. Tate.

To the most ingenious ASTREA, upon her Book intituled, La Môntre, or the Lover's Watch.

To celebrate your Praise, no Muse can crown You with that Glory, as this Piece hath done. This Lover's Watch, tho' it was made in France, By the fam'd Bonnecorse; yet you advance The Value of its curious Work so far, That as it shin'd there like a glitt'ring Star, Yet here a Constellation it appears; And in Love's Orb, with more Applause, it wears Astrea's Name. Your Prose so delicate, Your Verse so smooth and sweet, that they create A lovely Wonder in each Lover's Mind: The envious Critick dares not be unkind. La Môntre cannot err, 'tis set so well; The Rules for Lovers Hours are like a Spell To charm a Mistress with: The God of Love Is highly pleas'd; and smiling, does approve Of this rare Master piece: His Am'rous Game Will more improve: This will support his Fame. May your luxuriant Fancy ever flow Like a Spring tide; no Bounds, or Limits know. May you, in Story, for your Wit, live high: And summon'd hence, to blest Eternity, Aged with Nestor's Years, resign to Fate; May your fam'd Works receive an endless Date.

Rich. Faerrar.

To the Divine ASTREA, on her Môntre.

Thou Wonder of thy Sex! Thou greatest Good! The Ages Glory, if but understood. How are the Britains bound to bless the Name Of great Astrea! Whose Eternal Fame, To Foreign Clymes, is most deserv'dly spread; Where Thou, in thy great Works, shalt live, tho' dead. And mighty France, with Envy shall look on, To see her greatest Wit by thee out-done: And all their boasted Trophies are in vain, Whilst thou, spight of their Salick Law, shall reign. Witness La Môntre, from their Rubbish rais'd: A Piece, for which, thou shalt be ever prais'd. The beauteous Work is with such Order laid, } And all the Movement so divinely made, } As cannot of dull Criticks be afraid. } Such Nature in the Truths of Love thou'st shew'd, As the All-loving Ovid never cou'd. Thy Rules so soft, so modest, and so right, The list'ning Youths will follow with Delight: To thy blest Name will all their Homage pay, Who taught 'em how to love the noblest Way.

G. J.

To his admired Friend, the most ingenious Author.

Once more my Muse is blest; her humble Voice Does in thy wondrous Works, once more, rejoyce. Not the bright Mount, where e'ery sacred Tongue, In skilful Choirs, immortal Numbers sung Not great Apollo's own inspiring Beams, Nor sweet Castalia's consecrated Streams, To thy learn'd Sisters could so charming be. As are thy Songs, and thou thy self, to me. Æthereal Air, soft Springs, and verdant Fields; Cool Shades, and Sunny Banks, thy Presence yields. Never were Soul and Body better joyn'd; A Mansion, worthy so divine a Mind! No wonder e'ery Swain adores thy Name, And e'ery Tongue proclaims thy Deathless Fame; For who can such resistless Power controul, Where Wit and Beauty both invade the Soul? Beauty, that still does her fresh Conquests find; And Sacred Wit, that ever charms the Mind: Through all its Forms, that lovely Proteus chase; And e'ery Shape has its Peculiar Grace. Hail, Thou Heav'n-Born! Thou most transcendent Good! If Mortals their chief Blessings understood! Thou that, while Kingdoms, Thrones, and Pow'rs decay, Hast, with Eternity, one constant Stay: Liv'st, and will live, like the great God of Love; For ever young, although as old as Jove. While we, alas! in dark Oblivion lye, Thou ne'er wilt let thy lov'd Astrea dye. No, my good Friend, Thy Works will mount the Skies, And see their Author's learned Ashes rise.

Much to the Fame of thy fair Sex of Old, By skilful Writers, has been greatly told: But all the boasted Titles they have gain'd By others Labours, weakly are sustain'd; While thou look'st down, and scorn'st so mean a Praise: Thy own just Hands do thy own Trophies raise.

Rich is the Soil, and vast thy Native Store; Yet Thou (Wit's Great Columbus) seek'st out more. Through distant Regions spread'st thy Towring Wings, And Foreign Treasure to thy Country brings. This Work let no Censorious Tongue despise, And judge thee wealthy with unlawful Prize, We owe to thee, our best Refiner, more Than him, who first dig'd up the rugged Ore.

Tho' this vast Frame were from a Chaos rais'd, The great Creator should not less be prais'd: By its bright Form, his Pow'rs as much display'd, As if the World had been from Nothing made. And if we may compare great Things with Small, Thou therefore canst not by just Censure fall; While the rude Heap, which lay before unform'd, To Life and Sense, is by thy Spirit warm'd.

Geo. Jenkins.

La Monstre.
The Lover's WATCH: or, the ART of making LOVE.

The ARGUMENT.

'Tis in the most happy and august Court of the best and greatest Monarch of the World, that Damon, a young Nobleman, whom we will render under that Name, languishes for a Maid of Quality, who will give us leave to call her Iris.

Their Births are equally illustrious; they are both rich, and both young; their Beauty such as I dare not too nicely particularize, lest I should discover (which I am not permitted to do) who these charming Lovers are. Let it suffice, that Iris is the most fair and accomplisht Person that ever adorn'd a Court; and that Damon is only worthy of the Glory of her Favour; for he has all that can render him lovely in the fair Eyes of the amiable Iris. Nor is he Master of those superficial Beauties alone, that please at first sight; he can charm the Soul with a thousand Arts of Wit and Gallantry. And, in a word, I may say, without flattering either, that there is no one Beauty, no one Grace, no Perfection of Mind and Body, that wants to compleat a Victory on both sides.

The agreement of Age, Fortunes, Quality and Humours in the two fair Lovers, made the impatient Damon hope, that no thing would oppose his Passion; and if he saw himself every hour languishing for the adorable Maid, he did not however despair: And if Iris sigh'd, it was not for fear of being one day more happy.

In the midst of the Tranquillity of these two Lovers, Iris was obliged to go into the Country for some Months, whither 'twas impossible for Damon to wait on her, he being oblig'd to attend the King his Master; and being the most amorous of his Sex, suffer'd with extreme Impatience the Absence of his Mistress. Nevertheless, he fail'd not to send to her every day, and gave up all his melancholy Hours to Thinking, Sighing, and Writing to her the softest Letters that Love could inspire. So that Iris even blessed that Absence that gave her so tender and convincing Proofs of his Passion; and found this dear way of Conversing, even recompensed all her Sighs for his Absence.

After a little Intercourse of this kind, Damon bethought himself to ask Iris a Discretion which he had won of her before she left the Town; and in a Billetdoux to that purpose, prest her very earnestly for it. Iris being infinitely pleas'd with his Importunity, suffer'd him to ask it often; and he never fail'd of doing so.

But as I do not here design to relate the Adventures of these two amiable Persons, nor to give you all the Billet-doux that past between them; you shall here find nothing but the Watch this charming Maid sent her impatient Lover.

IRIS to DAMON.

It must be confest, Damon, that you are the most importuning Man in the World. Your Billets have a hundred times demanded a Discretion, which you won of me; and tell me, you will not wait my Return to be paid. You are either a very faithless Creditor, or believe me very unjust, that you dun with such impatience. But to let you see that I am a Maid of Honour, and value my Word, I will acquit my self of this Obligation I have to you, and send you a Watch of my fashion; perhaps you never saw any so good. It is not one of those that have always something to be mended in it: but one that is without fault, very just and good, and will remain so as long as you continue to love me: But Damon, know, the very Minute you cease to do so, the String will break, and it will go no more. 'Tis only useful in my Absence, and when I return 'twill change its Motion: and though I have set it but for the Spring-time, 'twill serve you the whole Year round: and 'twill be necessary only that you alter the Business of the Hours (which my Cupid, in the middle of my Watch, points you out) according to the length of the Days and Nights. Nor is the Dart of that little God directed to those Hours, so much to inform you how they pass, as how you ought to pass them; how you ought to employ those of your Absence from Iris. 'Tis there you shall find the whole Business of a Lover, from his Mistress; for I have design'd it a Rule to all your Actions. The Consideration of the Work-man ought to make you set a Value upon the Work: And though it be not an accomplisht and perfect piece; yet, Damon, you ought to be grateful and esteem it, since I have made it for you alone. But however I may boast of the Design, I know, as well as I believe you love me, that you will not suffer me to have the Glory of it wholly, but will say in your Heart,

That Love, the great Instructor of the Mind, That forms anew, and fashions every Soul, Refines the gross Defects of human Kind; Humbles the proud and vain, inspires the dull; Gives Cowards noble Heat in Fight, And teaches feeble Women how to write: That doth the Universe Command, Does from my Iris' Heart direct her Hand.

I give you the Liberty to say this to your Heart, if you please: And that you may know with what Justice you do so, I will confess in my turn.

The Confession.

That Love's my Conduct where I go, And Love instructs me all I do. Prudence no longer is my Guide, Nor take I Counsel of my Pride. In vain does Honour now invade, In vain does Reason take my part, If against Love it do persuade, If it rebel against my Heart. If the soft Ev'ning do invite, And I incline to take the Air, The Birds, the Spring, the Flow'rs no more delight; 'Tis Love makes all the Pleasure there: Love, which about me still I bear; I'm charm'd with what I thither bring, And add a Softness to the Spring. If for Devotion I design, Love meets me, even at the Shrine; In all my Worships claims a part, And robs even Heaven of my Heart: All Day does counsel aud controul, And all the Night employs my Soul. No wonder then if all you think be true, That Love's concern'd in all I do for you.

And, Damon, you, know that Love is no ill Master; and I must say, with a Blush, that he has found me no unapt Scholar; and he instructs too agreeably not to succeed in all he undertakes.

Who can resist his soft Commands? When he resolves, what God withstands?

But I ought to explain to you my Watch: The naked Love which you will find in the middle of it, with his Wings clipp'd, to shew you he is fixed and constant, and will not fly away, points you out with his Arrow the four and twenty Hours that compose the Day and the Night: Over every Hour you will find written what you ought to do, during its Course; and every Half-hour is marked with a Sigh, since the quality of a Lover is, to sigh day and night: Sighs are the Children of Lovers, that are born every Hour. And that my Watch may always be just, Love himself ought to conduct it; and your Heart should keep time with the Movement:

My Present's delicate and new, If by your Heart the Motion's set; According as that's false or true, You'll find my Watch will answer it.

Every Hour is tedious to a Lover separated from his Mistress: and to shew you how good I am, I will have my Watch instruct you, to pass some of them without Inquietude; that the force of your Imagination may sometimes charm the Trouble you have for my Absence:

Perhaps I am mistaken here, My Heart may too much Credit give: But, Damon, you can charm my Fear, And soon my Error undeceive.

But I will not disturb my Repose at this time with a Jealousy, which I hope is altogether frivolous and vain; but begin to instruct you in the Mysteries of my Watch. Cast then your Eyes upon the eighth Hour in the Morning, which is the Hour I would have you begin to wake: you will find there written,

EIGHT o'CLOCK.

Agreeable Reverie.

Do not rise yet; you may find Thoughts agreeable enough, when you awake, to entertain you longer in Bed. And 'tis in that Hour you ought to recollect all the Dreams you had in the Night. If you had dream'd any thing to my advantage, confirm your self in that thought; but if to my disadvantage, renounce it, and disown the injurious Dream. 'Tis in this Hour also that I give you leave to reflect on all that I have ever said and done, that has been most obliging to you, and that gives you the most tender Sentiments.

The Reflections.

Remember, Damon, while your Mind Reflects on things that charm and please, You give me Proofs that you are kind, And set my doubting Soul at ease: For when your Heart receives with Joy The thoughts of Favours which I give, My Smiles in vain I not employ, And on the Square we love and live. Think then on all I ever did, That e'er was charming, e'er was dear; Let nothing from that Soul be hid, Whose Griefs and Joys I feel and share. All that your Love and Faith have sought, } All that your Vows and Sighs have bought, } Now render present to your Thought. }

And for what's to come, I give you leave, Damon, to flatter your self, and to expect, I shall still pursue those Methods, whose Remembrance charms so well: But, if it be possible, conceive these kind Thoughts between sleeping and waking, that all my too forward Complaisance, my Goodness, and my Tenderness, which I confess to have for you, may pass for Half Dreams: for 'tis most certain,

That tho' the Favours of the Fair Are ever to the Lover dear; Yet, lest he should reproach that easy Flame, That buys its Satisfaction with its Shame; She ought but rarely to confess How much she finds of Tenderness; Nicely to guard the yielding part, And hide the hard-kept Secret in her Heart.

For, let me tell you, Damon, tho' the Passion of a Woman of Honour be ever so innocent, and the Lover never so discreet and honest; her Heart feels I know not what of Reproach within, at the reflection of any Favours she has allow'd him. For my part, I never call to mind the least soft or kind Word I have spoken to Damon, without finding at the same instant my Face cover'd over with Blushes, and my Heart with sensible Pain. I sigh at the Remembrance of every Touch I have stolen from his Hand, and have upbraided my Soul, which confesses so much guilty Love, as that secret Desire of touching him made appear. I am angry at the Discovery, though I am pleas'd at the same time with the Satisfaction I take in doing so; and ever disorder'd at the Remembrance of such Arguments of too much Love. And these unquiet Sentiments alone are sufficient to persuade me, that our Sex cannot be reserv'd too much. And I have often, on these occasions, said to my self,

The Reserve.

Tho' Damon every Virtue have, With all that pleases in his Form, That can adorn the Just and Brave, That can the coldest Bosom warm; Tho' Wit and Honour there abound, Yet the Pursuer's ne'er pursu'd, And when my Weakness he has found, His Love will sink to Gratitude: While on the asking part he lives, 'Tis she th' Obliger is who gives.

And he that at one Throw the Stake has won Gives over play, since all the Stock is gone. And what dull Gamester ventures certain Store With Losers who can set no more?

NINE o'CLOCK.

Design to please no body.

I should continue to accuse you of that Vice I have often done, that of Laziness, if you remain'd past this Hour in bed: 'tis time for you to rise; my Watch tells you 'tis nine o'clock. Remember that I am absent, therefore do not take too much pains in dressing your self, and setting your Person off.

The Question.

Tell me! What can he design, Who in his Mistress' absence will be fine? Why does he cock, and comb, and dress? Why is his Cravat String in Print? What does th' Embroider'd Coat confess? Why to the Glass this long Address, If there be nothing in't? If no new Conquest is design'd, If no new Beauty fill his Mind? Let Fools and Fops, whose Talents lie In being neat, in being spruce, Be drest in Vain, and Tawdery; With Men of Sense, 'tis out of use: The only Folly that Distinction sets Between the noisy fluttering Fools and Wits. Remember, Iris is away; And sighing to your Valet cry, Spare your Perfumes and Care, to-day I have no business to be gay, Since Iris is not by. I'll be all negligent in Dress, And scarce set off for Complaisance; Put me on nothing that may please, But only such as may give no Offence.

Say to your self, as you are dressing, 'Would it please Heaven, that I might see Iris to-day! But oh! 'tis impossible: Therefore all that I shall see will be but indifferent Objects, since 'tis Iris only that I wish to see.' And sighing, whisper to your self:

The Sigh.

Ah! charming Object of my wishing Thought! Ah! soft Idea of a distant Bliss! That only art in Dreams and Fancy brought, To give short Intervals of Happiness. But when I waking find thou absent art, And with thee, all that I adore, What Pains, what Anguish fills my Heart! What Sadness seizes me all o'er! All Entertainments I neglect, Since Iris is no longer there: Beauty scarce claims my bare Respect, Since in the Throng I find not her. Ah then! how vain it were to dress, and show; Since all I wish to please, is absent now!

'Tis with these Thoughts, Damon, that your Mind ought to be employ'd, during your time of Dressing. And you are too knowing in Love, to be ignorant,

That when a Lover ceases to be blest With the dear Object he desires, Ah! how indifferent are the rest! How soon their Conversation tires! Tho' they a thousand Arts to please invent, Their Charms are dull, their Wit impertinent.

TEN o'CLOCK.

Reading of Letters.

My Cupid points you now to the Hour in which you ought to retire into your Cabinet, having already past an Hour in Dressing: and for a Lover, who is sure not to appear before his Mistress, even that Hour is too much to be so employ'd. But I will think, you thought of nothing less than Dressing while you were about it. Lose then no more Minutes, but open your Scrutore, and read over some of those Billets you have received from me. Oh! what Pleasures a Lover feels about his Heart, in reading those from a Mistress he entirely loves!

The Joy.

Who, but a Lover, can express The Joys, the Pants, the Tenderness, That the soft amorous Soul invades, While the dear Billetdoux he reads: Raptures Divine the Heart o'erflow, Which he that loves not cannot know. A thousand Tremblings, thousand Fears, The short-breath'd Sighs, the joyful Tears! The Transport, where the Love's confest; The Change, where Coldness is exprest; The diff'ring Flames the Lover burns, As those are shy, or kind, by turns.

However you find'em, Damon, construe 'em all to my advantage: Possibly, some of them have an Air of Coldness, something different from that Softness they are usually too amply fill'd with; but where you find they have, believe there, that the Sense of Honour, and my Sex's Modesty, guided my Hand a little against the Inclinations of my Heart; and that it was as a kind of an Atonement, I believed I ought to make, for something I feared I had said too kind, and too obliging before. But where-ever you find that Stop, that Check in my Career of Love, you will be sure to find something that follows it to favour you, and deny that unwilling Imposition upon my Heart; which, lest you should mistake, Love shews himself in Smiles again, and flatters more agreeably, disdaining the Tyranny of Honour and rigid Custom, that Imposition on our Sex; and will, in spite of me, let you see he reigns absolutely in my Soul.

The reading my Billetdoux may detain you an Hour: I have had so much Goodness to write you enow to entertain you for so long at least, and sometimes reproach my self for it; but, contrary to all my Scruples, I find my self disposed to give you those frequent Marks of my Tenderness. If yours be so great as you express it, you ought to kiss my Letters a thousand times; you ought to read them with Attention, and weigh every Word, and value every Line. A Lover may receive a thousand endearing Words from a Mistress, more easily than a Billet. One says a great many kind things of course to a Lover, which one is not willing to write, or to give testify'd under one's Hand, signed and sealed. But when once a Lover has brought his Mistress to that degree of Love, he ought to assure himself, she loves not at the common rate.

Love's Witness.

Slight unpremeditated Words are borne By every common Wind into the Air; Carelessly utter'd, die as soon as born, And in one instant give both Hope and Fear: Breathing all Contraries with the same Wind, According to the Caprice of the Mind.

But Billetdoux are constant Witnesses, Substantial Records to Eternity; Just Evidences, who the Truth confess, On which the Lover safely may rely; They're serious Thoughts, digested and resolv'd; And last, when Words are into Clouds devolv'd.

I will not doubt, but you give credit to all that is kind in my Letters; and I will believe, you find a Satisfaction in the Entertainment they give you, and that the Hour of reading 'em is not disagreeable to you. I could wish, your Pleasure might be extreme, even to the degree of suffering the Thought of my Absence not to diminish any part of it. And I could wish too, at the end of your Reading, you would sigh with Pleasure, and say to your self—

The Transport.

O Iris! While you thus can charm, While at this Distance you can wound and warm; My absent Torments I will bless and bear, That give me such dear Proofs how kind you are. Present, the valu'd Store was only seen, Now I am rifling the bright Mass within.

Every dear, past, and happy Day, When languishing at Iris' Feet I lay; When all my Prayers and all my Tears could move No more than her Permission, I should love: Vain with my Glorious Destiny, I thought, beyond, scarce any Heaven cou'd be.

But, charming Maid, now I am taught, That Absence has a thousand Joys to give, On which the Lover present never thought, That recompense the Hours we grieve. Rather by Absence let me be undone, Than forfeit all the Pleasures that has won.

With this little Rapture, I wish you wou'd finish the reading my Letters, shut your Scrutore, and quit your Cabinet; for my Love leads to eleven o'clock.

ELEVEN o'CLOCK.

The Hour to write in.

If my Watch did not inform you 'tis now time to write, I believe, Damon, your Heart wou'd, and tell you also that I should take it kindly, if you would employ a whole Hour that way; and that you should never lose an Occasion of writing to me, since you are assured of the Welcome I give your Letters. Perhaps you will say, an Hour is too much, and that 'tis not the mode to write long Letters. I grant you, Damon, when we write those indifferent ones of Gallantry in course, or necessary Compliment; the handsome comprizing of which in the fewest Words, renders 'em the most agreeable: But in Love we have a thousand foolish things to say, that of themselves bear no great Sound, but have a mighty Sense in Love; for there is a peculiar Eloquence natural alone to a Lover, and to be understood by no other Creature: To those, Words have a thousand Graces and Sweetnesses; which, to the Unconcerned, appear Meanness, and easy Sense, at the best. But, Damon, you and I are none of those ill Judges of the Beauties of Love; we can penetrate beyond the Vulgar, and perceive the fine Soul in every Line, thro' all the humble Dress of Phrase; when possibly they who think they discern it best in florid Language, do not see it at all. Love was not born or bred in Courts, but Cottages; and, nurs'd in Groves and Shades, smiles on the Plains, and wantons in the Streams; all unador'd and harmless. Therefore, Damon, do not consult your Wit in this Affair, but Love alone; speak all that he and Nature taught you, and let the fine Things you learn in Schools alone: Make use of those Flowers you have gather'd there, when you converst with States-men and the Gown. Let Iris possess your Heart in all its simple Innocence, that's the best Eloquence to her that loves: and that is my Instruction to a Lover that would succeed in his Amours; for I have a Heart very difficult to please, and this is the nearest way to it.

Advice to Lovers.

Lovers, if you wou'd gain a Heart, Of Damon learn to win the Prize; He'll shew you all its tend'rest part, And where its greatest Danger lies; The Magazine of its Disdain, Where Honour, feebly guarded, does remain.

If present, do but little say; Enough the silent Lover speaks: But wait, and sigh, and gaze all day; Such Rhet'rick more than Language takes. For Words the dullest way do move; And utter'd more to shew your Wit than Love.

Let your Eyes tell her of your Heart; Its Story is, for Words, too delicate. Souls thus exchange, and thus impart, And all their Secrets can relate. A Tear, a broken Sigh, she'll understand; Or the soft trembling Pressings of the Hand.

Or if your Pain must be in Words exprest, Let 'em fall gently, unassur'd and slow; And where they fail, your Looks may tell the rest: Thus Damon spoke, and I was conquer'd so. The witty Talker has mistook his Art; The modest Lover only charms the Heart.

Thus, while all day you gazing sit, And fear to speak, and fear your Fate, You more Advantages by Silence get, Than the gay forward Youth with all his Prate. Let him be silent here; but when away, Whatever Love can dictate, let him say.

There let the bashful Soul unveil, And give a loose to Love and Truth: Let him improve the amorous Tale, With all the Force of Words, and Fire of Youth: There all, and any thing let him express; Too long he cannot write, too much confess.

O Damon! How well have you made me understand this soft Pleasure! You know my Tenderness too well, not to be sensible how I am charmed with your agreeable long Letters.

The Invention.

Ah! he who first found out the way Souls to each other to convey, Without dull Speaking, sure must be Something above Humanity. Let the fond World in vain dispute, And the first Sacred Mystery impute Of Letters to the learned Brood, And of the Glory cheat a God: 'Twas Love alone that first the Art essay'd, } And Psyche was the first fair yielding Maid, } That was by the dear Billetdoux betray'd. }

It is an Art too ingenious to have been found out by Man, and too necessary to Lovers, not to have been invented by the God of Love himself. But, Damon, I do not pretend to exact from you those Letters of Gallantry, which, I have told you, are filled with nothing but fine Thoughts, and writ with all the Arts of Wit and Subtilty: I would have yours still all tender unaffected Love, Words unchosen, Thoughts unstudied, and Love unfeign'd. I had rather find more Softness than Wit in your Passion; more of Nature than of Art; more of the Lover than the Poet.

Nor would I have you write any of those little short Letters, that are read over in a Minute; in Love, long Letters bring a long Pleasure: Do not trouble your self to make 'em fine, or write a great deal of Wit and Sense in a few Lines; that is the Notion of a witty Billet, in any Affair but that of Love. And have a care rather to avoid these Graces to a Mistress; and assure your self, dear Damon, that what pleases the Soul pleases the Eye, and the Largeness or Bulk of your Letter shall never offend me; and that I only am displeased when I find them small. A Letter is ever the best and most powerful Agent to a Mistress, it almost always persuades, 'tis always renewing little Impressions, that possibly otherwise Absence would deface. Make use then, Damon, of your Time while it is given you, and thank me that I permit you to write to me: Perhaps I shall not always continue in the Humour of suffering you to do so; and it may so happen, by some turn of Chance and Fortune, that you may be deprived, at the same time, both of my Presence, and of the Means of sending to me. I will believe that such an Accident would be a great Misfortune to you, for I have often heard you say, that, 'To make the most happy Lover suffer Martyrdom, one need only forbid him Seeing, Speaking and Writing to the Object he loves.' Take all the Advantages then you can, you cannot give me too often Marks too powerful of your Passion: Write therefore during this Hour, every Day. I give you leave to believe, that while you do so, you are serving me the most obligingly and agreeably you can, while absent; and that you are giving me a Remedy against all Grief, Uneasiness, Melancholy, and Despair; nay, if you exceed your Hour, you need not be asham'd. The Time you employ in this kind Devoir, is the Time that I shall be grateful for, and no doubt will recompense it. You ought not however to neglect Heaven for me; I will give you time for your Devotion, for my Watch tells you 'tis time to go to the Temple.

TWELVE o'CLOCK.

Indispensible Duty.

There are certain Duties which one ought never to neglect: That of adoring the Gods is of this nature; and which we ought to pay, from the bottom of our Hearts: And that, Damon, is the only time I will dispense with your not thinking on me. But I would not have you go to one of those Temples, where the celebrated Beauties, and those that make a profession of Gallantry, go; and who come thither only to see, and be seen; and whither they repair, more to shew their Beauty and Dress, than to honour the Gods. If you will take my advice, and oblige my wish, you shall go to those that are least frequented, and you shall appear there like a Man that has a perfect Veneration for all things Sacred.

The Instruction.

Damon, if your Heart and Flame, You wish, should always be the same, Do not give it leave to rove, Nor expose it to new Harms: Ere you think on't, you may love, If you gaze on Beauty's Charms: If with me you wou'd not part, Turn your Eyes into your Heart.

If you find a new Desire In your easy Soul take fire, From the tempting Ruin fly; Think it faithless, think it base: Fancy soon will fade and die, If you wisely cease to gaze. Lovers should have Honour too, Or they pay but half Love's due.

Do not to the Temple go, With design to gaze or show: Whate'er Thoughts you have abroad, Tho' you can deceive elsewhere, There's no feigning with your God; Souls should be all perfect there. The Heart that's to the Altar brought, Only Heaven should fill its Thought.

Do not your sober Thoughts perplex, By gazing on the Ogling Sex: Or if Beauty call your Eyes, Do not on the Object dwell; Guard your Heart from the Surprize, By thinking Iris doth excell. Above all Earthly Things I'd be, } Damon, most belov'd by thee; } And only Heaven must rival me. }

ONE o'CLOCK.

Forc'd Entertainment.

I Perceive it will be very difficult for you to quit the Temple, without being surrounded with Compliments from People of Ceremony, Friends, and Newsmongers, and several of those sorts of Persons, who afflict and busy themselves, and rejoice at a hundred things they have no Interest in; Coquets and Politicians, who make it the Business of their whole Lives, to gather all the News of the Town; adding or diminishing according to the Stock of their Wit and Invention, and spreading it all abroad to the believing Fools and Gossips; and perplexing every body with a hundred ridiculous Novels, which they pass off for Wit and Entertainment; or else some of those Recounters of Adventures, that are always telling of Intrigues, and that make a Secret to a hundred People of a thousand foolish things they have heard: Like a certain pert and impertinent Lady of the Town, whose Youth and Beauty being past, sets up for Wit, to uphold a feeble Empire over idle Hearts; and whose Character is this:

The Coquet.

Melinda, who had never been Esteem'd a Beauty at fifteen, Always amorous was, and kind: To every Swain she lent an Ear; Free as Air, but false as Wind; Yet none complain'd, she was severe. She eas'd more than she made complain; Was always singing, pert, and vain.

Where-e'er the Throng was, she was seen, And swept the Youths along the Green; With equal Grace she flatter'd all; And fondly proud of all Address, Her Smiles invite, her Eyes do call, And her vain Heart her Looks confess. She rallies this, to that she bow'd, Was talking ever, laughing loud.

On every side she makes advance, And every where a Confidence; She tells for Secrets all she knows, And all to know she does pretend: Beauty in Maids she treats as Foes: But every handsome Youth as Friend. Scandal still passes off for Truth; And Noise and Nonsense, Wit and Youth.

Coquet all o'er, and every part, Yet wanting Beauty, even of Art; Herds with the ugly, and the old; And plays the Critick on the rest: Of Men, the bashful, and the bold, Either, and all, by turns, likes best: Even now, tho' Youth be langisht, she Sets up for Love and Gallantry.

This sort of Creature, Damon, is very dangerous; not that I fear you will squander away a Heart upon her, but your Hours; for in spight of you, she'll detain you with a thousand Impertinencies, and eternal Tattle. She passes for a judging Wit; and there is nothing so troublesome as such a Pretender. She, perhaps, may get some knowledge of our Correspondence; and then, no doubt, will improve it to my Disadvantage. Possibly she may rail at me; that is her fashion by the way of friendly Speaking; and an aukward Commendation, the most effectual way of Defaming and Traducing. Perhaps she tells you, in a cold Tone, that you are a happy Man to be belov'd by me: That Iris indeed is handsome, and she wonders she has no more Lovers; but the Men are not of her mind; if they were, you should have more Rivals. She commends my Face, but that I have blue Eyes, and 'tis pity my Complexion is no better: My Shape but too much inclining to fat. Cries—She would charm infinitely with her Wit, but that she knows too well she is Mistress of it. And concludes,—But all together she is well enough.—Thus she runs on without giving you leave to edge in a word in my defence; and ever and anon crying up her own Conduct and Management: Tells you how she is opprest with Lovers, and fatigu'd with Addresses; and recommending her self, at every turn, with a perceivable Cunning: And all the while is jilting you of your good Opinion; which she would buy at the price of any body's Repose, or her own Fame, tho' but for the Vanity of adding to the number of her Lovers. When she sees a new Spark, the first thing she does, she enquires into his Estate; if she find it such as may (if the Coxcomb be well manag'd) supply her Vanity, she makes advances to him, and applies her self to those little Arts she usually makes use of to gain her Fools; and according to his Humour dresses and affects her own. But, Damon, since I point to no particular Person in this Character, I will not name who you shall avoid; but all of this sort I conjure you, wheresoever you find 'em. But if unlucky Chance throw you in their way, hear all they say, without credit or regard, as far as Decency will suffer you; hear 'em without approving their Foppery; and hear 'em without giving 'em cause to censure you. But 'tis so much Time lost to listen to all the Novels this sort of People will perplex you with; whose Business is to be idle, and who even tire themselves with their own Impertinencies. And be assur'd after all there is nothing they can tell you that is worth your knowing. And Damon, a perfect Lover never asks any News but of the Maid he loves.

The Enquiry.

Damon, if your Love be true To the Heart that you possess, Tell me what have you to do Where you have no Tenderness? Her Affairs who cares to learn, For whom he has not some Concern?

If a Lover fain would know If the Object lov'd be true, Let her but industrious be To watch his Curiosity; Tho' ne'er so cold his Questions seem, They come from warmer Thoughts within.

When I hear a Swain enquire What gay Melinda does to live, I conclude there is some Fire In a Heart inquisitive; Or 'tis, at least, the Bill that's set To shew, The Heart is to be let.

TWO o'CLOCK.

Dinner-Time.

Leave all those fond Entertainments, or you will disoblige me, and make Dinner wait for you; for my Cupid tells you 'tis that Hour. Love does not pretend to make you lose that; nor is it my Province to order you your Diet. Here I give you a perfect Liberty to do what you please; and possibly, 'tis the only Hour in the whole four and twenty that I will absolutely resign you, or dispense with your even so much as thinking on me. 'Tis true, in seating your self at Table, I would not have you placed over-against a very beautiful Object; for in such a one there are a thousand little Graces in Speaking, Looking, and Laughing that fail not to charm, if one gives way to the Eyes, to gaze and wander that way; in which, perhaps, in spight of you, you will find a Pleasure: And while you do so, tho' without design or concern, you give the fair Charmer a sort of Vanity, in believing you have placed your self there, only for the advantage of looking on her; and she assumes a hundred little Graces and Affectations which are not natural to her, to compleat a Conquest, which she believes so well begun already. She softens her Eyes, and sweetens her Mouth; and in fine, puts on another Air than when she had no Design, and when you did not, by your continual looking on her, rouze her Vanity, and encrease her easy Opinion of her own Charms. Perhaps she knows I have some Interest in your Heart, and prides her self, at least, with believing she has attracted the Eyes of my Lover, if not his Heart; and thinks it easy to vanquish the whole, if she pleases; and triumphs over me in her secret Imaginations. Remember, Damon, that while you act thus in the Company and Conversation of other Beauties, every Look or Word you give in favour of 'em, is an Indignity to my Reputation; and which you cannot suffer if you love me truly, and with Honour: and assure your self, so much Vanity as you inspire in her, so much Fame you rob me of; for whatever Praises you give another Beauty, so much you take away from mine. Therefore, if you dine in Company, do as others do: Be generally civil, not applying your self by Words or Looks to any particular Person: Be as gay as you please: Talk and laugh with all, for this is not the Hour for Chagrin.

The Permission.

My Damon, tho' I stint your Love, I will not stint your Appetite; That I would have you still improve, By every new and fresh Delight. Feast till Apollo hides his Head, Or drink the Am'rous God to Thetis' Bed.

Be like your self: All witty, gay! And o'er the Bottle bless the Board; The list'ning Round will, all the Day, Be charm'd, and pleas'd with every Word. Tho' Venus' Son inspire your Wit, 'Tis the Silenian God best utters it.

Here talk of every thing but me, Since ev'ry thing you say with Grace: If not dispos'd your Humour be, And you'd this Hour in silence pass; Since something must the Subject prove, Of Damon's Thoughts, let it be Me and Love.

But, Damon, this enfranchised Hour, No Bounds, or Laws, will I impose; But leave it wholly in your pow'r, What Humour to refuse or chuse; I Rules prescribe but to your Flame; For I, your Mistress, not Physician, am.

THREE o'CLOCK.

Visits to Friends.

Damon, my Watch is juster than you imagine; it would not have you live retired and solitary, but permits you to go and make Visits. I am not one of those that believe Love and Friendship cannot find a place in one and the same Heart: And that Man would be very unhappy, who, as soon as he had a Mistress, should be obliged to renounce the Society of his Friends. I must confess, I would not that you should have so much Concern for them, as you have for me; for I have heard a sort of a Proverb that says, He cannot be very fervent in Love, who is not a little cold in Friendship. You are not ignorant, that when Love establishes himself in a Heart, he reigns a Tyrant there, and will not suffer even Friendship, if it pretend to share his Empire there.

Cupid.

Love is a God, whose charming Sway Both Heaven, and Earth, and Seas obey; A Power that will not mingled be With any dull Equality. Since first from Heaven, which gave him Birth, He rul'd the Empire of the Earth; Jealous of Sov'reign Pow'r he rules, And will be absolute in Souls.

I should be very angry if you had any of those Friendships which one ought to desire in a Mistress only; for many times it happens that you have Sentiments a little too tender for those amiable Persons; and many times Love and Friendship are so confounded together, that one cannot easily discern one from the other. I have seen a Man flatter himself with an Opinion, that he had but an Esteem for a Woman, when by some turn of Fortune in her Life, as marrying, or receiving the Addresses of Men, he has found by Spite and Jealousies within, that that was Love, which he before took for Complaisance or Friendship. Therefore have a care, for such Amities are dangerous: Not but that a Lover may have fair and generous Female Friends, whom he ought to visit; and perhaps I should esteem you less, if I did not believe you were valued by such, if I were perfectly assured they were Friends and not Lovers. But have a care you hide not a Mistress under this Veil, or that you gain not a Lover by this Pretence: For you may begin with Friendship, and end with Love; and I should be equally afflicted should you give it or receive it. And though you charge our Sex with all the Vanity, yet I often find Nature to have given you as large a Portion of that common Crime, which you would shuffle off, as asham'd to own; and are as fond and vain of the Imagination of a Conquest, as any Coquet of us all: tho' at the same time you despise the Victim, you think it adds a Trophy to your Fame. And I have seen a Man dress, and trick, and adjust his Looks and Mein, to make a Visit to a Woman he lov'd not, nor ever could love, as for those he made to his Mistress; and only for the Vanity of making a Conquest upon a Heart, even unworthy of the little Pains he has taken about it. And what is this but buying Vanity at the Expense of Sense and Ease; and with Fatigue to purchase the Name of a conceited Fop, besides that of a dishonest Man? For he who takes pains to make himself beloved, only to please his curious Humour, tho' he should say nothing that tends to it, more than by his Looks, his Sighs, and now and then breaking into Praises and Commendations of the Object; by the care he takes, to appear well drest before her, and in good order; he lyes in his Looks, he deceives with his Mein and Fashion, and cheats with every Motion, and every Grace he puts on: He cozens when he sings or dances; he dissembles when he sighs; and every thing he does, that wilfully gains upon her, is Malice prepense, Baseness, and Art below a Man of Sense or Virtue: and yet these Arts, these Cozenages, are the Common Practices of the Town. What's this but that damnable Vice, of which they so reproach our Sex; that of jilting for Hearts? And 'tis in vain that my Lover, after such foul Play, shall think to appease me, with saying, He did it to try how easy he could conquer, and of how great force his Charms were: And why should I be angry if all the Town loved him, since he loved none but Iris? Oh foolish Pleasure! How little Sense goes to the making of such a Happiness! And how little Love must he have for one particular Person, who would wish to inspire it into all the World, and yet himself pretend to be insensible! But this, Damon, is rather what is but too much practiced by your Sex, than any Guilt I charge on you: tho' Vanity be an Ingredient that Nature very seldom omits in the Composition of either Sex; and you may be allowed a Tincture of it at least. And, perhaps, I am not wholly exempt from this Leaven in my Nature, but accuse myself sometimes of finding a secret Joy of being ador'd, tho' I even hate my Worshipper. But if any such Pleasure touch my Heart, I find it at the same time blushing in my Cheeks with a guilty Shame, which soon checks the petty Triumphs; and I have a Virtue at soberer Thoughts, that I find surmounts my Weakness and Indiscretion; and I hope Damon finds the same: For, should he have any of those Attachments, I should have no pity for him.

The Example.

Damon, if you'd have me true, Be you my Precedent and Guide: Example sooner we pursue, Than the dull Dictates of our Pride. Precepts of Virtue are too weak an Aim: 'Tis Demonstration that can best reclaim.

Shew me the Path you'd have me go; With such a Guide I cannot stray: What you approve, whate'er you do, It is but just I bend that way. If true, my Honour favours your Design; If false, Revenge is the result of mine.

A Lover true, a Maid sincere, Are to be priz'd as things divine: 'Tis Justice makes the Blessing dear, Justice of Love without Design. And she that reigns not in a Heart alone, Is never safe, or easy, on her Throne.

FOUR o'CLOCK.

General Conversation.

In this Visiting-Hour, many People will happen to meet at one and the same Time together, in a Place: And as you make not Visits to Friends, to be silent, you ought to enter into Conversation with 'em; but those Conversations ought to be general, and of general things: for there is no necessity of making your Friend the Confident of your Amours. 'Twould infinitely displease me, to hear you have reveal'd to them all that I have repos'd in you; tho' Secrets never so trivial, yet since utter'd between Lovers, they deserve to be priz'd at a higher rate: For what can shew a Heart more indifferent and indiscreet, than to declare in any fashion, or with Mirth, or Joy, the tender things a Mistress says to a Lover, and which possibly, related at second hand, bear not the same Sense, because they have not the same Sound and Air they had originally, when they came from the soft Heart of her, who sigh'd 'em first to her lavish Lover? Perhaps they are told again with Mirth, or Joy, unbecoming their Character and Business; and then they lose their Graces: (for Love is the most solemn thing in nature, and the most unsuiting with Gaiety.) Perhaps the soft Expressions suit not so well the harsher Voice of the masculine Lover, whose Accents were not form'd for so much Tenderness; at least, not of that sort: for Words that have the same Meaning, are alter'd from their Sense by the least tone or accent of the Voice; and those proper and fitted to my Soul, are not, possibly, so to yours, though both have the same Efficacy upon us; yours upon my Heart, as mine upon yours: and both will be misunderstood by the unjudging World. Beside this, there is a Holiness in Love that's true, that ought not to be profan'd: And as the Poet truly says, at the latter end of an Ode, of which I will recite the whole;

The Invitation.

Aminta, fear not to confess The charming Secret of thy Tenderness: That which a Lover can't conceal, That which, to me, thou shouldst reveal; And is but what thy lovely Eyes express. Come, whisper to my panting Heart, That heaves and meets thy Voice half-way; That guesses what thou wouldst impart, And languishes for what thou hast to say. Confirm my trembling Doubt, and make me know, Whence all these Blessings, and these Sighings flow.

Why dost thou scruple to unfold A Mystery that does my Life concern? If thou ne'er speakst, it will be told; For Lovers all things can discern. From overy Look, from every bashful Grace, That still succeed each other in thy Face, I shall the dear transporting Secret learn: But 'tis a Pleasure not to be exprest, } To hear it by the Voice confest, } When soft Sighs breath it on my panting Breast. } All calm and silent is the Grove, Whose shading Boughs resist the Day; Here thou mayst blush, and talk of Love, While only Winds, unheeding, stay, That will not bear the Sound away: While I with solemn awful Joy, All my attentive Faculties employ; List'ning to every valu'd Word; And in my Soul the secret Treasure hoard: There like some Mystery Divine, The wond'rous Knowledge I'll enshrine. Love can his Joys no longer call his own, Than the dear Secret's kept unknown.

There is nothing more true than those two last Lines: and that Love ceases to be a Pleasure, when it ceases to be a Secret, and one you ought to keep sacred: For the World, which never makes a right Judgment of things, will misinterpret Love, as they do Religion; every one judging it, according to the Notion he has of it, or the Talent of his Sense. Love (as a great Duke said) is like Apparitions; every one talks of them, but few have seen 'em: Every body thinks himself capable of understanding Love, and that he is a Master in the Art of it; when there is nothing so nice, or difficult, to be rightly comprehended; and indeed cannot be, but to a Soul very delicate. Nor will he make himself known to the Vulgar: There must be an uncommon Fineness in the Mind that contains him; the rest he only visits in as many Disguises as there are Dispositions and Natures, where he makes but a short stay, and is gone. He can fit himself to all Hearts, being the greatest Flatterer in the World: And he possesses every one with a Confidence, that they are in the number of his Elect; and they think they know him perfectly, when nothing but the Spirits refined possess him in his Excellency. From this difference of Love, in different Souls, proceed those odd fantastick Maxims, which so many hold of so different kinds: And this makes the most innocent Pleasures pass oftentimes for Crimes, with the unjudging Croud, who call themselves Lovers: And you will have your Passion censur'd by as many as you shall discover it to, and as many several ways. I advise you therefore, Damon, to make no Confidents of your Amours; and believe, that Silence has, with me, the most powerful Charm.

'Tis also in these Conversations, that those indiscreetly civil Persons often are, who think to oblige a good Man, by letting him know he is belov'd by some one or other; and making him understand how many good Qualities he is Master of, to render him agreeable to the Fair Sex, if he would but advance where Love and good Fortune call; and that a too constant Lover loses a great part of his Time, which might be manag'd to more advantage, since Youth hath so short a Race to run. This, and a thousand the like indecent Complaisances, give him a Vanity that suits not with that Discretion, which has hitherto acquir'd him so good a Reputation. I would not have you, Damon, act on these occasions, as many of the easy Sparks have done before you, who receive such Weakness and Flattery for Truth; and passing it off with a Smile, suffer 'em to advance in Folly, till they have gain'd a Credit with 'em, and they believe all they hear; telling 'em they do so, by consenting Gestures, Silence, or open Approbation. For my part, I should not condemn a Lover that should answer such a sort of civil Brokers for Love, somewhat briskly; and by giving 'em to understand they are already engag'd, or directing 'em to Fools, that will possibly hearken to 'em, and credit such Stuff, shame 'em out of a Folly so infamous and disingenuous. In such a Case only I am willing you should own your Passion; not that you need tell the Object which has charm'd you: And you may say, you are already a Lover, without saying you are belov'd. For so long as you appear to have a Heart unengag'd, you are expos'd to all the little Arts and and Addresses of this sort of obliging Procurers of Love, and give way to the hope they have of making you their Proselyte. For your own Reputation then, and my Ease and Honour, shun such Conversations; for they are neither creditable to you, nor pleasing to me: And believe me, Damon, a true Lover has no Curiosity, but what concerns his Mistress.

FIVE o'CLOCK.

Dangerous Visits.

I foresee, or fear, that these busy impertinent Friends will oblige you to visit some Ladies of their Acquaintance, or yours; my Watch does not forbid you. Yet I must tell you, I apprehend Danger in such Visits; and I fear, you will have need of all your Care and Precaution, in these Encounters. That you may give me no cause to suspect you, perhaps you will argue, that Civility obliges you to it. If I were assur'd there would no other Design be carried on, I should believe it were to advance an amorous Prudence too far, to forbid you. Only keep yourself upon your guard; for the Business of most part of the Fair Sex, is, to seek only the Conquest of Hearts: All their Civilities are but so many Interests; and they do nothing without Design. And in such Conversations there is always a Je ne scay quoy, that is fear'd, especially when Beauty is accompanied with Youth and Gaiety; and which they assume upon all occasions that may serve their turn. And I confess, 'tis not an easy matter to be just in these Hours and Conversations: The most certain way of being so, is to imagine I read all your Thoughts, observe all your Looks, and hear all your Words.

The Caution.

My Damon, if your Heart be kind, Do not too long with Beauty stay; For there are certain Moments when the Mind Is hurry'd by the Force of Charms away. In Fate a Minute critical there lies, That waits on Love, and takes you by Surprize.

A Lover pleas'd with Constancy, Lives still as if the Maid he lov'd were by: As if his Actions were in view, As if his Steps she did pursue; Or that his very Soul she knew. Take heed; for though I am not present there, My Love, my Genius waits you every where.

I am very much pleas'd with the Remedy, you say, you make use of to defend your self from the Attacks that Beauty gives your Heart; which in one of your Billets, you said was this, or to this purpose:

The Charm for Constancy.

Iris, to keep my Soul entire and true, It thinks, each Moment of the Day, on you. And when a charming Face I see, That does all other Eyes incline, It has no Influence on me: I think it ev'n deform'd to thine. My Eyes, my Soul, and Sense, regardless move To all, but the dear Object of my Love.

But, Damon, I know all Lovers are naturally Flatterers, tho' they do not think so themselves; because every one makes a Sense of Beauty according to his own Fancy. But perhaps you will say in your own defence, That 'tis not Flattery to say an unbeautiful Woman is beautiful, if he that says so believes she is so. I should be content to acquit you of the first, provided you allow me the last: And if I appear charming in Damon's eyes, I am not fond of the Approbation of any other. 'Tis enough the World thinks me not altogether disagreeable, to justify his Choice; but let your good Opinion give what Increase it pleases to my Beauty, tho' your Approbation give me a Pleasure, it shall not a Vanity; and I am contented that Damon should think me a Beauty, without my believing I am one. 'Tis not to draw new Assurances, and new Vows from you, that I speak this; though Tales of Love are the only ones we desire to hear often told, and which never tire the Hearers if addrest to themselves. But 'tis not to this end I now seem to doubt what you say to my advantage: No, my Heart knows no Disguise, nor can dissemble one Thought of it to Damon; 'tis all sincere, and honest as his Wish: 'Tis therefore it tells you, it does not credit every thing you say; tho' I believe you say abundance of Truths in a great part of my Character. But when you advance to that, which my own Sense, my Judgment, or my Glass cannot persuade me to believe, you must give me leave either to believe you think me vain enough to credit you, or pleas'd that your Sentiments and mine are differing in this point. But I doubt I may rather reply in some Verses, a Friend of yours and mine sent to a Person she thought had but indifferent Sentiments for her; yet, who nevertheless flatter'd her, because he imagin'd she had a very great Esteem for him. She is a Woman that, you know, naturally hates Flattery: On the other side she was extremely dissatisfy'd, and uneasy at his Opinion of his being more in her favour than she desir'd he should believe. So that one Night having left her full of Pride and Anger, she next Morning sent him these Verses, instead of a Billetdoux.

The Defiance.

By Heaven 'tis false, I am not vain; And rather would the Subject be Of your Indifference, or Disdain, Than Wit or Raillery. Take back the trifling Praise you give, And pass it on some easier Fool, Who may the injuring Wit believe, That turns her into ridicule.

Tell her, she's witty, fair and gay, With all the Charms that can subdue: Perhaps she'll credit what you say; But curse me if I do.

If your Diversion you design, On my Good-nature you have prest: Or if you do intend it mine, You have mistook the Jest.

Philander, fly that guilty Art: Your charming facile Wit will find, It cannot play on any Heart, That is sincere and kind.

For Wit with Softness to reside, Good-nature is with Pity stor'd; But Flattery's the result of Pride, And fawns to be ador'd.

Nay, even when you smile and bow, 'Tis to be render'd more compleat: Your Wit, with ev'ry Grace you shew, Is but a popular Cheat.

Laugh on, and call me Coxcomb—do; And, your Opinion to improve, Think, all you think of me is true; And to confirm it, swear I love.

Then, while you wreck my Soul with Pain, And of a cruel Conquest boast, 'Tis you, Philander, that are vain, And witty at my cost.

Possibly, the angry Aminta, when she writ these Verses, was more offended, that he believed himself belov'd, than that he flatter'd; tho' she wou'd seem to make that a great part of the Quarrel, and Cause of her Resentment: For we are often in an humour to seem more modest in that point, than naturally we are; being too apt to have a favourable Opinion of our selves: And 'tis rather the Effects of a Fear that we are flatter'd, than our own ill Opinion of the Beauty flatter'd; and that the Praiser thinks not so well of it, as we do our selves, or at least we wish he should. Not but there are Grains of Allowance for the Temper of him that speaks: One Man's Humour is to talk much; and he may be permitted to enlarge upon the Praise he gives the Person he pretends to, without being accus'd of much Guilt. Another hates to be wordy; from such an one, I have known one soft Expression, one tender Thing, go as far as whole Days everlasting Protestations urged with Vows, and mighty Eloquence. And both the one and the other, indeed, must be allow'd in good manners, to stretch the Compliment beyond the bounds of nice Truth: and we must not wonder to hear a Man call a Woman a Beauty, when she is not ugly; or another a great Wit, if she have but common Sense above the Vulgar; well bred, when well drest; and good-natur'd, when civil. And as I should be very ridiculous, if I took all you said for absolute Truth; so I should be very unjust, not to allow you very sincere in almost all you said besides; and those things, the most material to Love, Honour and Friendship. And for the rest (Damon) be it true or false, this believe, you speak with such a Grace, that I cannot chuse but credit you; and find an infinite Pleasure in that Faith, because I love you: And if I cannot find the Cheat, I am contented you should deceive me on, because you do it so agreeably.

SIX o'CLOCK.

Walk without Design.

You yet have time to walk; and my Watch foresaw you cou'd not refuse your Friends. You must to the Park, or to the Mall; for the Season is fair and inviting, and all the young Beauties love those Places too well, not to be there. 'Tis there that a thousand Intrigues are carry'd on, and as many more design'd: 'Tis there that every one is set out for Conquest; and who aim at nothing less than Hearts. Guard yours well, my Damon; and be not always admiring what you see. Do not, in passing by, sigh them silent Praises. Suffer not so much as a guilty Wish to approach your Thoughts, nor a heedful Glance to steal from your fine Eyes: Those are Regards you ought only to have for her you love. But oh! above all, have a care of what you say: You are not reproachable, if you should remain silent all the time of your Walk; nor would those that know you believe it the Effects of Dulness, but Melancholy. And if any of your Friends ask you, Why you are so? I will give you leave to sigh, and say—

The Mal-Content.

Ah! wonder not if I appear Regardless of the Pleasures here; Or that my Thoughts are thus confin'd To the just Limits of my Mind. My Eyes take no delight to rove O'er all the smiling Charmers of the Grove, Since she is absent whom they love.

Ask me not, Why the Flow'ry Spring, Or the gay little Birds that sing, Or the young Streams no more delight, Or Shades and Arbours can't invite? Why the soft Murmurs of the Wind, Within the thick-grown Groves confin'd, No more my Soul transport, or cheer; Since all that's charming—Iris, is not here; Nothing seems glorious, nothing fair.

Then suffer me to wander thus, With down-cast Eyes, and Arms across: Let Beauty unregarded go; The Trees and Flowers unheeded grow. Let purling Streams neglected glide; With all the Spring's adorning Pride. 'Tis Iris only Soul can give To the dull Shades, and Plains, and make 'em thrive; Nature and my last Joys retrieve.

I do not, for all this, wholly confine your Eyes: you may look indifferently on all, but with a particular regard on none. You may praise all the Beauties in general, but no single one too much. I will not exact from you neither an intire Silence: There are a thousand Civilities you ought to pay to all your Friends and Acquaintance; and while I caution you of Actions, that may get you the Reputation of a Lover of some of the Fair that haunt those Places, I would not have you, by an unnecessary and uncomplaisant Sullenness, gain that of a Person too negligent or morose. I would have you remiss in no one Punctilio of good Manners. I would have you very just, and pay all you owe; but in these Affairs be not over generous, and give away too much. In fine, you may look, speak and walk; but (Damon) do it all without design: And while you do so, remember that Iris sent you this Advice.

The Warning.

Take heed, my Damon, in the Grove, Where Beauties with design do walk; Take heed, my Damon, how you look and talk, For there are Ambuscades of Love. The very Winds that softly blow, Will help betray your easy Heart; And all the Flowers that blushing grow, The Shades about, and Rivulets below, Will take the Victor's part.

Remember, Damon, all my Safety lies In the just Conduct of your Eyes. The Heart, by Nature good and brave, Is to those treacherous Guards a Slave. If they let in the fair destructive Foe, Scarce Honour can defend her noble Seat: Ev'n she will be corrupted too, Or driv'n to a Retreat. The Soul is but the Cully to the Sight, And must be pleas'd in what that takes delight.

Therefore examine your self well; and conduct your Eyes, during this Walk, like a Lover that seeks nothing: And do not stay too long in these Places.

SEVEN o'CLOCK.

Voluntary Retreat.

'Tis time to be weary, 'tis Night: Take leave of your Friends and retire home. 'Tis in this Retreat that you ought to recollect in your Thoughts all the Actions of the Day, and all those things that you ought to give me an account of, in your Letter: You cannot hide the least Secret from me, without Treason against sacred Love. For all the World agrees that Confidence is one of the greatest Proofs of the Passion of Love; and that Lover who refuses his Confidence to the Person he loves, is to be suspected to love but very indifferently, and to think very poorly of the Sense and Generosity of his Mistress. But that you may acquit your self like a Man, and a Lover of Honour, and leave me no doubt upon my Soul; think of all you have done this day, that I may have all the Story of it in your next Letter to me: but deal faithfully, and neither add nor diminish in your Relation; the Truth and Sincerity of your Confession will atone even for little Faults that you shall commit against me, in some of those things you shall tell me. For if you have fail'd in any Point or Circumstance of Love, I had much rather hear it from you than another: for 'tis a sort of Repentance to accuse your self; and would be a Crime unpardonable, if you suffer me to hear it from any other: And be assur'd, while you confess it, I shall be indulgent enough to forgive you. The noblest Quality of Man is Sincerity; and (Damon) one ought to have as much of it in Love, as in any other Business of one's Life, notwithstanding the most part of Men make no account of it there; but will believe there ought to be Double-dealing, and an Art practised in Love as well as in War. But, Oh! beware of that Notion.

Sincerity.

Sincerity! thou greatest Good! Thou Virtue which so many boast! And art so nicely understood! And often in the searching lost! For when we do approach thee near, The fine Idea fram'd of thee, Appears not now so charming fair As the more useful Flattery. Thou hast no Glist'ring to invite; Nor tak'st the Lover at first sight.

The modest Virtue shuns the Croud, And lives, like Vestals, in a Cell; In Cities 'twill not be allow'd, Nor takes delight in Courts to dwell; 'Tis Nonsense with the Man of Wit; And ev'n a Scandal to the Great: For all the Young, and Fair, unfit; And scorn'd by wiser Fops of State. A Virtue, yet was never known To the false Trader, or the falser Gown.

And (Damon) tho' thy noble Blood Be most illustrious, and refin'd; Tho' ev'ry Grace and ev'ry Good Adorn thy Person and thy Mind: Yet, if this Virtue shine not there, This God-like Virtue, which alone, Wert thou less witty, brave, or fair, Wou'd for all these, less priz'd, atone; My tender Folly I'd controul, And scorn the Conquest of thy Soul.

EIGHT o'CLOCK.

Impatient Demands.

After you have sufficiently recollected your self of all the past Actions of the Day, call your Page into your Cabinet, or him whom you trusted with your last Letter to me; where you ought to enquire of him a thousand things, and all of me. Ask impatiently, and be angry if he answers not your Curiosity soon enough: Think that he has a dreaming in his Voice, in these moments more than at other times; and reproach him with Dulness: For 'tis most certain that when one loves tenderly, we would know in a minute, what cannot be related in an hour. Ask him, How I did? How I receiv'd his Letter? And if he examined the Air of my Face, when I took it? If I blush'd or looked pale? If my Hand trembled, or I spoke to him with short interrupting Sighs? If I asked him any Questions about you, while I was opening the Seal? Or if I could not well speak, and was silent? If I read it attentively, and with Joy? And all this, before you open the Answer I have sent you by him: which, because you are impatient to read, you, with the more haste and earnestness, demand all you expect from him; and that you may the better know what Humour I was in, when I writ that to you: For, Oh! a Lover has a thousand little Fears, and Dreads, he knows not why. In fine, make him recount to you all that past, while he was with me; and then you ought to read that which I have sent, that you may inform your self of all that passes in my Heart: for you may assure your self, all that I say to you that way proceeds from thence.

The Assurance.

How shall a Lover come to know, Whether he's belov'd or no? What dear things must she impart, To assure him of her Heart? Is it when her Blushes rise; And she languish in her Eyes; Tremble when he does approach; Look pale, and faint at ev'ry Touch?

Is it, when a thousand ways She does his Wit and Beauty praise; Or she venture to explain, In less moving Words, a Pain; Tho' so indiscreet she grows, To confirm it with her Vows?

These some short-liv'd Passion moves, While the Object's by, she loves; While the gay and sudden Fire Kindles by some fond Desire: And a Coldness will ensue, When the Lover's out of view. Then she reflects with Scandal o'er The easy Scene that past before: Then, with Blushes, would recal The unconsid'ring Criminal; In which a thousand Faults she'll find, And chide the Errors of her Mind. Such fickle weight is found in Words, As no substantial Faith affords: Deceiv'd and baffl'd all may be, Who trust that frail Security.

But a well-digested Flame, That will always be the same; And that does from Merit grow, Establish'd by our Reason too; By a better way will prove, 'Tis th' unerring Fire of Love. Lasting Records it will give: And, that all she says may live; Sacred and authentick stand, Her Heart confirms it by her Hand. If this, a Maid, well born, allow; Damon, believe her just and true.

NINE o'CLOCK.

Melancholy Reflections.

You will not have much trouble to explain what my Watch designs here. There can be no Thought more afflicting, than that of the Absence of a Mistress; and which the Sighings of the Heart will soon make you find. Ten thousand Fears oppress him; he is jealous of every body, and envies those Eyes and Ears that are charmed by being near the Object ador'd. He grows impatient, and makes a thousand Resolutions, and as soon abandons them all. He gives himself wholly up to the Torment of Incertainty; and by degrees, from one cruel Thought to another, winds himself up to insupportable Chagrin. Take this Hour then, to think on your Misfortunes, which cannot be small to a Soul that is wholly sensible of Love. And every one knows, that a Lover, deprived of the Object of his Heart, is deprived of all the World, and inconsolable: For tho' one wishes without ceasing for the dear Charmer one loves, and tho' you speak of her every minute; and tho' you are writing to her every day, and tho' you are infinitely pleas'd with the dear and tender Answers; yet, to speak sincerely, it must be confessed, that the Felicity of a true Lover is to be always near his Mistress. And you may tell me, O Damon! what you please; and say that Absence inspires the Flame, which perpetual Presence would satiate: I love too well to be of that mind, and when I am, I shall believe my Passion is declining. I know not whether it advances your Love; but surely it must ruin your Repose: And it is impossible to be, at once, an absent Lover, and happy too. For my part, I can meet with nothing that can please in the absence of Damon; but on the contrary I see all things with disgust. I will flatter my self, that 'tis so with you; and that the least Evils appear great Misfortunes; and that all those who speak to you of any thing but of what you love, increase your Pain, by a new remembrance of her Absence. I will believe that these are your Sentiments, when you are assur'd not to see me in some weeks; and if your Heart do not betray your Words, all those days will be tedious to you. I would not, however, have your Melancholy too extreme; and to lessen it, you may persuade your self, that I partake it with you: for, I remember, in your last you told me, you would wish we should be both griev'd at the same time, and both at the same time pleas'd; and I believe I love too well not to obey you.

Love secur'd.

Love, of all Joys, the sweetest is, The most substantial Happiness; The softest Blessing Life can crave, The noblest Passion Souls can have. Yet, if no Interruption were, No Difficulties came between, 'Twou'd not be render'd half so dear: The Sky is gayest when small Clouds are seen. The sweetest Flower, the blushing Rose, Amidst the Thorns securest grows. If Love were one continu'd Joy, How soon the Happiness would cloy! The wiser God did this foresee; And to preserve the Bliss entire, Mix'd it with Doubt and Jealousy, Those necessary Fuels to the Fire; Sustain'd the fleeting Pleasures with new Fears; With little Quarrels, Sighs and Tears; With Absence, that tormenting Smart, That makes a Minute seem a Day, A Day a Year to the impatient Heart, That languishes in the Delay, But cannot sigh the tender Pain away; That still returns, and with a greater Force, Thro' ev'ry Vein it takes its grateful Course. But whatsoe'er the Lover does sustain, Tho' he still sigh, complain, and fear; It cannot be a mortal Pain, When Two do the Affliction bear.

TEN o'CLOCK.

Reflections.

After the afflicting Thoughts of my Absence, make some Reflections on your Happiness. Think it a Blessing to be permitted to love me; think it so, because I permit it to you alone, and never could be drawn to allow it any other. The first thing you ought to consider, is, that at length I have suffer'd my self to be overcome, to quit that Nicety that is natural to me, and receive your Addresses; nay, thought 'em agreeable: and that I have at last confess'd, the Present of your Heart is very dear to me. 'Tis true, I did not accept of it the first time it was offer'd me, nor before you had told me a thousand times, that you could not escape expiring, if I did not give you leave to sigh for me, and gaze upon me; and that there was an absolute necessity for me, either to give you leave to love, or die. And all those Rigours my Severity has made you suffer, ought now to be recounted to your Memory, as Subjects of Pleasure; and you ought to esteem and judge of the Price of my Affections, by the Difficulties you found in being able to touch my Heart: Not but you have Charms that can conquer at first sight; and you ought not to have valu'd me less, if I had been more easily gain'd: But 'tis enough to please you, to think and know I am gain'd; no matter when and how. When, after a thousand Cares and Inquietudes, that which we wish for succeeds to our Desires, the remembrance of those Pains and Pleasures we encounter'd in arriving at it, gives us a new Joy.

Remember also, Damon, that I have preferred you before all those that have been thought worthy of my Esteem; and that I have shut my Eyes to all their pleading Merits, and could survey none but yours.

Consider then, that you had not only the Happiness to please me, but that you only found out the way of doing it, and I had the Goodness at last to tell you so, contrary to all the Delicacy and Niceness of my Soul, contrary to my Prudence, and all those Scruples, you know, are natural to my Humour.

My Tenderness proceeded further, and I gave you innocent Marks of my new-born Passion, on all occasions that presented themselves: For, after that from my Eyes and Tongue you knew the Sentiments of my Heart, I confirm'd that Truth to you by my Letters. Confess, Damon, that if you make these Reflections, you will not pass this Hour very disagreeably.

Beginning Love.

As free as wanton Winds I liv'd, That unconcern'd do play: No broken Faith, no Fate I griev'd; No Fortune gave me Joy. A dull Content crown'd all my Hours, My Heart no Sighs opprest; I call'd in vain on no deaf Pow'rs, To ease a tortur'd Breast.

The sighing Swains regardless pin'd, And strove in vain to please: With pain I civilly was kind, But could afford no Ease. Tho' Wit and Beauty did abound, The Charm was wanting still, That could inspire the tender Wound, Or bend my careless Will.

Till in my Heart a kindling Flame Your softer Sighs had blown; Which I, with striving, Love and Shame, Too sensibly did own. Whate'er the God before cou'd plead; Whate'er the Youth's Desert; The feeble Siege in vain was laid Against my stubborn Heart.

At first my Sighs and Blushes spoke, Just when your Sighs would rise; And when you gaz'd, I wish'd to look, But durst not meet your Eyes. I trembled when my Hand you press'd, Nor cou'd my Guilt controul; But Love prevail'd, and I confess'd The Secrets of my Soul.

And when upon the giving part, My Present to avow, By all the ways confirm'd my Heart, That Honour wou'd allow; Too mean was all that I could say, Too poorly understood: I gave my Soul the noblest way, My Letters made it good.

You may believe I did not easily, nor suddenly, bring my Heart to this Condescension; but I lov'd, and all things in Damon were capable of making me resolve so to do. I could not think it a Crime, where every Grace, and every Virtue justified my Choice: And when once one is assured of this, we find not much difficulty in owning that Passion which will so well commend one's Judgment; and there is no Obstacle that Love does not surmount. I confess'd my Weakness a thousand ways, before I told it you; and I remember all those things with Pleasure, but yet I remember 'em also with Shame.

ELEVEN o'CLOCK.

Supper.

I Will believe, Damon, that you have been so well entertained during this Hour, and have found so much Sweetness in these Thoughts, that if one did not tell you that Supper waits, you would lose your self in Reflections so pleasing, many more Minutes. But you must go where you are expected; perhaps, among the fair, the young, the gay; but do not abandon your Heart to too much Joy, tho' you have so much reason to be contented: but the greatest Pleasures are always imperfect, if the Object belov'd do not partake of it. For this reason be chearful and merry with reserve: Do not talk too much, I know you do not love it; and if you do it, 'twill be the effect of too much Complaisance, or with some design of pleasing too well; for you know your own charming Power, and how agreeable your Wit and Conversation are to all the World. Remember, I am covetous of every Word you speak, that is not address'd to me, and envy the happy list'ner, if I am not by. And I may reply to you as Aminta did to Philander, when he charged her of loving a Talker: and because, perhaps, you have not heard it, I will, to divert you, send it to you; and at the same time assure you, Damon, that your more noble Quality, of speaking little, has reduc'd me to a perfect Abhorrence of those wordy Sparks, that value themselves upon their ready and much talking upon every trivial Subject, and who have so good an Opinion of their Talent that way, they will let no body edge in a word, or a reply; but will make all the Conversation themselves, that they may pass for very entertaining Persons, and pure Company. But the Verses—

The Reformation.

Philander, since you'll have it so, I grant I was impertinent; And, till this Moment, did not know, Thro' all my Life what 'twas I meant. Your kind Opinion was the flattering Glass, In which my Mind found how deform'd it was.

In your clear Sense, which knows no Art, I saw the Errors of my Soul: And all the Foibless 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 Sex's shame, That has so long my Life pursu'd, You with such Modesty reclaim, As all the Women 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, That prides himself upon his Prate, And is, of Words, that Nonsense, vain: When in your few appears such Excellence, As have reproach'd, and charm'd me into Sense.

For ever may I list'ning sit, Tho' but each Hour a Word be born; I would 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.

I believe you are so good a Lover, as to be of my Opinion; and that you will neither force your self against Nature, nor find much occasion to lavish out those excellent things that must proceed from you, whenever you speak. If all Women were like me, I should have more reason to fear your Silence than your Talk: for you have a thousand ways to charm without speaking, and those which to me shew a great deal more Concern. But, Damon, you know the greatest part of my Sex judge the fine Gentleman by the Volubility of his Tongue, by his Dexterity in Repartee, and cry—Oh! he never wants fine things to say: He's eternally talking the most surprizing things. But, Damon, you are well assur'd, I hope, that Iris is none of these Coquets: at least, if she had any spark of it once in her Nature, she is by the excellency of your contrary Temper taught to know, and scorn the folly: And take heed your Conduct never give me cause to suspect you have deceiv'd me in your Temper.

TWELVE o'CLOCK.

Complaisance.

Nevertheless, Damon, Civility requires a little Complaisance after Supper; and I am assur'd, you can never want that, tho' I confess, you are not accus'd of too general a Complaisance, and do not often make use of it to those Persons you have an Indifference for: tho' one is not the less esteemable for having more of this than one ought: and tho' an excess of it be a Fault, 'tis a very excusable one. Have therefore some for those with whom you are: You may laugh with 'em, drink with 'em, dance or sing with 'em; yet think of me. You may discourse of a thousand indifferent things with 'em; and at the same time still think of me. If the Subject be any beautiful Lady, whom they praise, either for her Person, Wit, or Virtue, you may apply it to me: And if you dare not say it aloud, at least, let your Heart answer in this language:

Yes, the fair Object, whom you praise, Can give us Love a thousand ways; Her Wit and Beauty charming are; But still my Iris is more fair.

No body ever spoke before me of a faithful Lover, but still I sigh'd, and thought of Damon: And ever when they tell me Tales of Love, any soft pleasing Intercourses of an Amour; Oh! with what Pleasures do I listen! and with Pleasure answer 'em, either with my Eyes, or Tongue—

That Lover may his Sylvia warm, But cannot, like my Damon, charm.

If I have not all those excellent Qualities you meet with in those beautiful People, I am however very glad that Love prepossesses your Heart to my advantage: And I need not tell you, Damon, that a true Lover ought to persuade himself, that all other Objects ought to give place to her, for whom his Heart sighs—But see, my Cupid tells you 'tis One o'Clock, and that you ought not to be longer from your Apartment; where, while you are undressing, I will give you leave to say to your self—

The Regret.

Alas! and must the Sun decline, Before it have inform'd my Eyes Of all that's glorious, all that's fine, Of all I sigh for, all I prize? How joyful were those happy Days, When Iris spread her charming Rays, Did my unwearied Heart inspire With never-ceasing awful Fire, And e'ery Minute gave me new Desire! But now, alas! all dead and pale, Like Flow'rs that wither in the Shade: Where no kind Sun-beams can prevail, To raise its cold and fading Head, I sink into my useless Bed. I grasp the senseless Pillow as I lie; A thousand times, in vain, I sighing cry, Ah! wou'd to Heaven my Iris were as nigh.

ONE o'CLOCK.

Impossibility to Sleep.

You have been up long enough; and Cupid, who takes care of your Health, tells you, 'tis time for you to go to bed. Perhaps you may not sleep as soon as you are laid, and possibly you may pass an Hour in Bed, before you shut your Eyes. In this impossibility of sleeping, I think it very proper for you to imagine what I am doing where I am. Let your Fancy take a little Journey then, invisible, to observe my Actions and my Conduct. You will find me sitting alone in my Cabinet (for I am one that do not love to go to bed early) and will find me very uneasy and pensive, pleas'd with none of those things that so well entertain others. I shun all Conversation, as far as Civility will allow, and find no Satisfaction like being alone, where my Soul may, without interruption, converse with Damon. I sigh, and sometimes you will see my Cheeks wet with Tears, that insensibly glide down at a thousand Thoughts that present themselves soft and afflicting. I partake of all your Inquietude. On other things I think with indifference, if ever my Thoughts do stray from the more agreeable Object. I find, however, a little Sweetness in this Thought, that, during my Absence, your Heart thinks of me, when mine sighs for you. Perhaps I am mistaken, and that at the same time that you are the Entertainment of all my Thoughts, I am no more in yours; and perhaps you are thinking of those things that immortalize the Young and Brave, either by those Glories the Muses flatter you with, or that of Bellona, and the God of War; and serving now a Monarch, whose glorious Acts in Arms has out-gone all the feign'd and real Heroes of any Age, who has, himself, out-done whatever History can produce of great and brave, and set so illustrious an Example to the Under-World, that it is not impossible, as much a Lover as you are, but you are thinking now how to render your self worthy the Glory of such a God-like Master, by projecting a thousand things of Gallantry and Danger. And tho', I confess, such Thoughts are proper for your Youth, your Quality, and the Place you have the honour to hold under our Sovereign, yet let me tell you, Damon, you will not be without Inquietude, if you think of either being a delicate Poet, or a brave Warrior; for Love will still interrupt your Glory, however you may think to divert him either by writing or fighting. And you ought to remember these Verses:

Love and Glory.

Beneath the kind protecting Laurel's shade, For sighing Lovers, and for Warriors made, The soft Adonis, and rough Mars were laid.

Both were design'd to take their Rest; But Love the gentle Boy opprest, And false Alarms shook the stern Heroe's Breast.

This thinks to soften all his Toils of War, In the dear Arms of the obliging Fair; And that, by Hunting, to divert his Care.

All Day, o'er Hills and Plains, wild Beasts he chas'd, Swift as the flying Winds, his eager haste; In vain, the God of Love pursues as fast.

But oh! no Sports, no Toils, divertive prove, The Evening still returns him to the Grove, To sigh and languish for the Queen of Love:

Where Elegies and Sonnets he does frame, And to the list'ning Echoes sighs her Name, And on the Trees carves Records of his Flame.

The Warrior in the dusty Camp all day With rattling Drums and Trumpets, does essay To fright the tender flatt'ring God away.

But still, alas, in vain: whate'er Delight, What Cares he takes the wanton Boy to fright, Love still revenges it at night.

'Tis then he haunts the Royal Tent, The sleeping Hours in Sighs are spent, And all his Resolutions does prevent.

In all his Pains, Love mixt his Smart; In every Wound he feels a Dart; And the soft God is trembling in his Heart.

Then he retires to shady Groves, And there, in vain, he seeks Repose, And strives to fly from what he cannot lose.

While thus he lay, Bellona came, And with a gen'rous fierce Disdain, Upbraids him with his feeble Flame.

Arise, the World's great Terror, and their Care; Behold the glitt'ring Host from far, That waits the Conduct of the God of War.

Beneath these glorious Laurels, which were made To crown the noble Victor's Head, Why thus supinely art thou laid?

Why on that Face, where awful Terror grew, Thy Sun-parch'd Cheeks why do I view The shining Tracks of falling Tears bedew?

What God has wrought these universal Harms? What fatal Nymph, what fatal Charms, Has made the Heroe deaf to War's Alarms?

Now let the conqu'ring Ensigns up be furl'd: Learn to be gay, be soft, and curl'd; And idle, lose the Empire of the World.

In fond effeminate Delights go on; Lose all the Glories you have won: Bravely resolve to love, and be undone.

'Tis thus the martial Virgin pleads; Thus she the am'rous God persuades To fly from Venus, and the flow'ry Meads.

You see here that Poets and Warriors are oftentimes in affliction, even under the Shades of their protecting Laurels; and let the Nymphs and Virgins sing what they please to their memory, under the Myrtles, and on flowery Beds, they are much better Days than in the Campagne. Nor do the Crowns of Glory surpass those of Love: The first is but an empty Name, which is won, kept and lost with Hazard; but Love more nobly employs a brave Soul, and all his Pleasures are solid and lasting; and when one has a worthy Object of one's Flame, Glory accompanies Love too. But go to sleep, the Hour is come; and 'tis now that your Soul ought to be entertain'd in Dreams.

TWO o'CLOCK.

Conversation in Dreams.

I doubt not but you will think it very bold and arbitrary, that my Watch should pretend to rule even your sleeping Hours, and that my Cupid should govern your very Dreams; which are but Thoughts disordered, in which Reason has no part; Chimera's of the Imagination, and no more. But tho' my Watch does not pretend to Counsel unreasonably, yet you must allow it here, if not to pass the Bounds, at least to advance to the utmost Limits of it. I am assur'd, that after having thought so much of me in the Day, you will think of me also in the Night. And the first Dream my Watch permits you to make, is to think you are in Conversation with me.

Imagine, Damon, that you are talking to me of your Passion, with all the Transport of a Lover, and that I hear you with Satisfaction; that all my Looks and Blushes, while you are speaking, give you new Hopes and Assurances; that you are not indifferent to me; and that I give you a thousand Testimonies of my Tenderness, all innocent and obliging.

While you are saying all that Love can dictate, all that Wit and good Manners can invent, and all that I wish to hear from Damon, believe in this Dream, all flattering and dear, that after having shewed me the Ardour of your Flame, I confess to you the Bottom of my Heart, and all the loving Secrets there; that I give you Sigh for Sigh, Tenderness for Tenderness, Heart for Heart, and Pleasure for Pleasure. And I would have your Sense of this Dream so perfect, and your Joy so entire, that if it happen you should awake with the Satisfaction of this Dream, you should find your Heart still panting with the soft Pleasure of the dear deceiving Transport, and you should be ready to cry out,

Ah! how sweet it is to dream, When charming Iris is the Theme!

For such, I wish, my Damon, your sleeping and your waking Thoughts should render me to your Heart.

THREE o'CLOCK.

Capricious Suffering in Dreams.

It is but just to mix a little Chagrin with these Pleasures, a little Bitter with your Sweet; you may be cloy'd with too long an Imagination of my Favours: and I will have your Fancy in Dreams represent me to it, as the most capricious Maid in the World. I know, here you will accuse my Watch, and blame me with unnecessary Cruelty, as you will call it: but Lovers have their little Ends, their little Advantages, to pursue by Methods wholly unaccountable to all, but that Heart which contrives 'em: And, as good a Lover as I believe you, you will not enter into my Design at first sight; and tho', on reasonable Thoughts, you will be satisfied with this Conduct of mine, at its first Approach you will be ready to cry out—

The Request.

Oh Iris! let my sleeping Hours be fraught With Joys, which you deny my waking Thought. Is't not enough you absent are? Is't not enough I sigh all day, And lanquish out my Life in Care, To e'ery Passion made a Prey? I burn with Love, and soft Desire; I rave with Jealousy and Fear: All Day, for Ease, my Soul I tire; In vain I search it ev'ry where: It dwells not with the Witty or the Fair.

It is not in the Camp or Court, In Business, Musick, or in Sport; The Plays, the Park, and Mall afford No more than the dull Basset-board. The Beauties in the Drawing-room, With all their Sweetness, all their Bloom, No more my faithful Eyes invite, Nor rob my Iris of a Sigh or Glance, Unless soft Thoughts of her incite A Smile, or trivial Complaisance. Then since my Days so anxious prove, Ah, cruel Tyrant! give A little Loose to Joys in Love, And let your Damon live.

Let him in Dreams be happy made, And let his Sleep some Bliss provide: The nicest Maid may yield in Night's dark shade, What she so long by Day-light had deny'd. There let me think you present are, And court my Pillow for my Fair. There let me find you kind, and that you give All that a Man of Honour dares receive. And may my Eyes eternal Watches keep, Rather than want that Pleasure when I sleep.

Some such Complaint as this I know you will make; but, Damon, if the little Quarrels of Lovers render the reconciling Moments so infinitely charming, you must needs allow, that these little Chagrin in capricious Dreams must awaken you to more Joy to find 'em but Dreams, than if you had met with no Disorder there. 'Tis for this reason that I would have you suffer a little Pain for a coming Pleasure; nor, indeed is it possible for you to escape the Dreams my Cupid points you out. You shall dream that I have a thousand Foibles, something of the lightness of my Sex; that my Soul is employ'd in a thousand Vanities; that (proud and fond of Lovers) I make advances for the Glory of a Slave, without any other Interest or Design than that of being ador'd. I will give you leave to think my Heart fickle, and that, far from resigning it to any one, I lend it only for a Day, or an Hour, and take it back at pleasure; that I am a very Coquet, even to Impertinence.

All this I give you leave to think, and to offend me: but 'tis in sleep only that I permit it; for I would never pardon you the least Offence of this nature, if in any other Kind than in a Dream. Nor is it enough Affliction to you, to imagine me thus idly vain; but you are to pass on to a hundred more capricious Humours: as that I exact of you a hundred unjust Things; that I pretend you should break off with all your Friends, and for the future have none at all; that I will myself do those Things, which I violently condemn in you; and that I will have for others, as well as you, that tender Friendship that resembles Love, or rather that Love which People call Friendship; and that I will not, after all, have you dare complain on me.

In fine, be as ingenious as you please to torment your self; and believe, that I am become unjust, ungrateful, and insensible: But were I so indeed, O Damon! consider your awaking Heart, and tell me, would your Love stand the proof of all these Faults in me? But know, that I would have you believe I have none of these Weaknesses, tho' I am not wholly without Faults, but those will be excusable to a Lover; and this Notion I have of a perfect one:

Whate'er fantastick Humours rule the Fair, She's still the Lover's Dotage, and his Care.

FOUR o'CLOCK.

Jealousy in Dreams.

Do not think, Damon, to wake yet; for I design you shall yet suffer a little more: Jealousy must now possess you, that Tyrant over the Heart, that compels your very Reason, and seduces all your Good-Nature. And in this Dream you must believe That in sleeping, which you could not do me the injustice to do when awake. And here you must explain all my Actions to the utmost disadvantage: Nay, I will wish, that the Force of this Jealousy may be so extreme, that it may make you languish in Grief, and be overcome with Anger.

You shall now imagine, that one of your Rivals is with me, interrupting all you say, or hindering all you would say; that I have no Attention to what you say aloud to me, but that I incline mine Ear to hearken to all that he whispers to me. You shall repine, that he pursues me every where, and is eternally at your heels if you approach me; that I caress him with Sweetness in my Eyes, and that Vanity in my Heart, that possesses the Humours of almost all the Fair; that is, to believe it greatly for my Glory to have abundance of Rivals for my Lovers. I know you love me too well not to be extreamely uneasy in the Company of a Rival, and to have one perpetually near me; for let him be belov'd or not by the Mistress, it must be confess'd, a Rival is a very troublesome Person. But, to afflict you to the utmost, I will have you imagine that my Eyes approve of all his Thoughts; that they flatter him with Hopes; and that I have taken away my Heart from you, to make a Present of it to this more lucky Man. You shall suffer, while possess'd with this Dream, all that a cruel Jealousy can make a tender Soul suffer.

The Torment.

O Jealousy! thou Passion most ingrate! Tormenting as Despair, envious as Hate! Spightful as Witchcraft, which th' Invoker harms; Worse than the Wretch that suffers by its Charms. Thou subtil Poison in the Fancy bred, } Diffus'd thro' every Vein, the Heart and Head, } And over all, like wild Contagion spread. } Thou, whose sole Property is to destroy, Thou Opposite to Good, Antipathy to Joy; Whose Attributes are cruel Rage and Fire, Reason debauch'd, false Sense, and mad Desire.

In fine, it is a Passion that ruffles all the Senses, and disorders the whole Frame of Nature. It makes one hear and see what was never spoke, and what never was in view. 'Tis the Bane of Health and Beauty, an unmannerly Intruder; and an Evil of Life worse than Death. She is a very cruel Tyrant in the Heart; she possesses and pierces it with infinite Unquiets; and we may lay it down as a certain Maxim—

She that wou'd rack a Lover's Heart To the extent of Cruelty, Must his Tranquillity subvert To the most tort'ring Jealousy.

I speak too sensibly of this Passion, not to have lov'd well enough to have been touch'd with it: And you shall be this unhappy Lover Damon, during this Dream, in which nothing shall present it self to your tumultuous Thoughts, that shall not bring its Pain. You shall here pass and repass a hundred Designs, that shall confound one another. In fine, Damon, Anger, Hatred, and Revenge, shall surround your Heart.

There they shall all together reign With mighty Force, with mighty Pain; In spight of Reason, in contempt of Love: Sometimes by turns, sometimes united move.

FIVE o'CLOCK.

Quarrels in Dreams.

I perceive you are not able to suffer all this Injustice, nor can I permit it any longer: and tho' you commit no Crime yourself, yet you believe in this Dream, that I complain of the Injuries you do my Fame; and that I am extreamely angry with a Jealousy so prejudicial to my Honour. Upon this belief you accuse me of Weakness; you resolve to see me no more, and are making a thousand feeble Vows against Love. You esteem me as a false one, and resolve to cease loving the vain Coquet, and will say to me, as a certain Friend of yours said to his false Mistress:

The Inconstant.

Tho', Silvia, you are very fair, Yet disagreeable to me; And since you so inconstant are, Your Beauty's damn'd with Levity. Your Wit, your most offensive Arms, For want of Judgment, wants its Charms.

To every Lover that is new, All new and charming you surprize; But when your fickle Mind they view, They shun the danger of your Eyes. Should you a Miracle of Beauty show, Yet you're inconstant, and will still be so.

'Tis thus you will think of me: And in fine, Damon, during this Dream, we are in perpetual State of War.

Thus both resolve to break their Chain, And think to do't without much Pain, But Oh! alas! we strive in vain.

For Lovers, of themselves, can nothing do; There must be the Consent of two: You give it me, and I must give it you.

And if we shall never be free, till we acquit one another, this Tye between you and I, Damon, is likely to last as long as we live; therefore in vain you endeavour, but can never attain your End; and in conclusion you will say, in thinking of me:

Oh! how at ease my Heart would live, Could I renounce this Fugitive; This dear, but false, attracting Maid, That has her Vows and Faith betray'd! Reason would have it so, but Love Dares not the dang'rous Tryal prove.

Do not be angry then, for this afflicting Hour is drawing to an end, and you ought not to despair of coming into my absolute Favour again,

Then do not let your murm'ring Heart, Against my Int'rest, take your part. The Feud was rais'd by Dreams, all false and vain, And the next Sleep shall reconcile again.

SIX o'CLOCK.

Accommodation in Dreams.

Tho' the angry Lovers force themselves, all they can, to chase away the troublesom Tenderness of the Heart, in the height of their Quarrels, Love sees all their Sufferings, pities and redresses 'em: And when we begin to cool, and a soft Repentance follows the Chagrin of the Love-Quarrel, 'tis then that Love takes the advantage of both Hearts, and renews the charming Friendship more forcibly than ever, puts a stop to all our Feuds, and renders the peace-making Minutes the most dear and tender part of our Life. How pleasing 'tis to see your Rage dissolve! How sweet, how soft is every Word that pleads for pardon at my Feet! 'Tis there that you tell me, your very Sufferings are over paid, when I but assure you from my Eyes, that I will forget your Crime: And your Imagination shall here present me the most sensible of your past Pain, that you can wish; and that all my Anger being vanisht, I give you a thousand Marks of my Faith and Gratitude; and lastly, to crown all, that we again make new Vows to one another of inviolable Peace:

After these Debates of Love, Lovers thousand Pleasures prove, Which they ever think to taste, Tho' oftentimes they do not last.

Enjoy then all the Pleasures that a Heart that is very amorous, and very tender, can enjoy. Think no more on those Inquietudes that you have suffer'd; bless Love for his Favours, and thank me for my Graces: and resolve to endure any thing, rather than enter upon any new Quarrels. And however dear the reconciling Moments are, there proceeds a great deal of Evil from these little frequent Quarrels; and I think the best Counsel we can follow, is to avoid 'em as near as we can: And if we cannot, but that, in spite of Love and good Understanding, they should break out, we ought to make as speedy a Peace as possible; for 'tis not good to grate the Heart too long, lest it grow harden'd insensibly, and lose its native Temper. A few Quarrels there must be in Love: Love cannot support it self without 'em: and, besides the Joy of an Accommodation, Love becomes by it more strongly united, and more charming. Therefore let the Lover receive this as a certain Receipt against declining Love:

Love reconcil'd.

He that would have the Passion be Entire between the am'rous Pair, Let not the little Feuds of Jealousy Be carry'd on to a Despair: That palls the Pleasure he would raise; The Fire that he would blow, allays.

When Understandings false arise, When misinterpreted your Thought, If false Conjectures of your Smiles and Eyes Be up to baneful Quarrels wrought; Let Love the kind Occasion take, And straight Accommodations make.

The sullen Lover, long unkind, Ill-natur'd, hard to reconcile, Loses the Heart he had inclin'd; Love cannot undergo long Toil; He's soft and sweet, not born to bear The rough Fatigues of painful War.

SEVEN o'CLOCK.

Divers Dreams.

Behold, Damon, the last Hour of your Sleep, and of my Watch. She leaves you at Liberty now, and you may chuse your Dreams: Trust 'em to your Imaginations, give a Loose to Fancy, and let it rove at will, provided, Damon, it be always guided by a respectful Love. For thus far I pretend to give bounds to your Imagination, and will not have it pass beyond 'em: Take heed, in sleeping, you give no ear to a flatt'ring Cupid, that will favour your slumb'ring Minutes with Lyes too pleasing and vain: You are discreet enough when you are awake; will you not be so in Dreams?

Damon, awake; my Watch's Course is done: after this, you cannot be ignorant of what you ought to do during my Absence. I did not believe it necessary to caution you about Balls and Comedies; you know, a Lover depriv'd of his Mistress, goes seldom there. But if you cannot handsomely avoid these Diversions, I am not so unjust a Mistress, to be angry with you for it; go, if Civility, or other Duties oblige you: I will only forbid you, in consideration of me, not to be too much satisfy'd with those Pleasures; but see 'em so, as the World may have reason to say, you do not seek them, you do not make a Business or Pleasure of them; and that 'tis Complaisance, and not Inclination, that carries you thither. Seem rather negligent than concern'd at any thing there; and let every part of you say, Iris is not here—

I say nothing to you neither of your Duty elsewhere; I am satisfy'd you know it too well; and have too great a Veneration for your glorious Master, to neglect any part of that for even Love it self. And I very well know how much you love to be eternally near his illustrious Person; and that you scarce prefer your Mistress before him, in point of Love: In all things else, I give him leave to take place of Iris in the noble Heart of Damon.

I am satisfy'd you pass your time well now at Windsor, for you adore that Place; and 'tis not, indeed, without great reason: for 'tis most certainly now render'd the most glorious Palace in the Christian World. And had our late Gracious Sovereign, of blessed Memory, had no other Miracles and Wonders of his Life and Reign to have immortaliz'd his Fame (of which there shall remain a thousand to Posterity) this noble Structure alone, this Building (almost Divine) would have eterniz'd the great Name of Glorious Charles II. till the World moulder again to its old Confusion, its first Chaos. And the Paintings of the famous Varrio, and noble Carvings of the unimitable Gibbon, shall never die, but remain to tell succeeding Ages, that all Arts and Learning were not confin'd to antient Rome and Greece, but that England too could boast its mightiest Share. Nor is the Inside of this magnificent Structure, immortaliz'd with so many eternal Images of the illustrious Charles and Katharine, more to be admired than the wondrous Prospects without. The stupendous Heighth, on which the famous Pile is built, renders the Fields, and flowery Meads below, the Woods, the Thickets, and the winding Streams, the most delightful Object that ever Nature produc'd. Beyond all these, and far below, in an inviting Vale, the venerable College, an old, but noble Building, raises it self, in the midst of all the Beauties of Nature, high-grown Trees, fruitful Plains, purling Rivulets, and spacious Gardens, adorn'd with all Variety of Sweets that can delight the Senses.

At farther distance yet, on an Ascent almost as high as that to the Royal Structure, you may behold the famous and noble Clifdon rise, a Palace erected by the illustrious Duke of Buckingham, who will leave this wondrous Piece of Architecture, to inform the future World of the Greatness and Delicacy of his Mind; it being for its Situation, its Prospects, and its marvellous Contrivances, one of the finest Villa's of the World; at least, were it finish'd as begun; and would sufficiently declare the magnifick Soul of the Hero that caus'd it to be built, and contriv'd all its Fineness. And this makes up not the least part of the beautiful Prospect from the Palace Royal, while on the other side lies spread a fruitful and delightful Park and Forest well stor'd with Deer, and all that makes the Prospect charming; fine Walks, Groves, distant Valleys, Downs and Hills, and all that Nature could invent, to furnish out a quiet soft Retreat for the most fair and most charming of Queens, and the most Heroick, Good, and Just of Kings: And these Groves alone are fit and worthy to divert such earthly Gods.

Nor can Heaven, Nature, or human Art contrive an Addition to this earthly Paradise, unless those great Inventors of the Age, Sir Samuel Morland, or Sir Robert Gorden, cou'd by the power of Engines, convey the Water so into the Park and Castle, as to furnish it with delightful Fountains, both useful and beautiful. These are only wanting, to render the Place all Perfection, and without Exception.

This, Damon, is a long Digression from the Business of my Heart; but, you know I am so in love with that charming Court, that when you gave me an occasion, by your being there now, but to name the Place, I could not forbear transgressing a little, in favour of its wondrous Beauty; and the rather, because I would, in recounting it, give you to understand how many fine Objects there are, besides the Ladies that adorn it, to employ your vacant Moments in; and I hope you will, without my Instructions, pass a great part of your idle time in surveying these Prospects, and give that Admiration you should pay to living Beauty, to those more venerable Monuments of everlasting Fame.

Neither need I, Damon, assign you your waiting Times: your Honour, Duty, Love, and Obedience, will instruct you when to be near the Person of the King; and, I believe, you will omit no part of that Devoir. You ought to establish your Fortune and your Glory: for I am not of the mind of those critical Lovers, who believe it a very hard matter to reconcile Love and Interest, to adore a Mistress, and serve a Master at the same Time. And I have heard those, who on this Subject, say, Let a Man be never so careful in these double Duties, 'tis ten to one but he loses his Fortune or his Mistress. These are Errors that I condemn: And I know that Love and Ambition are not incompatible, but that a brave Man may preserve all his Duties to his Sovereign, and his Passion and his Respect for his Mistress. And this is my Notion of it.

Love and Ambition.

The nobler Lover, who would prove Uncommon in Address, Let him Ambition join with Love; With Glory, Tenderness: But let the Virtues so be mixt, That when to Love he goes, Ambition may not come betwixt, Nor Love his Power oppose.

The vacant Hours from softer Sport, Let him give up to Int'rest and the Court.

'Tis Honour shall his Bus'ness be, And Love his noblest Play: Those two should never disagree, For both make either gay. Love without Honour were too mean For any gallant Heart; And Honour singly, but a Dream, Where Love must have no Part. A Flame like this you cannot fear, Where Glory claims an equal Share.

Such a Passion, Damon, can never make you quit any Part of your Duty to your Prince. And the Monarch you serve is so gallant a Master, that the Inclination you have to his Person obliges you to serve him, as much as your Duty; for Damon's loyal Soul loves the Man, and adores the Monarch: for he is certainly all that compels both, by a charming Force and Goodness, from all Mankind.

The KING.

Darling of Mars! Bellona's Care! The second Deity of War! Delight of Heaven, and Joy of Earth! Born for great and wondrous things, Destin'd at his auspicious Birth T' out-do the num'rous Race of long-past Kings. Best Representative of Heaven, To whom its chiefest Attributes are given! Great, Pious, Stedfast, Just, and Brave! To Vengeance slow, but swift to save! Dispensing Mercy all abroad! Soft and forgiving as a God!

Thou saving Angel who preserv'st the Land From the just Rage of the avenging Hand; Stopt the dire Plague, that o'er the Earth was hurl'd, And sheathing thy Almighty Sword, Calm'd the wild Fears of a distracted World, (As Heaven first made it) with a sacred Word!

But I will stop the low Flight of my humble Muse, who when she is upon the wing, on this glorious Subject, knows no Bounds. And all the World has agreed to say so much of the Virtues and Wonders of this great Monarch, that they have left me nothing new to say; tho' indeed he every Day gives us new Themes of his growing Greatness, and we see nothing that equals him in our Age. Oh! how happy are we to obey his Laws; for he is the greatest of Kings, and the best of Men!

You will be very unjust, Damon, if you do not confess I have acquitted my self like a Maid of Honour, of all the Obligations I owe you, upon the account of the Discretion I lost to you. If it be not valuable enough, I am generous enough to make it good: And since I am so willing to be just, you ought to esteem me, and to make it your chiefest Care to preserve me yours; for I believe I shall deserve it, and wish you should believe so too. Remember me, write to me, and observe punctually all the Motions of my Watch: The more you regard it, the better you will like it; and whatever you think of it at first sight, 'tis no ill Present. The Invention is soft and gallant; and Germany, so celebrated for rare Watches, can produce nothing to equal this.

Damon, my Watch is just and new; } And all a Lover ought to do, } My Cupid faithfully will shew. } And ev'ry Hour he renders there, Except l'heure du Bergere.

The CASE for the WATCH.

DAMON to IRIS.

Expect not, Oh charming Iris! that I should chuse Words to thank you in; (Words, that least Part of Love, and least the Business of the Lover) but will say all, and every thing that a tender Heart can dictate, to make an Acknowledgment for so dear and precious a Present as this of your charming Watch: while all I can say will but too dully express my Sense of Gratitude, my Joy, and the Pleasure I receive in the mighty Favour. I confess the Present too rich, too gay, and too magnificent for my Expectation: and tho' my Love and Faith deserve it, yet my humbler Hope never durst carry me to a Wish of so great a Bliss, so great an Acknowledgment from the Maid I adore. The Materials are glorious, the Work delicate, and the Movement just, and even gives Rules to my Heart, who shall observe very exactly all that the Cupid remarks to me; even to the Minutes, which I will point with Sighs, tho' I am obliged to 'em there but every half Hour.

You tell me, fair Iris, that I ought to preserve it tenderly, and yet you have sent it me without a Case. But that I may obey you justly, and keep it dear to me, as long as I live, I will give it a Case of my Fashion: It shall be delicate, and suitable to the fine Present; of such Materials too. But because I would have it perfect, I will consult your admirable Wit and Invention in an Affair of so curious a Consequence.

The FIGURE of the CASE.

I design to give it the Figure of the Heart. Does not your Watch, Iris, rule the Heart? It was your Heart that contrived it, and 'twas your Heart you consulted in all the Management of it; and 'twas your Heart that brought it to so fine a Conclusion. The Heart never acts without Reason, and all the Heart projects, it performs with Pleasure.

Your Watch, my lovely Maid, has explain'd to me a World of rich Secrets of Love: And where should Thoughts so sacred be stored, but in the Heart, where all the Secrets of the Soul are treasur'd up, and of which only Love alone can take a view? 'Tis thence he takes his Sighs and Tears, and all his little Flatteries and Arts to please; all his fine Thoughts, and all his mighty Raptures; nothing is so proper as the Heart to preserve it, nothing so worthy as the Heart to contain it: and it concerns my Interest too much, not to be infinitely careful of so dear a Treasure: And believe me, charming Iris, I will never part with it.

The Votary.

Fair Goddess of my just Desire, Inspirer of my softest Fire! Since you, from out the num'rous Throng That to your Altars do belong, To me the Sacred Myst'ry have reveal'd, From all my Rival-Worshippers conceal'd; And toucht my Soul with heav'nly Fire, Refin'd it from its grosser Sense, And wrought it to a higher Excellence; It can no more return to Earth, Like things that thence receive their Birth; But still aspiring, upward move, And teach the World new Flights of Love; New Arts of Secrecy shall learn, And render Youth discreet in Love's Concern.

In his soft Heart, to hide the charming things A Mistress whispers to his Ear; And e'ery tender Sigh she brings, Mix with his Soul, and hide it there. To bear himself so well in Company, That if his Mistress present be, It may be thought by all the Fair, Each in his Heart does claim a Share, And all are more belov'd than she. But when with the dear Maid apart, Then at her Feet the Lover lies; Opens his Soul, shews all his Heart, While Joy is dancing in his Eyes. Then all that Honour may, or take, or give, They both distribute, both receive. A Looker-on wou'd spoil a Lover's Joy; For Love's a Game where only two can play. And 'tis the hardest of Love's Mysteries, To feign Love where it is not, hide it where it is.

After having told you, my lovely Iris, that I design to put your Watch into a Heart, I ought to shew you the Ornaments of the Case. I do intend to have 'em crown'd Cyphers: I do not mean those Crowns of Vanity, which are put indifferently on all sorts of Cyphers; no, I must have such as may distinguish mine from the rest, and may be true Emblems of what I would represent. My four Cyphers therefore shall be crown'd with these four Wreaths, of Olive, Laurel, Myrtle, and Roses: and the Letters that begin the Names of Iris and Damon shall compose the Cyphers; tho' I must intermix some other Letters that bear another Sense, and have another Signification.

The First CYPHER.

The first Cypher is compos'd of an I and a D, which are join'd by an L and an E; which signifies Love Extreme. And 'tis but just, Oh adorable Iris! that Love should be mixt with our Cyphers, and that Love alone should be the Union of 'em.

Love ought alone the Mystick Knot to tie; Love, that great Master of all Arts: And this dear Cypher is to let you see, Love unites Names as well as Hearts.

Without this charming Union, our Souls could not communicate those invisible Sweetnesses, which compleat the Felicity of Lovers, and which the most tender and passionate Expressions are too feeble to make us comprehend. But, my adorable Iris, I am contented with the vast Pleasure I feel in loving well, without the care of expressing it well; if you will imagine my Pleasure, without expressing it: For I confess, 'twould be no Joy to me to adore you, if you did not perfectly believe I did adore you. Nay, tho' you lov'd me, if you had no Faith in me, I should languish, and love in as much Pain, as if you scorn'd; and at the same time believ'd I dy'd for you: For surely, Iris, 'tis a greater Pleasure to please than to be pleas'd; and the glorious Power of Giving is infinitely a greater Satisfaction, than that of Receiving: there is so Great and God-like a Quality in it. I would have your Belief therefore equal to my Passion, extreme; as indeed all Love should be, or it cannot bear that Divine Name: it can pass but for an indifferent Affection. And these Cyphers ought to make the World find all the noble Force of delicate Passion: for, Oh my Iris! what would Love signify, if we did not love fervently? Sisters and Brothers love; Friends and Relations have Affections: but where the Souls are join'd, which are fill'd with eternal soft Wishes, Oh! there is some Excess of Pleasure, which cannot be express'd!

Your Looks, your dear obliging Words, and your charming Letters, have sufficiently persuaded me of your Tenderness; and you might surely see the Excess of my Passion by my Cares, my Sighs, and entire Resignation to your Will. I never think of Iris, but my Heart feels double Flames, and pants and heaves with double Sighs; and whose Force makes its Ardours known, by a thousand Transports: And they are very much to blame, to give the Name of Love to feeble easy Passions. Such transitory tranquil Inclinations are at best but Well-wishers to Love; and a Heart that has such Heats as those, ought not to put it self into the Rank of those nobler Victims that are offer'd at the Shrine of Love. But our Souls, Iris, burn with a more glorious Flame, that lights and conducts us beyond a Possibility of losing one another. 'Tis this that flatters all my Hopes; 'tis this alone makes me believe my self worthy of Iris: And let her judge of its Violence, by the Greatness of its Splendour.

Does not a Passion of this nature, so true, so ardent, deserve to be crown'd? And will you wonder to see, over this Cypher, a Wreath of Myrtles, those Boughs so sacred to the Queen of Love, and so worshipp'd by Lovers? 'Tis with these soft Wreaths, that those are crown'd, who understand how to love well and faithfully.

The Smiles, the Graces, and the Sports, That in the Secret Groves maintain their Courts, Are with these Myrtles crown'd: Thither the Nymphs their Garlands bring; Their Beauties and their Praises sing, While Echoes do the Songs resound.

Love, tho' a God, with Myrtle Wreaths Does his soft Temples bind; More valu'd are those consecrated Leaves, Than the bright Wealth in Eastern Rocks confin'd: And Crowns of Glory less Ambition move, Than those more sacred Diadems of Love.

The Second CYPHER,

Is crown'd with Olives; and I add to the two Letters of our Names an R and an L, for Reciprocal Love. Every time that I have given you, O lovely Iris, Testimonies of my Passion, I have been so blest, as to receive some from your Bounty; and you have been pleased to flatter me with a Belief, that I was not indifferent to you. I dare therefore say, that being honour'd with the Glory of your Tenderness and Care, I ought, as a Trophy of my illustrious Conquest, to adorn the Watch with a Cypher that is so advantageous to me. Ought I not to esteem my self the most fortunate and happy of Mankind, to have exchanged my Heart with so charming and admirable a Person as Iris? Ah! how sweet, how precious is the Change; and how vast a Glory arrives to me from it! Oh! you must not wonder if my Soul abandon it self to a thousand Extasies! In the Merchandize of Hearts, Oh, how dear it is to receive as much as one gives; and barter Heart for Heart! Oh! I would not receive mine again, for all the Crowns the Universe contains! Nor ought you, my Adorable, make any Vows or Wishes, ever to retrieve yours; or shew the least Repentance for the Blessing you have given me. The Exchange we made, was confirm'd by a noble Faith; and you ought to believe, you have bestow'd it well, since you are paid for it a Heart that is so conformable to yours, so true, so just, and so full of Adoration: And nothing can be the just Recompence of Love, but Love: and to enjoy the true Felicity of it, our Hearts ought to keep an equal Motion; and, like the Scales of Justice, always hang even.

'Tis the Property of Reciprocal Love, to make the Heart feel the Delicacy of Love, and to give the Lover all the Ease and Softness he can reasonably hope. Such a Love renders all things advantageous and prosperous: Such a Love triumphs over all other Pleasures. And I put a Crown of Olives over the Cypher of Reciprocal Love, to make known, that two Hearts, where Love is justly equal, enjoy a Peace that nothing can disturb.

Olives are never fading seen; But always flourishing, and green. The Emblem 'tis of Love and Peace; } For Love that's true, will never cease: } And Peace does Pleasure still increase. } Joy to the World, the Peace of Kings imparts; And Peace in Love distributes it to Hearts.

The Third CYPHER.

The C and the L, which are join'd to the Letters of our Names in this Cypher crown'd with Laurel, explains a Constant Love. It will not, my fair Iris, suffice, that my Love is extreme, my Passion violent, and my Wishes fervent, or that our Loves are reciprocal; but it ought also to be constant: for in Love, the Imagination is oftner carried to those things that may arrive, and which we wish for, than to things that Time has robbed us of. And in those agreeable Thoughts of Joys to come, the Heart takes more delight to wander, than in all those that are past; tho' the Remembrance of 'em be very dear, and very charming. We should be both unjust, if we were not persuaded we are possest with a Virtue, the Use of which is so admirable as that of Constancy. Our Loves are not of that sort that can finish, or have an end; but such a Passion, so perfect, and so constant, that it will be a Precedent for future Ages, to love perfectly; and when they would express an extreme Passion, they will say, They lov'd, as Damon did the charming Iris. And he that knows the Glory of constant Love, will despise those fading Passions, those little Amusements, that serve for a Day. What Pleasure or Dependance can one have in a Love of that sort? What Concern? What Raptures can such an Amour produce in a Soul? And what Satisfaction can one promise one's self in playing with a false Gamester; who tho' you are aware of him, in spite of all your Precaution, puts the false Dice upon you, and wins all?

Those Eyes that can no better Conquest make, Let 'em ne'er look abroad: Such, but the empty Name of Lovers take, And so profane the God.

Better they never should pretend, Than, ere begun, to make an end.

Of that fond Flame what shall we say, That's born and languisht in a Day? Such short-liv'd Blessings cannot bring The Pleasure of an Envying. Who is't will celebrate that Flame, That's damn'd to such a scanty Fame? While constant Love the Nymphs and Swains } Still sacred make, in lasting Strains } And chearful Lays throughout the Plains. }

A constant Love knows no Decay: } But still advancing ev'ry Day, } Will last as long as Life can stay, } With ev'ry Look and Smile improves, } With the same Ardour always moves, } With such as Damon charming Iris loves! }

Constant Love finds it self impossible to be shaken; it resists the Attacks of Envy, and a thousand Accidents that endeavour to change it: Nothing can disoblige it but a known Falseness, or Contempt: Nothing can remove it; tho' for a short moment it may lie sullen and resenting, it recovers, and returns with greater Force and Joy. I therefore, with very good reason, crown this Cypher of Constant Love with a Wreath of Laurel; since such Love always triumphs over Time and Fortune, tho' it be not her Property to besiege: for she cannot overcome, but in defending her self; but the Victories she gains are never the less glorious.

For far less Conquest we have known The Victor wear the Laurel Crown. The Triumph with more Pride let him receive; While those of Love, at least, more Pleasures give.

The Fourth CYPHER.

Perhaps, my lovely Maid, you will not find out what I mean by the S and the L, in this last Cypher, that is crown'd with Roses. I will therefore tell you, I mean Secret Love. There are very few People who know the Nature of that Pleasure, which so divine a Love creates: And let me say what I will of it, they must feel it themselves, who would rightly understand it, and all its ravishing Sweets. But this there is a great deal of Reason to believe, that the Secrecy in Love doubles the Pleasures of it. And I am so absolutely persuaded of this, that I believe all those Favours that are not kept secret, are dull and pall'd, very insipid and tasteless Pleasures: And let the Favours be never so innocent that a Lover receives from a Mistress, she ought to value 'em, set a price upon 'em, and make the Lover pay dear; while he receives 'em with Difficulty, and sometimes with Hazard. A Lover that is not secret, but suffers every one to count his Sighs, has at most but a feeble Passion, such as produces sudden and transitory Desires, which die as soon as born: A true Love has not this Character; for whensoever 'tis made publick, it ceases to be a Pleasure, and is only the Result of Vanity. Not that I expect our Loves should always remain a Secret: No, I should never, at that rate, arrive to a Blessing, which, above all the Glories of the Earth, I aspire to; but even then there are a thousand Joys, a thousand Pleasures that I shall be as careful to conceal from the foolish World, as if the whole Preservation of that Pleasure depended on my Silence; as indeed it does in a great measure.

To this Cypher I put a Crown of Roses, which are not Flowers of a very lasting Date. And 'tis to let you see, that 'tis impossible Love can be long hid. We see every Day, with what fine Dissimulation and Pains, People conceal a thousand Hates and Malices, Disgusts, Disobligations, and Resentments, without being able to conceal the least part of their Love: but Reputation has an Odour as well as Roses; and a Lover ought to esteem that as the dearest and tenderest thing: not only that of his own, which is, indeed, the least part; but that of his Mistress, more valuable to him than Life. He ought to endeavour to give People no occasion to make false Judgments of his Actions, or to give their Censures; which most certainly are never in the Favour of the Fair Person: for likely, those false Censurers are of the busy Female Sex, the Coquets of that number; whose little Spites and Railleries, join'd to that fancy'd Wit they boast of, sets 'em at odds with all the Beautiful and Innocent. And how very little of that kind serves to give the World a Faith, when a thousand Virtues, told of the same Persons, by more credible Witnesses and Judges, shall pass unregarded! so willing and inclin'd is all the World to credit the Ill, and condemn the Good! And yet, Oh! what pity 'tis we are compell'd to live in Pain, to oblige this foolish scandalous World! And tho' we know each other's Virtue and Honour, we are oblig'd to observe that Caution (to humour the talking Town) which takes away so great a part of the Pleasure of Life! 'Tis therefore that among those Roses, you will find some Thorns; by which you may imagine, that in Love, Precaution is necessary to its Secrecy: And we must restrain our selves, upon a thousand occasions, with so much Care, that, Oh Iris! 'tis impossible to be discreet, without Pain; but 'tis a Pain that creates a thousand Pleasures.

Where should a Lover hide his Joys, Free from Malice, free from Noise; Where no Envy can intrude; Where no busy Rival's Spy, Made, by Disappointment, rude, May inform his Jealousy? The Heart will the best Refuge prove; Which Nature meant the Cabinet of Love. What would a Lover not endure, His Mistress' Fame and Honour to secure? Iris, the Care we take to be discreet, Is the dear Toil that makes the Pleasure sweet: The Thorn that does the Wealth inclose, That with less saucy Freedom we may touch the Rose.

The CLASP of the WATCH.

Ah, charming Iris! Ah, my lovely Maid! 'tis now, in a more peculiar manner, that I require your Aid in the finishing of my Design, and compleating the whole Piece to the utmost Perfection; and without your Aid it cannot be perform'd. It is about the Clasp of the Watch; a Material, in all appearance, the most trivial of any part of it. But that it may be safe for ever, I design it the Image, or Figure of two Hands; that fair one of the adorable Iris, join'd to mine; with this Motto, Inviolable Faith: For in this Case, this Heart ought to be shut up by this eternal Clasp. Oh! there is nothing so necessary as this! Nothing can secure Love, but Faith.

That Virtue ought to be a Guard to all the Heart thinks, and all the Mouth utters: Nor can Love say he triumphs without it. And when that remains not in the Heart, all the rest deserves no Regard. Oh! I have not lov'd so ill to leave one Doubt upon your Soul. Why then, will you want that Faith, Oh unkind Charmer, that my Passion and my Services so justly merit?

When two Hearts entirely love, And in one Sphere of Honour move, Each maintains the other's Fire, With a Faith that is entire. For, what heedless Youth bestows, On a faithless Maid, his Vows? Faith without Love, bears Virtue's Price; But Love without her Mixture, is a Vice. Love, like Religion, still should be, In the Foundation, firm and true; In Points of Faith should still agree, Tho' Innovations vain and new, Love's little Quarrels, may arise; In Fundamentals still they're just and wise.

Then, charming Maid, be sure of this; Allow me Faith, as well as Love: Since that alone affords no Bliss, Unless your Faith your Love improve. Either resolve to let me die By fairer Play, your Cruelty; Than not your Love with Faith impart, And with your Vows to give your Heart. In mad Despair I'd rather fall, Than lose my glorious Hopes of conquering all.

So certain it is, that Love without Faith, is of no value.

In fine, my adorable Iris, this Case shall be, as near as I can, like those delicate ones of Filligrin Work, which do not hinder the Sight from taking a View of all within: You may therefore see, thro' this Heart, all your Watch. Nor is my Desire of preserving this inestimable Piece more, than to make it the whole Rule of my Life and Actions. And my chiefest Design in these Cyphers, is to comprehend in them the principal Virtues that are most necessary to Love. Do not we know that Reciprocal Love is Justice? Constant Love, Fortitude? Secret Love, Prudence? Tho' 'tis true that extreme Love, that is, Excess of Love, in one sense, appears not to be Temperance; yet you must know, my Iris, that in Matters of Love, Excess is a Virtue, and that all other Degrees of Love are worthy Scorn alone. 'Tis this alone that can make good the glorious Title: 'Tis this alone that can bear the Name of Love; and this alone that renders the Lovers truly happy, in spight of all the Storms of Fate, and Shocks of Fortune. This is an Antidote against all other Griefs: This bears up the Soul in all Calamity; and is the very Heaven of Life, the last Refuge of all worldly Pain and Care, and may well bear the Title of Divine.

The Art of Loving well.

That Love may all Perfection be, Sweet, charming to the last degree, The Heart, where the bright Flame does dwell, In Faith and Softness should excel: Excess of Love should fill each Vein, And all its sacred Rites maintain.

The tend'rest Thoughts Heav'n can inspire, Should be the Fuel to its Fire: And that, like Incense, burn as pure; Or that in Urns should still endure, No fond Desire should fill the Soul, But such as Honour may controul.

Jealousy I will allow: Not the amorous Winds that blow, Should wanton in my Iris' Hair, Or ravish Kisses from my Fair. Not the Flowers that grow beneath, Should borrow Sweetness of her Breath.

If her Bird she do caress, How I grudge its Happiness, When upon her snowy Hand The Wanton does triumphing stand! Or upon her Breast she skips, And lays her Beak to Iris' Lips! Fainting at my ravished Joy, I could the Innocent destroy. If I can no Bliss afford To a little harmless Bird, Tell me, Oh thou dear-lov'd Maid! What Reason could my Rage persuade, If a Rival should invade?

If thy charming Eyes should dart Looks that sally from the Heart; If you sent a Smile, or Glance, To another tho' by Chance; Still thou giv'st what's not thy own, They belong to me alone.

All Submission I would pay: Man was born the Fair t' obey. Your very Look I'd understand, And thence receive your least Command: Never your Justice will dispute; But like a Lover execute.

I would no Usurper be, But in claiming sacred Thee. I would have all, and every part; No Thought would hide within thy Heart. Mine a Cabinet was made, Where Iris' Secrets should be laid.

In the rest, without controul, She should triumph o'er the Soul! Prostrate at her Feet I'd lie, Despising Power and Liberty; Glorying more by Love to fall, Than rule the universal Ball.

Hear me, O you saucy Youth! And from my Maxims learn this Truth: Would you great and powerful prove? Be an humble Slave to Love. 'Tis nobler far a Joy to give, Than any Blessing to receive.

The LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS, to Dress her self by: or, The Art of Charming.

Sent from DAMON to IRIS.

How long, Oh charming Iris! shall I speak in vain of your adorable Beauty? You have been just, and believe I love you with a Passion perfectly tender and extreme, and yet you will not allow your Charms to be infinite. You must either accuse my Flames to be unreasonable, and that my Eyes and Heart are false Judges of Wit and Beauty; or allow that you are the most perfect of your Sex. But instead of that, you always accuse me of Flattery, when I speak of your infinite Merit; and when I refer you to your Glass, you tell me, that flatters as well as Damon: tho' one would imagine, that should be a good Witness for the Truth of what I say, and undeceive you of the Opinion of my Injustice. Look—and confirm your self that nothing can equal your Perfections. All the World says it, and you must doubt it no longer. Oh Iris! will you dispute against the whole World?

But since you have so long distrusted your own Glass, I have here presented you with one, which I know is very true; and having been made for you only, can serve only you. All other Glasses present all Objects, but this reflects only Iris: Whenever you consult it, it will convince you; and tell you how much Right I have done you, when I told you, you were the fairest Person that ever Nature made. When other Beauties look into it, it will speak to all the Fair Ones: but let 'em do what they will, 'twill say nothing to their advantage.

Iris, to spare what you call Flattery, Consult your Glass each Hour of the Day: 'Twill tell you where your Charms and Beauties lie, And where your little wanton Graces play: Where Love does revel in your Face and Eyes; What Look invites your Slaves, and what denies.

Where all the Loves adorn you with such Care, Where dress your Smiles, where arm your lovely Eyes; Where deck the flowing Tresses of your Hair: How cause your snowy Breasts to fall and rise. How this severe Glance makes a Lover die; How that, more soft, gives Immortality.

Where you shall see what 'tis enslaves the Soul; Where e'ery Feature, e'ery Look combines: When the adorning Air, o'er all the whole, To so much Wit, and so nice Virtue joins. Where the Belle Taille, and Motion still afford Graces to be eternally adored.

But I will be silent now, and let your Glass speak.

IRIS's LOOKING-GLASS.

Damon (Oh charming Iris!) has given me to you, that you may sometimes give your self the Trouble, and me the Honour of consulting me in the great and weighty Affairs of Beauty. I am, my adorable Mistress! a faithful Glass; and you ought to believe all I say to you.

The SHAPE of IRIS.

I must begin with your Shape, and tell you without Flattery, 'tis the finest in the World, and gives Love and Admiration to all that see you. Pray observe how free and easy it is, without Constraint, Stiffness, or Affectation; those mistaken Graces of the Fantastick, and the Formal, who give themselves pain to shew their Will to please, and whose Dressing makes the greatest part of its Fineness, when they are more oblig'd to the Taylor than to Nature; who add or diminish, as occasion serves, to form a Grace, where Heaven never gave it: And while they remain on this Wreck of Pride, they are eternally uneasy, without pleasing any body. Iris, I have seen a Woman of your Acquaintance, who, having a greater Opinion of her own Person than any body else, has screw'd her Body into so fine a Form (as she calls it) that she dares no more stir a Hand, lift up an Arm, or turn her Head aside, than if, for the Sin of such a Disorder, she were to be turn'd into a Pillar of Salt; the less stiff and fix'd Statue of the two. Nay, she dares not speak or smile, lest she should put her Face out of that Order she had set it in her Glass, when she last look'd on her self: And is all over such a Lady Nice (excepting in her Conversation) that ever made a ridiculous Figure. And there are many Ladies more, but too much tainted with that nauseous Formality, that old-fashion'd Vice: But Iris, the charming, the all-perfect Iris, has nothing in her whole Form that is not free, natural, and easy; and whose every Motion cannot but please extremely; and which has not given Damon a thousand Rivals.

Damon, the young, the am'rous, and the true, Who sighs incessantly for you; Whose whole Delight, now you are gone, Is to retire to Shades alone, And to the Echoes make his moan. By purling Streams the wishing Youth is laid, Still sighing Iris! lovely charming Maid! See, in thy Absence, how thy Lover dies! While to his Sighs the Echo still replies.

Then with the Stream he holds Discourse: O thou that bend'st thy liquid Force To lovely Thames! upon whose Shore The Maid resides whom I adore! My Tears of Love upon thy Surface bear: And if upon thy Banks thou seest my Fair: In all thy softest Murmurs sing, From Damon I this Present bring; My e'ery Curl contains a Tear! Then at her Feet thy Tribute pay: But haste, O happy Stream! away; Lest charm'd too much, thou shouldst for ever stay. And thou, Oh gentle, murm'ring Breeze! That plays in Air, and wantons with the Trees; On thy young Wings, where gilded Sun-beams play, To Iris my soft Sighs convey, Still as they rise, each Minute of the Day: But whisper gently in her Ear; Let not the ruder Winds thy Message bear, Nor ruffle one dear Curl of her bright Hair. Oh! touch her Cheeks with sacred Reverence, And stay not gazing on her lovely Eyes! But if thou bear'st her rosy Breath from thence, 'Tis Incense of that Excellence, That as thou mount'st, 'twill perfume all the Skies.

IRIS's COMPLEXION.

Say what you will, I am confident, if you will confess your Heart, you are, every time you view your self in me, surpris'd at the Beauty of your Complexion; and will secretly own, you never saw any thing so fair. I am not the first Glass, by a thousand, that has assur'd you of this. If you will not believe me, ask Damon; he tells it you every Day, but that Truth from him offends you: and because he loves too much, you think his Judgment too little; and since this is so perfect, that must be defective. But 'tis most certain your Complexion is infinitely fine, your Skin soft and smooth as polisht Wax, or Ivory, extreamely white and clear; tho' if any body speaks but of your Beauty, an agreeable Blush casts it self all over your Face, and gives you a thousand new Graces.

And then two Flowers newly born. Shine in your Heav'nly Face; The Rose that blushes in the Morn, Usurps the Lilly's place: Sometimes the Lilly does prevail. And makes the gen'rous Crimson pale.

IRIS's HAIR.

Oh, the beautiful Hair of Iris! it seems as if Nature had crown'd you with a great quantity of lovely fair brown Hair, to make us know that you were born to rule, and to repair the Faults of Fortune that has not given you a Diadem: And do not bewail the Want of that (so much your Merit's due) since Heaven has so gloriously recompensed you with what gains more admiring Slaves.

Heav'n for Sovereignty has made your Form: And you were more than for dull Empire born; O'er Hearts your Kingdom shall extend, Your vast Dominion know no End. Thither the Loves and Graces shall resort; To Iris make their Homage, and their Court. No envious Star, no common Fate, } Did on my Iris' Birth-day wait; } But all was happy, all was delicate. } Here Fortune would inconstant be in vain: Iris, and Love eternally shall reign.

Love does not make less use of your Hair for new Conquests, than of all the rest of your Beauties that adorn you. If he takes our Hearts with your fine Eyes, it ties 'em fast with your Hair; and of it weaves a Chain, not easily broken. It is not of those sorts of Hair, whose Harshness discovers Ill-Nature; nor of those, whose Softness shews us the Weakness of the Mind; not that either of these Arguments are without exception: but 'tis such as bears the Character of a perfect Mind, and a delicate Wit; and for its Colour, the most faithful, discreet, and beautiful in the World: such as shews a Complexion and Constitution, neither so cold to be insensible, nor so hot to have too much Fire: that is, neither too white, nor too black; but such a mixture of the two Colours, as makes it the most agreeable in the World.

'Tis that which leads those captivated Hearts, That bleeding at your Feet do lie; 'Tis that the Obstinate converts, That dare the Power of Love deny: 'Tis that which Damon so admires; Damon, who often tells you so. If from your Eyes Love takes his Fires, 'Tis with your Hair he strings his Bow: Which touching but the feather'd Dart, It never mist the destin'd Heart.

IRIS's EYES.

I believe, my fair Mistress, I shall dazzle you with the Lustre of your own Eyes. They are the finest Blue in World: They have all the Sweetness that ever charm'd the Heart, with a certain Languishment that's irresistible; and never any look'd on 'em, that did not sigh after 'em. Believe me, Iris, they carry unavoidable Darts and Fires; and whoever expose themselves to their Dangers, pay for their Imprudence.

Cold as my solid Chrystal is, Hard and impenetrable too; Yet I am sensible of Bliss, When your charming Eyes I view: Even by me their Flames are felt; And at each Glance I fear to melt.

Ah, how pleasant are my Days! How my glorious Fate I bless! Mortals never knew my Joys, Nor Monarchs guest my Happiness. Every Look that's soft and gay, Iris gives me every Day.

Spight of her Virtue and her Pride, Every Morning I am blest With what to Damon is deny'd; To view her when she is undrest. All her Heaven of Beauty's shown To triumphing Me——alone.

Scarce the prying Beams of Light, Or th' impatient God of Day, Are allow'd so near a Sight, Or dare profane her with a Ray; When she has appear'd to me, Like Venus rising from the Sea.

But Oh! I must those Charms conceal, All too divine for vulgar Eyes: Should I my secret Joys reveal, Of sacred Trust I break the Ties; And Damon would with Envy die, Who hopes one Day to be as blest as I.

Extravagant with my Joys, I have stray'd beyond my Limits; for I was telling you of the wond'rous Fineness of your Eyes, which no Mortal can resist, nor any Heart stand the Force of their Charms, and the most difficult Conquest they gain, scarce cost 'em the expence of a Look. They are modest and tender, chaste and languishing. There you may take a view of the whole Soul, and see Wit and Good-Nature (those two inseparable Virtues of the Mind) in an extraordinary measure. In fine, you see all that fair Eyes can produce, to make themselves ador'd. And when they are angry, they strike an unresistible Awe upon the Soul; And those Severities Damon wishes may perpetually accompany them, during their Absence from him; for 'tis with such Eyes, he would have you receive all his Rivals.

Keep, lovely Maid, the Softness In your Eyes, To flatter Damon with another Day: When at your Feet the ravish'd Lover lies, Then put on all that's tender, all that's gay: And for the Griefs your Absence makes him prove, Give him the softest, dearest Looks of Love.

His trembling Heart with sweetest Smiles caress, And in your Eyes soft Wishes let him find; That your Regret of Absence may confess, In which no Sense of Pleasure you could find: And to restore him, let your faithful Eyes Declare, that all his Rivals you despise.

The MOUTH of IRIS.

I perceive your Modesty would impose Silence on me: But, Oh fair Iris! do not think to present your self before a Glass, if you would not have it tell you all your Beauties. Content your self that I only speak of 'em, en passant; for should I speak what I would, I should dwell all Day upon each Particular, and still say something new. Give me liberty then to speak of your fine Mouth: You need only open it a little, and you will see the most delicate Teeth that ever you beheld; the whitest, and the best set. Your Lips are the finest in the World; so round, so soft, so plump, so dimpled, and of the loveliest Colour. And when you smile, Oh! what Imagination can conceive how sweet it is, that has not seen you smiling? I cannot describe what I so admire; and 'tis in vain to those who have not seen Iris.

Oh Iris! boast that one peculiar Charm, That has so many Conquests made; So innocent, yet capable of Harm; So just it self, yet has so oft betray'd: Where a thousand Graces dwell, And wanton round in ev'ry Smile.

A thousand Loves do listen when you speak, And catch each Accent as it flies: Rich flowing Wit, whene'er you Silence break, Flows from your Tongue, and sparkles in your Eyes. Whether you talk, or silent are, Your Lips immortal Beauties wear.

The NECK of IRIS.

All your Modesty, all your nice Care, cannot hide the ravishing Beauties of your Neck; we must see it, coy as you are; and see it the whitest, and finest shaped, that ever was form'd. Oh! why will you cover it? You know all handsome Things would be seen. And Oh! how often have you made your Lovers envy your Scarf, or any thing that hides so fine an Object from their Sight. Damon himself complains of your too nice Severity. Pray do not hide it so carefully. See how perfectly turn'd it is! with small blue Veins, wand'ring and ranging here and there, like little Rivulets, that wanton o'er the flowery Meads! See how the round white rising Breasts heave with every Breath, as if they disdain'd to be confin'd to a Covering; and repel the malicious Cloud that would obscure their Brightness!

Fain I would have leave to tell The Charms that on your Bosom dwell; Describe it like some flow'ry Field, That does ten thousand Pleasures yield; A thousand gliding Springs and Groves; All Receptacles for Loves: But Oh! what Iris hides, must be Ever sacred kept by me.

The ARMS and HANDS of IRIS.

I shall not be put to much trouble to shew you your Hands and Arms, because you may view them without my Help; and you are very unjust, if you have not admir'd 'em a thousand times. The beautiful Colour and Proportion of your Arm is unimitable, and your Hand is dazzling, fine, small, and plump; long-pointed Fingers delicately turned; dimpled on the snowy out-side, but adorned within with Rose, all over the soft Palm. Oh Iris! nothing equals your fair Hand; that Hand, of which Love so often makes such use to draw his Bow, when he would send the Arrow home with more Success; and which irresistibly wounds those, who possibly have not yet seen your Eyes: And when you have been veil'd, that lovely Hand has gain'd you a thousand Adorers. And I have heard Damon say, Without the Aid of more Beauties, that alone had been sufficient to have made an absolute Conquest, o'er his Soul. And he has often vow'd, It never toucht him but it made his Blood run with little irregular Motions in his Veins, his Breath beat short and double, his Blushes rise, and his very Soul dance.

Oh! how the Hand the Lover ought to prize 'Bove any one peculiar Grace, While he is dying for the Eyes And doating on the lovely Face! The Unconsid'ring little knows, How much he to this Beauty owes.

That, when the Lover absent is, Informs him of his Mistress' Heart; 'Tis that which gives him all his Bliss, When dear Love-Secrets 'twill impart, That plights the Faith the Maid bestows; And that confirms the tim'rous Vows.

'Tis that betrays the Tenderness, Which the too bashful Tongue denies: 'Tis that which does the Heart confess, And spares the Language of the Eyes. 'Tis that which Treasure gives so vast; Ev'n Iris 'twill to Damon give at last.

The GRACE and AIR of IRIS.

'Tis I alone, O charming Maid! that can shew you that noble part of your Beauty: That generous Air that adorns all your lovely Person, and renders every Motion and Action perfectly adorable. With what a Grace you walk!—How free, how easy, and how unaffected! See how you move!—for only here you can see it. Damon has told you a thousand times, that never any Mortal had so glorious an Air: but he cou'd not half describe it, nor would you credit even what he said; but with a careless Smile pass it off for the Flattery of a Lover. But here behold, and be convinc'd, and know, no part of your Beauty can charm more than this. O Iris! confess, Love has adorn'd you with all his Art and Care. Your Beauties are the Themes of all the Muses; who tell you in daily Songs, that the Graces themselves have not more than Iris. And one may truly say, that you alone know how to join the Ornaments and Dress with Beauty; and you are still adorn'd, as if that Shape and Air had a peculiar Art to make all Things appear gay and fine. Oh! how well drest you are! How every Thing becomes you! Never singular, never gawdy; but always suiting with your Quality.

Oh! how that Negligence becomes your Air! That careless Flowing of your Hair, That plays about with wanton Grace, With every Motion of your Face: Disdaining all that dull Formality, That dares not move the Lip, or Eye, But at some fancy'd Grace's cost; And think, with it, at least, a Lover lost. But the unlucky Minute to reclaim, } And ease the Coquet of her Pain, } The Pocket-Glass adjusts the Face again: } Re-sets the Mouth, and languishes the Eyes; And thinks, the Spark that ogles that way—dies.

Of Iris learn, Oh ye mistaken Fair! To dress your Face, your Smiles, your Air: Let easy Nature all the Bus'ness do, She can the softest Graces shew; Which Art but turns to ridicule, And where there's none serves but to shew the Fool.

In Iris you all Graces find; Charms without Art, a Motion unconfin'd; Without Constraint, she smiles, she looks, she talks; And without Affectation, moves and walks. Beauties so perfect ne'er were seen: O ye mistaken Fair! Dress ye by Iris' Mein.

The DISCRETION of IRIS.

But, O Iris! the Beauties of the Body are imperfect, if the Beauties of the Soul do not advance themselves to an equal Height. But, O Iris! what Mortal is there so damn'd to Malice, that does not, with Adoration, confess, that you, O charming Maid, have an equal Portion of all the Braveries and Virtues of the Mind? And who is it, that confesses your Beauty, that does not at the same time acknowledge and bow to your Wisdom? The whole World admires both in you; and all with impatience ask, Which of the two is most surprizing, your Beauty, or your Discretion? But we dispute in vain on that excellent Subject; for after all, 'tis determin'd, that the two Charms are equal. 'Tis none of those idle Discretions that consists in Words alone, and ever takes the Shadow of Reason for the Substance; and that makes use of all the little Artifices of Subtlety, and florid Talking, to make the Out-side of the Argument appear fine, and leave the Inside wholly misunderstood; who runs away with Words, and never thinks of Sense. But you, O lovely Maid! never make use of these affected Arts; but without being too brisk or too severe, too silent or too talkative, you inspire in all your Hearers a Joy, and a Respect. Your Soul is an Enemy to that usual Vice of your Sex, of using little Arguments against the Fair; or, by a Word or Jest, making your self and Hearers pleasant at the expence of the Fame of others.

Your Heart is an Enemy to all Passions, but that of Love. And this is one of your noble Maxims, That every one ought to love, in some part of his Life; and that in a Heart truly brave, Love is without Folly: That Wisdom is a Friend to Love, and Love to perfect Wisdom. Since these Maxims are your own, do not, O charming Iris! resist that noble Passion: and since Damon is the most tender of Lovers, answer his Passion with a noble Ardour. Your Prudence never fails in the Choice of your Friends; and in chusing so well your Lover, you will stand an eternal Precedent to all unreasonable Fair Ones.

O thou that dost excel in Wit and Youth! Be still a Precedent for Love and Truth. Let the dull World say what it will, A noble Flame's unblameable. Where a fine Sent'ment and soft Passion rules, They scorn the Censure of the Fools.

Yield, Iris, then; Oh, yield to Love! Redeem your dying Slave from Pain; The World your Conduct must approve: Your Prudence never acts in vain.

The GOODNESS and COMPLAISANCE of IRIS.

Who but your Lovers, fair Iris! doubts but you are the most complaisant Person in the World; and that with so much Sweetness you oblige all, that you command in yielding: And as you gain the Heart of both Sexes, with the Affability of your noble Temper; so all are proud and vain of obliging you. And, Iris, you may live assur'd, that your Empire is eternally established by your Beauty and your Goodness: Your Power is confirm'd, and you grow in Strength every Minute: Your Goodness gets you Friends, and your Beauty Lovers.

This Goodness is not one of those, whose Folly renders it easy to every Desirer; but a pure Effect of the Generosity of your Soul; such as Prudence alone manages, according to the Merit of the Person to whom it is extended; and those whom you esteem, receive the sweet Marks of it, and only your Lovers complain; yet even then you charm. And tho' sometimes you can be a little disturb'd, yet thro' your Anger your Goodness shines; and you are but too much afraid, that that may bear a false Interpretation: For oftentimes Scandal makes that pass for an Effect of Love, which is purely that of Complaisance.

Never had any body more Tenderness for their Friends, than Iris: Their Presence gives her Joy, their Absence Trouble; and when she cannot see them, she finds no Pleasure like speaking of them obligingly. Friendship reigns in your Heart, and Sincerity on your Tongue. Your Friendship is so strong, so constant, and so tender, that it charms, pleases, and satisfies all, that are not your Adorers. Damon therefore is excusable, if he be not contented with your noble Friendship alone; for he is the most tender of that Number.

No! give me all, th' impatient Lover cries; Without your Soul I cannot live: Dull Friendship cannot mine suffice, That dies for all you have to give. The Smiles, the Vows, the Heart must all be mine; I cannot spare one Thought, or Wish of thine.

I sigh, I languish all the Day; Each Minute ushers in my Groans: To ev'ry God in vain I pray; In ev'ry Grove repeat my Moans. Still Iris' Charms are all my Sorrows Themes! They pain me waking, and they rack in Dreams.

Return, fair Iris! Oh, return! Lest sighing long your Slave destroys. I wish, I rave, I faint, I burn; Restore me quickly all my Joys: Your Mercy else will come too late; Distance in Love more cruel is than Hate.

The WIT of IRIS.

You are deceiv'd in me, fair Iris, if you take me for one of those ordinary Glasses, that represent the Beauty only of the Body; I remark to you also the Beauties of the Soul: And all about you declares yours the finest that ever was formed; that you have a Wit that surprizes, and is always new: 'Tis none of those that loses its Lustre when one considers it; the more we examine yours, the more adorable we find it. You say nothing that is not at once agreeable and solid; 'tis always quick and ready, without Impertinence, that little Vanity of the Fair: who, when they know they have Wit, rarely manage it so, as not to abound in Talking; and think, that all they say must please, because luckily they sometimes chance to do so. But Iris never speaks, but 'tis of use; and gives a Pleasure to all that hear her: She has the perfect Air of penetrating, even the most secret Thoughts. How often have you known, without being told, all that has past in Damon's Heart? For all great Wits are Prophets too.

Tell me; Oh, tell me! Charming Prophetess; For you alone can tell my Love's Success. The Lines in my dejected Face, I fear, will lead you to no kind Result: It is your own that you must trace; Those of your Heart you must consult. 'Tis there my Fortune I must learn, And all that Damon does concern.

I tell you that I love a Maid, As bright as Heav'n, of Angel-hue; The softest Nature ever made, Whom I with Sighs and Vows pursue. Oh, tell me, charming Prophetess! Shall I this lovely Maid possess?

A thousand Rivals do obstruct my Way; A thousand Fears they do create: They throng about her all the Day, Whilst I at awful Distance wait. Say, Will the lovely Maid so fickle prove, To give my Rivals Hope, as well as Love?

She has a thousand Charms of Wit, With all the Beauty Heav'n e'er gave: Oh! let her not make use of it, To flatter me into the Slave. Oh! tell me Truth, to ease my Pain; Say rather, I shall die by her Disdain.

The MODESTY of IRIS.

I perceive, fair Iris, you have a mind to tell me, I have entertain'd you too long with a Discourse on your self. I know your Modesty makes this Declaration an Offence, and you suffer me, with Pain, to unveil those Treasures you would hide. Your Modesty, that so commendable a Virtue in the Fair, and so peculiar to you, is here a little too severe. Did I flatter you, you should blush: Did I seek, by praising you, to shew an Art of speaking finely, you might chide. But, O Iris, I say nothing but such plain Truths, as all the World can witness are so: And so far I am from Flattery, that I seek no Ornament of Words. Why do you take such Care to conceal your Virtues? They have too much Lustre, not to be seen, in spight of all your Modesty: Your Wit, your Youth, and Reason, oppose themselves against this dull Obstructer of our Happiness. Abate, O Iris, a little of this Virtue, since you have so many others to defend your self against the Attacks of your Adorers. You your self have the least Opinion of your own Charms: and being the only Person in the World, that is not in love with 'em, you hate to pass whole Hours before your Looking-Glass; and to pass your Time, like most of the idle Fair, in dressing, and setting off those Beauties, which need so little Art. You more wise, disdain to give those Hours to the Fatigue of Dressing, which you know so well how to employ a thousand ways. The Muses have blest you, above your Sex; and you know how to gain a Conquest with your Pen, more absolutely than all the industrious Fair, who trust to Dress and Equipage.

I have a thousand Things to tell you more, but willingly resign my Place to Damon, that faithful Lover; he will speak more ardently than I: For let a Glass use all its Force, yet, when it speaks its best, it speaks but coldly.

If my Glass, O charming Iris, have the good Fortune (which I could never entirely boast) to be believ'd, 'twill serve at least to convince you I have not been so guilty of Flattery, as I have a thousand Times been charg'd. Since then my Passion is equal to your Beauty (without Comparison, or End) believe, O lovely Maid! how I sigh in your Absence; and be persuaded to lessen my Pain, and restore me to my Joys: for there is no Torment so great, as the Absence of a Lover from his Mistress; of which this is the Idea.

The Effects of Absence from what we love.

Thou one continu'd Sigh! all over Pain! Eternal Wish! but Wish, alas, in vain! Thou languishing, impatient Hoper on; A busy Toiler, and yet still undone! A breaking Glimpse of distant Day, Inticing on, and leading more astray! Thou Joy in Prospect, future Bliss extreme; Never to be possess'd, but in a Dream! Thou fab'lous Goddess, which the ravisht Boy In happy Slumbers proudly did enjoy; But waking, found an airy Cloud he prest; His Arms came empty to his panting Breast. Thou Shade, that only haunt'st the Soul by night; And when thou shouldst inform thou fly'st the Sight: Thou false Idea of the thinking Brain, } That labours for the charming Form in vain: } Which if by chance it catch, thou'rt lost again. }

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POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS:
WITH A VOYAGE TO THE ISLAND OF LOVE.

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To the Right Honourable,
JAMES,
Earl of Salisbury, Viscount Cramborn, and Baron of Islington.

My Lord,

Who should one celibrate with Verse and Song, but the Great, the Noble and the Brave? where dedicate an Isle of Love, but to the Gay, the Soft and Young? and who amongst Men can lay a better claim to these than Your Lordship? who like the Sun new risen with the early Day, looks round the World and sees nothing it cannot claim an interest in (for what cannot Wit, Beauty, Wealth and Honour claim?) The violent storms of Sedition and Rebellion are hush'd and calm'd; black Treason is retir'd to its old abode, the dark Abyss of Hell; the mysterious Riddles of Politick Knaves and Fools, which so long amused and troubled the World's repose, are luckily unfolded; and Your Lordship is saluted at Your first coming forth, Your first setting out for the glorious and happy Race of Life, by a Nation all glad, gay and smiling; and you have nothing before you but a ravishing prospect of eternal Joys, and everlasting inviting Pleasures, and all that Love and Fortune can bestow on their darling Youth, attend You in the noble pursuit; and nothing can prevent Your being the most happy of her Favourites, but a too eager flight, a too swift speed o'er the charming flowry Meads and Plains that lie in view, between Your setting out and the end of Your glorious Chase. A long and illustrious race of Nobility has attended Your great Name, but none I believe ever came into the World with Your Lordship's advantages; amongst which, my Lord, 'tis not the least that You have the glory to be truly Loyal, and to be adorn'd with those excellent Principles, which render Nobility so absolutely worth the Veneration which is paid 'em; 'tis those, my Lord, and not the Title that make it truly great: Grandeur in any other serves but to point 'em out more particularly to the World, and shew their Faults with the greater magnitude, and render 'em more liable to contempt and that Reward which justly persues Ingratitude; nor is it, my Lord, the many unhappy Examples this Age has produc'd that has deterr'd you from herding with the busie Unfortunates, and bringing Your powerful aid to their detestable cause, but a noble Honesty in Your Nature, a Generosity in Your Soul. That even part of Your Education had the good fortune not to be able to corrupt; no Opinion cou'd bypass You, no Precedent debauch You; though all the fansied Glories of Power were promis'd You, though all the Contempt thrown on good and brave Men, all the subtile Arguments of the old Serpent, were us'd against the best of Kings and his illustrious Successor, still You were unmov'd; Your young stout Heart with a Gallantry and Force unusual resisted and defied the gilded Bait, laugh'd at the industrious Politicks of the busie Wise, and stubbornly Loyal, contemn'd the Counsels of the Grave. Go on, my Lord, advance in Noble resolution, grow up in strength of Loyalty, settle it about Your Soul, root it there like the first Principles of Religion, which nothing ever throughly defaces, and which in spight of even Reason the Soul retains, whatever little Debaucheries the Tongue may commit; You that are great, are born the Bulwarks of sacred Majesty, its defence against all the storms of Fate, the Safety of the People in the Supporters of the Throne; and sure none that ever obey'd the Laws of God and the Dictates of Honour ever paid those Duties to a Sovereign that more truly merited the Defence and Adorations of his People than this of ours; and tis a blessing (since we are oblig'd to render it to the worst of Tyrant Kings) that we have one who so well justifies that intire Love and Submission we ought to pay him. You, my Lord, are one whom Thousands of good Men look up to with wondrous Veneration and Joy, when 'tis said Your Lordship amongst Your other Vertues is Loyal too, a true Tory! (a word of Honour now, the Royal Cause has sanctified it,) and though Your Lordship needs no encouragement to a good that rewards it self, yet I am confident You are not onely rank'd in the esteem of the best of Monarchs, but we shall behold you as one of our Preservers, and all England as one of its great Patrons, when Ages that shall come shall find Your noble Name inroll'd amongst the Friends to Monarchy in an Age of so villainous Corruption: Yes, my Lord, they will find it there and bless You. 'Tis this, my Lord, with every other Grace and Noble Vertue that adorns You, and gives the World such promises of Wonders in You, that makes me ambitious to be the first in the Croud of Your Admirers, that shall have the honour to celibrate Your great Name. Be pleased then, my Lord, to accept this Little Piece, which lazy Minutes begot and hard Fate has oblig'd me to bring forth into the censuring World, to which if any thing can reconcile it, 'twill be the glory it has to bear Your Noble Name in the front, and to be Patronized by so great and good a Man: Permit but my Zeal for Your Lordship to attone for the rest of my Faults, and Your Lordship will extremely oblige,

My Lord,
Your Lordship's most Humble,
and most Obedient Servant,
A. BEHN.

To Mrs. BEHN,
on the publishing her Poems.

Madam,

Long has Wit's injur'd Empire been opprest By Rhiming Fools, this Nations common Jest, And sunk beneath the weight of heavy stafes, In Tory Ballads and Whig Epitaphs; The Ogs and Doegs reign'd, nay Baxter's zeal, Has not been wanting too in writing Ill; Yet still in spight of what the dull can doe, 'Tis here asserted and adorn'd by you. This Book come forth, their credit must decay, Ill Spirits vanish at th'approach of day: And justly we before your envy'd feet, There where our Hearts are due our Pens submit; Ne'er to resume the baffled things again, Unless in Songs of Triumph to thy Name; Which are out-done by every Verse of thine, } Where thy own Fame does with more lustre shine, } Than all that we can give who in thy Praises join. } Fair as the face of Heaven, when no thick Cloud Or darkning Storm the glorious prospect shroud; In all its beauteous parts shines thy bright style, And beyond Humane Wit commends thy skill; With all the thought and vigour of our Sex The moving softness of your own you mix. The Queen of Beauty and the God of Wars } Imbracing lie in thy due temper'd Verse, } Venus her sweetness and the force of Mars. } Thus thy luxuriant Muse her pleasure takes, As God of old in Eden's blissful walks; The Beauties of her new Creation view'd, Full of content She sees that it is good. Come then you inspir'd Swains and join your Verse, Though all in vain to add a Fame to hers; But then your Song will best Apollo please, When it is fraight with this his Favourite's praise. Declare how when her learned Harp she strung, Our joyfull Island with the Musick rung; Descending Graces left their Heavenly seat, To take their place in every Line she writ; Where sweetest Charms as in her Person smile, Her Face's Beauty's copy'd in her style. Say how as she did her just skill improve In the best Art and in soft Tales of Love. Some well sung Passion with success she crown'd, The melting Virgins languish'd at the sound. And envying Swains durst not the Pipe inspire, They'd nothing then to doe but to admire. Shepherds and Nymphs, to Pan direct-your Prayer, } If peradventure he your Vows will hear, } To make you sing, and make you look like her. } But, Nymphs and Swains, your hopes are all in vain, For such bright Eyes, and such a tunefull Pen. How many of her Sex spend half their days, To catch some Fool by managing a Face? But she secure of charming has confin'd Her wiser care t'adorn and dress the Mind. Beauty may fade, but everlasting Verse Exempts the better portion from the Hearse. The matchless Wit and Fancy of the Fair, Which moves our envy and our Sons despair. Long they shall live a monument of her Fame, And to Eternity extend her Name; While After-times deservedly approve The choicest object of this Ages Love. For when they reade, ghessing how far she charm'd, With that bright Body with such Wit inform'd; They will give heed and credit to our Verse, When we the Wonders of her Face rehearse.

J. Cooper.

Buckden, Nov. 25.
1683.

To ASTRÆA, on her Poems.

'Tis not enough to reade and to admire, } Thy sacred Verse does nobler thoughts inspire, } Striking on every breast Poetick fire: } The God of Wit attends with chearfull Rays, Warming the dullest Statue into praise. Hail then, delight of Heaven and pride of Earth, Blest by each Muse at thy auspicious birth; Soft Love and Majesty have fram'd thy Mind, To shew the Beauties of both Sexes join'd: Thy Lines may challenge, like young David's face, A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace; Thy tender notions in loose numbers flow, With a strange power to charm where e'er they go: And when in stronger sounds thy voice we hear, At all the skilfull points you arm'd appear. Which way so'er thou dost thy self express, We find thy Beauty out in every dress; Such work so gently wrought, so strongly fine, Cannot be wrought by hands all Masculine. In vain proud Man weak Woman wou'd controul, No Man can argue now against a Woman's Soul.

J. C.

To the excellent Madam Behn, on her Poems.

'Twas vain for Man the Laurels to persue, (E'en from the God of Wit bright Daphne flew) Man, Whose course compound damps the Muses fire, It does but touch our Earth and soon expire; While in the softer kind th'Ætherial flame, Spreads and rejoices as from Heaven it came: This Greece in Sappho, in Orinda knew Our Isle; though they were but low types to you; But the faint dawn to your illustrious day, To make us patient of your brighter Ray. Oft may we see some wretched story told; In ductile sense spread thin as leaves of Gold. You have ingrost th'inestimable Mine; } Which in well polisht Numbers you refine, } While still the solid Mass shines thick in every Line. } Yet neither sex do you surpass alone, } Both in your Verse are in their glory shown, } Both Phæbus and Minerva are your own. } While in the softest dress you Wit dispense, With all the Nerves of Reason and of Sense. In mingled Beauties we at once may trace A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace. No wonder 'tis the Delphian God of old Wou'd have his Oracles by Women told. But oh! who e'er so sweetly could repeat Soft lays of Love, and youths delightfull heat? If Love's Misfortunes be your mournfull Theme, No dying Swan on fair Cayster's stream, Expires so sweet, though with his numerous Moan, The fading Banks and suffering Mountains groan. If you the gentle Passions wou'd inspire, With what resistless Charms you breathe desire? No Heart so savage, so relentless none, As can the sweet Captivity disown: Ah, needs must she th'unwary Soul surprise, Whose Pen sheds Flames as dangerous as her Eyes.

J. Adams.

To the Authour, on her Voyage to the Island of Love.

To speak of thee no Muse will I invoke, Thou onely canst inspire what shou'd be spoke; For all their wealth the Nine have given to thee, Thy rich and flowing stream has left them dry: Cupid may throw away his useless Darts, Thou'st lent him one will massacre more Hearts Than all his store, thy Pen disarms us so, We yield our selves to the first beauteous Foe; The easie softness of thy thoughts surprise, And this new way Love steals into our Eyes; Thy gliding Verse comes on us unawares, No rumbling Metaphors alarm our Ears, And puts us in a posture of defence; We are undone and never know from whence. So to th' Assyrian Camp the Angel flew, And in the silent Night his Millions slew. Thou leadst us by the Soul amongst thy Loves, And bindst us all in thy inchanting Groves; Each languishes for thy Aminta's Charms, Sighs for thy fansied Raptures in her Armes, Sees her in all that killing posture laid, When Love and fond Respect guarded the sleeping Maid, Persues her to the very Bower of Bliss, Times all the wrecking joys and thinks 'em his; In the same Trance with the young pair we lie, And in their amorous Ecstasies we die. You Nymphs, who deaf to Love's soft lays have been, Reade here, and suck the sweet destruction in: Smooth is the stream and clear is every thought, And yet you cannot see with what you're caught; Or else so very pleasing is the Bait, With careless heed you play and leap at it: She poisons all the Floud with such an art, That the dear Philter trickles to the Heart, With such bewitching pleasure that each sup Has all the joys of life in every drop. I see the Banks with Love-sick Virgins strow'd, Their Bosoms heav'd with the young fluttering Gods; Oh, how they pant and struggle with their pain! Yet cannot wish their former health again: Within their Breasts thy warmth and spirit glows, And in their Eyes thy streaming softness flows; Thy Raptures are transfus'd through every vein, And thy blest hour in all their heads does reign; The Ice that chills the Soul thou dost remove, And meltst it into tenderness and Love; The flints about their Hearts dance to thy lays, Till the quick motion sets 'em on a Blaze. Orpheus and you the stones do both inspire, But onely you out of those flints strike fire, Not with a sudden Spark, a short liv'd Blaze, Like Womens Passions in our Gilting days; But what you fire burns with a constant flame, Like what you write, and always is the same. Rise, all ye weeping Youth, rise and appear, Whom gloomy Fate has damn'd to black Despair; Start from the ground and throw your Mourning by, Loves great Sultana says you shall not die: The dismal dark half year is over past, The Sea is op'd, the Sun shines out at last, And Trading's free, the storms are husht as death, Or happy Lovers ravisht out of breath; And listen to Astræa's Harmony, Such power has elevated Poetry.

T. C.

To the Lovely Witty ASTRÆA, on her Excellent Poems.

Oh, wonder of thy Sex! Where can we see, Beauty and Knowledge join'd except in thee? Such pains took Nature with your Heav'nly Face, Form'd it for Love, and moulded every Grace; I doubted first and fear'd that you had been Unfinish'd left like other She's within: I see the folly of that fear, and find Your Face is not more beauteous than your Mind: Whoe'er beheld you with a Heart unmov'd, That sent not sighs, and said within he lov'd? I gaz'd and found, a then, unknown delight, Life in your looks, and Death to leave the sight. What joys, new Worlds of joys has he possest, That gain'd the sought-for welcome of your Breast? Your Wit wou'd recommend the homeliest Face, Your Beauty make the dullest Humour please; But where they both thus gloriously are join'd, All Men submit, you reign in every Mind. What Passions does your Poetry impart? } It shews th'unfathom'd thing a Woman's Heart, } Tells what Love is, his Nature and his Art, } Displays the several Scenes of Hopes and Fears, Love's Smiles, his Sighs, his Laughing and his Tears. Each Lover here may reade his different Fate, His Mistress kindness or her scornfull hate. Come all whom the blind God has led astray, Here the bewildred Youth is shew'd his way: Guided by this he may yet love and find Ease in his Heart, and reason in his Mind. Thus sweetly once the charming W——lr strove In Heavenly sounds to gain his hopeless Love: All the World list'ned but his scornfull Fair, Pride stopt her ears to whom he bent his prayer. Much happier you that can't desire in vain, But what you wish as soon as wish'd obtain.

Upon these and other Excellent Works of the Incomparable ASTRÆA.

Ye bold Magicians in Philosophy, That vainly think (next the Almighty three) The brightest Cherubin in all the Hierarchy Will leave that Glorious Sphere And to your wild inchantments will appear; To the fond summons of fantastick Charms, As Barbarous and inexplicable Terms: As those the trembling Sorcerer dreads, When he the Magick Circle treads: And as he walks the Mystick rounds, And mutters the detested sounds, The Stygian fiends exalt their wrathfull heads; And all ye bearded Drudges of the Schools, That sweat in vain to mend predestin'd fools, With senseless Jargon and perplexing Rules; Behold and with amazement stand, Behold a blush with shame and wonder too, What Divine Nature can in Woman doe. Behold if you can see in all this fertile Land Such an Anointed head, such an inspired hand.

II.

Rest on in peace, ye blessed Spirits, rest, With Imperial bliss for ever blest: Upon your sacred Urn she scorns to tread, Or rob the Learned Monuments of the dead: Nor need her Muse a foreign aid implore, In her own tunefull breast there's wonderous store. Had she but flourisht in these times of old, When Mortals were amongst the Gods inrolld, She had not now as Woman been Ador'd, But with Diviner sacrifice Implor'd; Temples and Altars had preserv'd her name And she her self been thought Immortal as her fame.

III.

Curst be the balefull Tongue that dares abuse The rightfull offspring of her God-like Muse: And doubly Curst be he that thinks her Pen Can be instructed by the best of men. The times to come (as surely she will live, As many Ages as are past, As long as Learning, Sense, or wit survive, As long as the first principles of Bodies last.) The future Ages may perhaps believe One soft and tender Arm cou'd ne'er atchieve The wonderous deeds that she has done So hard a prize her Conqu'ring Muse has won. But we that live in the great Prophetesses days Can we enough proclaim her praise, We that experience every hour The blest effects of her Miraculous power? To the sweet Musick of her charming tongue, In numerous Crowds the ravisht hearers throng: And even a Herd of Beasts as wild as they That did the Thracian Lyre obey, Forget their Madness and attend her song. The tunefull Shepherds on the dangerous rocks Forsake their Kinds and leave their bleating Flocks, And throw their tender Reeds away, As soon as e'er her softer Pipe begins to play. No barren subject, no unfertile soil Can prove ungratefull to her Muses Toil, Warm'd with the Heavenly influence of her Brain, Upon the dry and sandy plain, On craggy Mountains cover'd o'er with Snow, The blooming Rose and fragrant Jes'min grow: When in her powerful Poetick hand, She waves the mystick wand, Streight from the hardest Rocks the sweetest numbers flow.

IV.

Hail bright Urania! Erato hail! Melpomene, Polymnia, Euterpe, hail! And all ye blessed powers that inspire The Heaven-born Soul with intellectual fire; Pardon my humble and unhallow'd Muse, If she too great a veneration use, And prostrate at your best lov'd Darling's feet Your holy Fane with sacred honour greet: Her more than Pythian Oracles are so divine, You sure not onely virtually are Within the glorious Shrine, But you your very selves must needs be there. The Delian Prophet did at first ordain, That even the mighty Nine should reign, In distant Empires of different Clime; And if in her triumphant Throne, She rules those learned Regions alone, The fam'd Pyerides are out-done by her omnipotent Rhime. In proper Cells her large capacious Brain The images of all things does contain, As bright almost as were th'Ideas laid, In the last model e'er the World was made. And though her vast conceptions are so strong, The powerfull eloquence of her charming tongue Does, clear as the resistless beams of day, To our enlightned Souls the noble thoughts convey Well chosen, well appointed, every word Does its full force and natural grace afford; And though in her rich treasury, Confus'd like Elements great Numbers lie, When they their mixture and proportion take, What beauteous forms of every kind they make! Such was the Language God himself infus'd, And such the style our great Forefather us'd, From one large stock the various sounds he fram'd, And every Species of the vast Creation nam'd. While most of our dull Sex have trod In beaten paths of one continued Road, Her skilfull and well manag'd Muse Does all the art and strength of different paces use: For though sometimes with slackned force, She wisely stops her fleetest course, That slow but strong Majestick pace Shews her the swiftest steed of all the chosen Race.

V.

Well has she sung the learned Daphnis praise, And crown'd his Temple with immortal Bays; And all that reade him must indeed confess, Th'effects of such a cause could not be less. For ne'er was (at the first bold heat begun) So hard and swift a Race of glory run, But yet her sweeter Muse did for him more, Than he himself or all Apollo's sons before; For shou'd th' insatiate lust of time Root out the memory of his sacred Rhime, The polish'd armour in that single Page Wou'd all the tyranny and rage Of Fire and Sword defie, For Daphnis can't but with Astræa die. And who can dark oblivion fear, That is co-eval with her mighty Works and Her? Ah learned Chymist, 'tis she onely can By her almighty arm, Within the pretious salt collect, The true essential form, And can against the power of death protect Not onely Herbs and Trees, but raise the buried Man.

VI.

Wretched [OE]none's inauspicious fate, That she was born so soon, or her blest Muse so late! Cou'd the poor Virgin have like her complain'd, She soon her perjur'd Lover had regain'd, In spight of all the fair Seducers tears, In spight of all her Vows and Prayers; Such tender accents through his Soul had ran, As wou'd have pierc'd the hardest heart of Man. At every Line the fugitive had swore By all the Gods, by all the Powers divine, My dear [OE]none, I'll be ever thine, And ne'er behold the flattering Grecian more. How does it please the learned Roman's Ghost (The sweetest that th' Elysian Field can boast) To see his noble thoughts so well exprest, So tenderly in a rough Language drest; Had she there liv'd, and he her Genius known, So soft, so charming, and so like his own, One of his Works had unattempted been, And Ovid ne'er in mournfull Verse been seen; Then the great Cæsar to the Scythian plain, From Rome's gay Court had banish'd him in vain, Her plenteous Muse had all his wants supplied, And he had flourish'd in exalted pride: No barbarous Getans had deprav'd his tongue, For he had onely list'ned to her Song, Not as an exile, but proscrib'd by choice, Pleas'd with her Form, and ravish'd with her voice. His last and dearest part of Life, Free from noise and glorious strife, He there had spent within her softer Armes, And soon forgot the Royal Julia's charmes.

VII.

Long may she scourge this mad rebellious Age, } And stem the torrent of Fanatick rage, } That once had almost overwhelm'd the Stage. } O'er all the Land the dire contagion spread, And e'en Apollo's Sons apostate fled: But while that spurious race imploy'd their parts } In studying strategems and subtile arts, } To alienate their Prince's Subjects hearts, } Her Loyal Muse still tun'd her loudest strings, To sing the praises of the best of Kings. And, O ye sacred and immortal Gods, From the blest Mansions of your bright abodes, To the first Chaos let us all be hurld, E'er such vile wretches should reform the World, That in all villany so far excell, } If they in sulphurous flames must onely dwell, } The Cursed Caitiffs hardly merit Hell. } Were not those vile Achitophels so lov'd, (The blind, the senseless and deluded Crowd) Did they but half his Royal Vertues know, But half the blessings which to him they owe, His long forbearance to provoking times, And God-like mercy to the worst of crimes: Those murmuring Shimei's, even they alone, } Cou'd they bestow a greater than his own, } Wou'd from a Cottage raise him to a Throne. }

VIII.

See, ye dull Scriblers of this frantick Age, That load the Press, and so o'erwhelm the Stage, That e'en the noblest art that e'er was known, As great as an Egyptian Plague is grown: Behold, ye scrawling Locusts, what ye've done, What a dire judgment is brought down, By your curst Dogrel Rhimes upon the Town; On Fools and Rebels hangs an equal Fate, And both may now repent too late, For the great Charter of your Wit as well as Trade is gone. Once more the fam'd Astræa's come; 'Tis she pronounc'd the fatal doom, And has restor'd it to the rightfull Heirs, Since Knowledge first in Paradise was theirs.

IX.

Never was Soul and Body better joyn'd, A Mansion worthy of so blest a Mind; See but the Shadow of her beauteous face, The pretious minitures of every Grace, There one may still such Charms behold, That as Idolaters of old, The works of their own hands ador'd, And Gods which they themselves had made implor'd; Jove might again descend below, And, with her Wit and Beauty charm'd, to his own Image bow. But oh, the irrevocable doom of Nature's Laws! How soon the brightest Scene of Beauty draws! Alas, what's all the glittering Pride Of the poor perishing Creatures of a day, With what a violent and impetuous Tide, E'er they're flow'd in their glories ebb away? The Pearl, the Diamond and Saphire must Be blended with the common Pebbles dust, And even Astræa with all her sacred store, Be wreckt on Death's inevitable Shore, Her Face ne'er seen and her dear Voice be heard no more. And wisely therefore e'er it was too late, She has revers'd the sad Decrees of Fate, And in deep Characters of immortal Wit, So large a memorandum's writ, That the blest memory of her deathless Name Shall stand recorded in the Book of Fame; When Towns inter'd in their own ashes lie, And Chronicles of Empires die, When Monuments like Men want Tombs to tell Where the remains of the vast ruines fell.

To the excellent ASTRÆA.

We all can well admire, few well can praise Where so great merit does the Subject raise: To write our Thoughts alike from dulness free, On this hand, as on that from flattery; He who wou'd handsomly the Medium hit, Must have no little of Astræa's Wit. Let others in the noble Task engage, Call you the Phœnix, wonder of the Age, The Glory of your Sex, the Shame of ours, Crown you with Garlands of Rhetorick Flowers; For me, alas, I nothing can design, } To render your soft Numbers more divine, } Than by comparison with these of mine: } As beauteous paintings are set off by shades, And some fair Ladies by their dowdy Maids; Yet after all, forgive me if I name One Fault where, Madam, you are much to blame, To wound with Beauty's fighting on the square, But to o'ercome with Wit too is not fair; 'Tis like the poison'd Indian Arrows found, For thus you're sure to kill where once you wound.

J.W.

To Madam A. Behn on the publication of her Poems.

When the sad news was spread, The bright, the fair Orinda's dead, We sigh'd, we mourn'd, we wept, we griev'd, And fondly with our selves conceiv'd, A loss so great could never be retriev'd. The Ruddy Warriour laid his Truncheon by, Sheath'd his bright sword, and glorious Arms forgot, The sounds of Triumph, braggs of Victory, Rais'd in his Breast no emulative thought; For pond'ring on the common Lot, Where is, said He the Diff'rence in the Grave, Betwixt the Coward and the Brave? Since She, alas, whose inspir'd Muse should tell To unborn Ages how the Hero fell, From the Impoverisht Ignorant World is fled, T'inhance the mighty mighty Number of the dead.

II.

The trembling Lover broke his tuneless Lute, And said be thou for ever mute: Mute as the silent shades of night, Whither Orinda's gone, Thy musicks best instructress and thy musicks song; She that could make Thy inarticulated strings to speak, In language soft as young desires, In language chaste as Vestal fires; But she hath ta'n her Everlasting flight: Ah! cruel Death, How short's the date of Learned breath! No sooner do's the blooming Rose, Drest fresh and gay, In the embroy'dries of her Native May, Her odorous sweets expose, But with thy fatal knife, The fragrant flow'r is crop't from off the stalk of life.

III.

Come, ye Stoicks, come away, You that boast an Apathy, And view our Golgotha; See how the mourning Virgins all around, With Tributary Tears bedew the sacred ground; And tell me, tell me where's the Eye That can be dry, Unless in hopes (nor are such hopes in vain) Their universal cry, Should mount the vaulted sky, And of the Gods obtain, A young succeeding Phœnix might arise From Orinda's spicy obsequies. In Heaven the voice was heard, Heaven does the Virgins pray'rs regard; And none that dwells on high, If once the beauteous Ask, the beauteous can deny.

IV.

'Tis done, 'tis done, th' imperial grant is past, We have our wish at last, And now no more with sorrow be it said, Orinda's dead; Since in her seat Astræa does Appear, The God of Wit has chosen her, To bear Orinda's and his Character. The Laurel Chaplet seems to grow On her more gracefull Brow; And in her hand Look how she waves his sacred Wand: Loves Quiver's tyde In an Azure Mantle by her side, And with more gentle Arts Than he who owns the Aureal darts, At once she wounds, and heals our hearts.

V.

Hark how the gladded Nymphs rejoyce, And with a gracefull voice, Commend Apollo's Choice. The gladded Nymphs their Guardian Angel greet, And chearfully her name repeat, And chearfully admire and praise, The Loyal musick of her layes; Whilst they securely sit, Beneath the banners of her wit, And scorn th'ill-manner'd Ignorance of those, Whose Stock's so poor they cannot raise To their dull Muse one subsidy of praise, Unless they're dubb'd the Sexes foes, These squibbs of sense themselves expose. Or if with stolen light They shine one night, The next their earth-born Lineage shows, They perish in their slime, And but to name them, wou'd defile Astræa's Rhime.

IV.

But you that would be truely wise, And vertues fair Idea prize; You that would improve In harmless Arts of not indecent Love: Arts that Romes fam'd Master never taught, Or in the Shops of fortune's bought. Would you know what Wit doth mean, Pleasant wit yet not obscene, The several garbs that Humours wear, The dull, the brisk, the jealous, the severe? Wou'd you the pattern see Of spotless and untainted Loyalty, Deck't in every gracefull word That language that afford; Tropes and Figures, Raptures and Conceits that ly, Disperst in all the pleasant Fields of poesie? Reade you then Astræa's lines, 'Tis in those new discover'd Mines, Those golden Quarries that this Ore is found With which in Worlds as yet unknown Astræa shall be crown'd.

VII.

And you th' Advent'rous sons of fame, You that would sleep in honours bed With glorious Trophies garnished; You that with living labours strive Your dying Ashes to survive; Pay your Tributes to Astræa's name, Her Works can spare you immortality, For sure her Works shall never dye. Pyramids must fall and Mausolean Monuments decay, Marble Tombs shall crumble into dust, Noisie Wonders of a short liv'd day, That must in time yield up their Trust; And had e'er this been perisht quite Ith' ruines of Eternal night, Had no kind Pen like her's, In powerfull numbers powerfull verse, Too potent for the gripes of Avaritious fate, To these our ages lost declar'd their pristine State.

VIII.

But time it self, bright Nymph, shall never conquer thee, For when the Globe of vast Eternity; Turns up the wrong-side of the World, And all things are to their first Chaos hurl'd, Thy lasting praise in thy own lines inroll'd, With Roman and with the British Names shall Equal honour hold. And surely none 'midst the Poetick Quire, But justly will admire The Trophies of thy wit, Sublime and gay as e'er were yet In Charming Numbers writ. Or Virgil's Shade or Ovid's Ghost, Of Ages past the pride and boast; Or Cowley (first of ours) refuse That thou shouldst be Companion of their Muse. And if 'twere lawfull to suppose (As where's the Crime or Incongruity) Those awfull Souls concern'd can be At any sublunary thing, Alas, I fear they'll grieve to see, That whilst I sing, And strive to praise, I but disparage thee.

By F. N. W.

To Madam Behn, on her Poems.

When th'Almighty Powers th'Universe had fram'd, And Man as King, the lesser World was nam'd. The Glorious Consult soon his joys did bless. And sent him Woman his chief happiness. She by an after-birth Heaven did refine, And gave her Beauty with a Soul divine; She with delight was Natures chiefest pride, Dearer to Man than all the World beside; Her soft embraces charm'd his Manly Soul, And softer Words his Roughness did controul: So thou, great Sappho, with thy charming Verse, Dost here the Soul of Poetry rehearse; From your sweet Lips such pleasant Raptures fell, As if the Graces strove which shou'd excell. Th'admiring World when first your Lute you strung. Became all ravisht with th' immortal Song; So soft and gracefull Love in you is seen, As if the Muses had design'd you Queen. For thee, thou great Britannia of our Land, How does thy Praise our tunefull Feet command? With what great influence do thy Verses move? } How hast thou shewn the various sense of Love? } Admir'd by us, and blest by all above. } To you all tribute's due, and I can raise No glory but by speaking in your praise. Go on and bless us dayly with your Pen, And we shall oft return thee thanks again.

H. Watson.

POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

The Golden Age.

A Paraphrase on a Translation out of French.

I.

Blest Age! when ev'ry Purling Stream Ran undisturb'd and clear, When no scorn'd Shepherds on your Banks were seen, Tortur'd by Love, by Jealousie, or Fear; When an Eternal Spring drest ev'ry Bough, And Blossoms fell, by new ones dispossest; These their kind Shade affording all below, And those a Bed where all below might rest. The Groves appear'd all drest with Wreaths of Flowers, And from their Leaves dropt Aromatick Showers, Whose fragrant Heads in Mystick Twines above, Exchang'd their Sweets, and mix'd with thousand Kisses, As if the willing Branches strove To beautifie and shade the Grove Where the young wanton Gods of Love Offer their Noblest Sacrifice of Blisses.

II.

Calm was the Air, no Winds blew fierce and loud, The Skie was dark'ned with no sullen Cloud; But all the Heav'ns laugh'd with continued Light, And scattered round their Rays serenely bright. No other Murmurs fill'd the Ear But what the Streams and Rivers purl'd, When Silver Waves o'er Shining Pebbles curl'd; Or when young Zephirs fan'd the Gentle Breez, Gath'ring fresh Sweets from Balmy Flow'rs and Trees, Then bore 'em on their Wings to perfume all the Air: While to their soft and tender Play, The Gray-Plum'd Natives of the Shades Unwearied sing till Love invades, Then Bill, then sing again, while Love and Musick makes the Day.

III.

The stubborn Plough had then, Made no rude Rapes upon the Virgin Earth; Who yielded of her own accord her plentious Birth, Without the Aids of men; As if within her Teeming Womb, All Nature, and all Sexes lay, Whence new Creations every day Into the happy World did come: The Roses fill'd with Morning Dew, Bent down their loaded heads, T'Adorn the careless Shepherds Grassy Beds While still young opening Buds each moment grew And as those withered, drest his shaded Couch a new; Beneath who's boughs the Snakes securely dwelt, Not doing harm, nor harm from others felt; With whom the Nymphs did Innocently play, No spightful Venom in the wantons lay; But to the touch were Soft, and to the sight were Gay.

IV.

Then no rough sound of Wars Alarms, Had taught the World the needless use of Arms: Monarchs were uncreated then, Those Arbitrary Rulers over men: Kings that made Laws, first broke 'em, and the Gods By teaching us Religion first, first set the World at Odds: Till then Ambition was not known, That Poyson to Content, Bane to Repose; Each Swain was Lord o'er his own will alone, His Innocence Religion was, and Laws. Nor needed any troublesome defence Against his Neighbours Insolence. Flocks, Herds, and every necessary good Which bounteous Nature had design'd for Food, Whose kind increase o'er-spread the Meads and Plaines, Was then a common Sacrifice to all th'agreeing Swaines.

V.

Right and Property were words since made, When Power taught Mankind to invade: When Pride and Avarice became a Trade; Carri'd on by discord, noise and wars, For which they barter'd wounds and scarrs; And to Inhaunce the Merchandize, miscall'd it, Fame, And Rapes, Invasions, Tyrannies, Was gaining of a Glorious Name: Stiling their salvage slaughters, Victories; Honour, the Error and the Cheat Of the Ill-natur'd Bus'ey Great, Nonsense, invented by the Proud, Fond Idol of the slavish Crowd, Thou wert not known in those blest days Thy Poyson was not mixt with our unbounded Joyes; Then it was glory to pursue delight, And that was lawful all, that Pleasure did invite, Then 'twas the Amorous world injoy'd its Reign; And Tyrant Honour strove t' usurp in Vain.

VI.

The flowry Meads, the Rivers and the Groves, Were fill'd with little Gay-wing'd Loves: That ever smil'd and danc'd and Play'd, And now the woods, and now the streames invade, And where they came all things were gay and glad: When in the Myrtle Groves the Lovers sat Opprest with a too fervent heat; A Thousands Cupids fann'd their wings aloft, And through the Boughs the yielded Ayre would waft: Whose parting Leaves discovered all below, And every God his own soft power admir'd, And smil'd and fann'd, and sometimes bent his Bow; Where e'er he saw a Shepherd uninspir'd. The Nymphs were free, no nice, no coy disdain; Deny'd their Joyes, or gave the Lover pain; The yielding Maid but kind Resistance makes; Trembling and blushing are not marks of shame, But the Effect of kindling Flame: Which from the sighing burning Swain she takes, While she with tears all soft, and down-cast-eyes, Permits the Charming Conqueror to win the prize.

VII.

The Lovers thus, thus uncontroul'd did meet, Thus all their Joyes and Vows of Love repeat: Joyes which were everlasting, ever new And every Vow inviolably true: Not kept in fear of Gods, no fond Religious cause, Nor in obedience to the duller Laws. Those Fopperies of the Gown were then not known, Those vain, those Politick Curbs to keep man in, Who by a fond mistake Created that a Sin; Which freeborn we, by right of Nature claim our own. Who but the Learned and dull moral Fool Could gravely have forseen, man ought to live by Rule?

VIII.

Oh cursed Honour! thou who first didst damn, A Woman to the Sin of shame; Honour! that rob'st us of our Gust, Honour! that hindred mankind first, At Loves Eternal Spring to squench his amorous thirst. Honour! who first taught lovely Eyes the art, To wound, and not to cure the heart: With Love to invite, but to forbid with Awe, And to themselves prescribe a Cruel Law; To Veil 'em from the Lookers on, When they are sure the slave's undone, And all the Charmingst part of Beauty hid; Soft Looks, consenting Wishes, all deny'd. It gathers up the flowing Hair, That loosely plaid with wanton Air. The Envious Net, and stinted order hold, The lovely Curls of Jet and shining Gold; No more neglected on the Shoulders hurl'd: Now drest to Tempt, not gratify the World: Thou, Miser Honour, hord'st the sacred store, And starv'st thy self to keep thy Votaries poor.

IX.

Honour! that put'st our words that should be free Into a set Formality. Thou base Debaucher of the generous heart, That teachest all our Looks and Actions Art; What Love design'd a sacred Gift, What Nature made to be possest; Mistaken Honour, made a Theft, For Glorious Love should be confest: For when confin'd, all the poor Lover gains, Is broken Sighs, pale Looks, Complaints and Pains. Thou Foe to Pleasure, Nature's worst Disease, Thou Tyrant over mighty Kings, What mak'st thou here in Shepheards Cottages; Why troublest thou the quiet Shades and Springs? Be gone, and make thy Fam'd resort To Princes Pallaces; Go Deal and Chaffer in the Trading Court, That busie Market for Phantastick Things; Be gone and interrupt the short Retreat, Of the Illustrious and the Great; Go break the Politicians sleep, Disturb the Gay Ambitious Fool, That longs for Scepters, Crowns, and Rule, Which not his Title, nor his Wit can keep; But let the humble honest Swain go on, In the blest Paths of the first rate of man; That nearest were to Gods Alli'd, And form'd for love alone, disdain'd all other Pride.

X.

Be gone! and let the Golden age again, Assume its Glorious Reign; Let the young wishing Maid confess, What all your Arts would keep conceal'd: The Mystery will be reveal'd, And she in vain denies, whilst we can guess, She only shows the Jilt to teach man how, To turn the false Artillery on the Cunning Foe. Thou empty Vision hence, be gone, And let the peaceful Swain love on; The swift pac'd hours of life soon steal away: Stint not, yee Gods, his short liv'd Joy. The Spring decays, but when the Winter's gone, The Trees and Flowers a new comes on; The Sun may set, but when the night is fled, And gloomy darkness does retire, He rises from his Watry Bed: All Glorious, Gay, all drest in Amorous Fire. But Sylvia when your Beauties fade, When the fresh Roses on your Cheeks shall die Like Flowers that wither in the Shade, Eternally they will forgotten lye, } And no kind Spring their sweetness will supply. } When Snow shall on those lovely Tresses lye. } And your fair Eyes no more shall give us pain, But shoot their pointless Darts in vain. What will your duller honour signifie? Go boast it then! and see what numerous Store Of Lovers will your Ruin'd Shrine Adore. Then let us, Sylvia, yet be wise, And the Gay hasty minutes prize: The Sun and Spring receive but our short Light, Once sett, a sleep brings an Eternal Night.

A Farewel to Celladon, On his Going into Ireland.

Pindarick.

Farewell the Great, the Brave and Good, By all admir'd and understood; For all thy vertues so extensive are, Writ in so noble and so plain a Character, That they instruct humanity what to do, How to reward and imitate 'em too, The mighty Cesar found and knew, The Value of a Swain so true: And early call'd the Industrious Youth from Groves Where unambitiously he lay, And knew no greater Joyes, nor Power then Loves; Which all the day The careless and delighted Celladon Improves; So the first man in Paradice was laid, So blest beneath his own dear fragrant shade, Till false Ambition made him range, So the Almighty call'd him forth, And though for Empire he did Eden change; Less Charming 'twas, and far less worth.

II.

Yet he obeyes and leaves the peaceful Plains, The weeping Nymphs, and sighing Swains, Obeys the mighty voice of Jove. The Dictates of his Loyalty pursues, Bus'ness Debauches all his hours of Love; Bus'ness, whose hurry, noise and news Even Natures self subdues; Changes her best and first simplicity, Her soft, her easie quietude Into mean Arts of cunning Policy, The Grave and Drudging Coxcomb to Delude. Say, mighty Celladon, oh tell me why, Thou dost thy nobler thoughts imploy In bus'ness, which alone was made To teach the restless States-man how to Trade In dark Cabals for Mischief and Design, But n'ere was meant a Curse to Souls like thine. Business the Check to Mirth and Wit, Business the Rival of the Fair, The Bane to Friendship, and the Lucky Hit, Onely to those that languish in Dispair; Leave then that wretched troublesome Estate To him to whom forgetful Heaven, Has no one other vertue given, But dropt down the unfortunate, To Toyl, be Dull, and to be Great.

III.

But thou whose nobler Soul was fram'd, For Glorious and Luxurious Ease, By Wit adorn'd, by Love inflam'd; For every Grace, and Beauty Fam'd, Form'd for delight, design'd to please, Give, Give a look to every Joy, That youth and lavish Fortune can invent, Nor let Ambition, that false God, destroy Both Heaven and Natures first intent. But oh in vain is all I say, And you alas must go, The Mighty Cæsar to obey, And none so fit as you. From all the Envying Croud he calls you forth, He knows your Loyalty, and knows your worth; He's try'd it oft, and put it to the Test, It grew in Zeal even whilst it was opprest, The great, the God-like Celladon, Unlike the base Examples of the times, Cou'd never be Corrupted, never won, To stain his honest blood with Rebel Crimes. Fearless unmov'd he stood amidst the tainted Crowd, And justify'd and own'd his Loyalty aloud.

IV.

Hybernia hail! Hail happy Isle, Be glad, and let all Nature smile. Ye Meads and Plains send forth your Gayest Flowers; Ye Groves and every Purling Spring, Where Lovers sigh, and Birds do sing, Be glad and gay, for Celladon is yours; He comes, he comes to grace your Plains. To Charm the Nymphs, and bless the Swains, Ecchoes repeat his Glorious Name To all the Neighbouring Woods and Hills; Ye Feather'd Quire chant forth his Fame, Ye Fountains, Brooks, and Wand'ring Rills, That through the Meadows in Meanders run, Tell all your Flowry Brinks, the generous Swain is come.

VI.

Divert him all ye pretty Solitudes, And give his Life some softning Interludes: That when his weari'd mind would be, From Noise and Rigid Bus'ness free; He may upon your Mossey Beds lye down, Where all is Gloomy, all is Shade, With some dear Shee, whom Nature made, To be possest by him alone; Where the soft tale of Love She breathes, Mixt with the rushing of the wind-blown leaves, The different Notes of Cheerful Birds, And distant Bleating of the Herds: Is Musick far more ravishing and sweet, Then all the Artful Sounds that please the noisey Great.

VII.

Mix thus your Toiles of Life with Joyes, And for the publick good, prolong your days: Instruct the World, the great Example prove, Of Honour, Friendship, Loyalty, and Love. And when your busier hours are done, And you with Damon sit alone; Damon the honest, brave and young; Whom we must Celebrate where you are sung, For you (by Sacred Friendship ty'd,) Love nor Fate can nere divide; When your agreeing thoughts shall backward run, Surveying all the Conquests you have won, The Swaines you'ave left, the sighing Maids undone; Try if you can a fatal prospect take, Think if you can a soft Idea make: Of what we are, now you are gone, Of what we feel for Celladon.

VIII.

'Tis Celladon the witty and the gay, That blest the Night, and cheer'd the world all Day: 'Tis Celladon, to whom our Vows belong, And Celladon the Subject of our Song. For whom the Nymphs would dress, the Swains rejoice, The praise of these, of those the choice; And if our Joyes were rais'd to this Excess, Our Pleasures by thy presence made so great: Some pittying God help thee to guess, (What fancy cannot well Express.) Our Languishments by thy Retreat; Pitty our Swaines, pitty our Virgins more, And let that pitty haste thee to our shore; And whilst on happy distant Coasts you are, Afford us all your sighs, and Cesar all your care.

On a Juniper-Tree, cut down to make Busks.

Whilst happy I Triumphant stood, The Pride and Glory of the Wood; My Aromatick Boughs and Fruit, Did with all other Trees dispute. Had right by Nature to excel, In pleasing both the tast and smell: But to the touch I must confess, Bore an Ungrateful Sullenness. My Wealth, like bashful Virgins, I Yielded with some Reluctancy; For which my vallue should be more, Not giving easily my store. My verdant Branches all the year } Did an Eternal Beauty wear; } Did ever young and gay appear. } Nor needed any tribute pay, For bounties from the God of Day: Nor do I hold Supremacy, (In all the Wood) o'er every Tree. But even those too of my own Race, That grow not in this happy place. But that in which I glory most, And do my self with Reason boast, Beneath my shade the other day, Young Philocles and Cloris lay, Upon my Root she lean'd her head, } And where I grew, he made their Bed: } Whilst I the Canopy more largely spread. } Their trembling Limbs did gently press, The kind supporting yielding Grass: Ne'er half so blest as now, to bear A Swain so Young, a Nimph so fair: My Grateful Shade I kindly lent, And every aiding Bough I bent. So low, as sometimes had the blisse, To rob the Shepherd of a kiss, Whilst he in Pleasures far above The Sence of that degree of Love: Permitted every stealth I made, Unjealous of his Rival Shade. I saw 'em kindle to desire, Whilst with soft sighs they blew the fire; Saw the approaches of their joy, He growing more fierce, and she less Coy, Saw how they mingled melting Rays, Exchanging Love a thousand ways. Kind was the force on every side, } Her new desire she could not hide: } Nor wou'd the Shepherd be deny'd. } Impatient he waits no consent But what she gave by Languishment, The blessed Minute he pursu'd; And now transported in his Arms, Yeilds to the Conqueror all her Charmes, His panting Breast, to hers now join'd, They feast on Raptures unconfin'd; Vast and Luxuriant, such as prove The Immortality of Love. For who but a Divinitie, } Could mingle Souls to that Degree; } And melt 'em into Extasie? } Now like the Phenix, both Expire, } While from the Ashes of their Fire, } Sprung up a new, and soft desire. } Like Charmers, thrice they did invoke, The God! and thrice new vigor took. Nor had the Mysterie ended there, But Cloris reassum'd her fear, And chid the Swain, for having prest, What she alas wou'd not resist: Whilst he in whom Loves sacred flame, Before and after was the same, Fondly implor'd she wou'd forget A fault, which he wou'd yet repeat. From Active Joyes with some they hast, To a Reflexion on the past; A thousand times my Covert bless, That did secure their Happiness: Their Gratitude to every Tree They pay, but most to happy me; The Shepherdess my Bark carest, Whilst he my Root, Love's Pillow, kist; And did with sighs, their fate deplore, Since I must shelter them no more; And if before my Joyes were such, In having heard, and seen too much, My Grief must be as great and high, } When all abandon'd I shall be, } Doom'd to a silent Destinie. } No more the Charming strife to hear, The Shepherds Vows, the Virgins fear: No more a joyful looker on, Whilst Loves soft Battel's lost and won. With grief I bow'd my murmering Head, And all my Christal Dew I shed. Which did in Cloris Pity move, (Cloris whose Soul is made of Love;) She cut me down, and did translate, My being to a happier state. No Martyr for Religion di'd With half that Unconsidering Pride; My top was on that Altar laid. Where Love his softest Offerings paid: And was as fragrant Incense burn'd, My body into Busks was turn'd: Where I still guard the Sacred Store, And of Loves Temple keep the Door.

On the Death of Mr. Grinhil, the Famous Painter.

I.

What doleful crys are these that fright my sence, Sad as the Groans of dying Innocence? The killing Accents now more near Aproach, And the Infectious Sound, Spreads and Inlarges all around; And does all Hearts with Grief and Wonder touch. The famous Grinhil dead! even he, That cou'd to us give Immortalitie; Is to the Eternal silent Groves withdrawn, Those sullen Groves of Everlasting Dawn; Youthful as Flowers, scarce blown, whose opening Leaves, A wond'rous and a fragrant Prospect gives, Of what it's Elder Beauties wou'd display, When they should flourish up to ripning May. Witty as Poets, warm'd with Love and Wine, Yet still spar'd Heaven and his Friend, For both to him were Sacred and Divine: Nor could he this no more then that offend. Fixt as a Martyr where he friendship paid, And Generous as a God, Distributing his Bounties all abroad; And soft and gentle as a Love-sick Maid.

II.

Great Master of the Noblest Mysterie, That ever happy Knowledge did inspire; Sacred as that of Poetry, And which the wond'ring World does equally admire. Great Natures work we do contemn, When on his Glorious Births we meditate: The Face and Eies, more Darts receiv'd from him, Then all the Charms she can create. The Difference is, his Beauties do beget In the inamour'd Soul a Vertuous Heat: While Natures Grosser Pieces move, In the course road of Common Love: So bold, yet soft, his touches were; So round each part's so sweet and fair. That as his Pencil mov'd men thought it prest, The Lively imitating rising Breast, Which yield like Clouds, where little Angels rest: The Limbs all easy as his Temper was; Strong as his Mind, and manly too; Large as his Soul his fancy was, and new: And from himself he copyed every Grace, For he had all that cou'd adorn a Face, All that cou'd either Sex subdue.

III.

Each Excellence he had that Youth has in its Pride, And all Experienc'd Age cou'd teach, At once the vigorous fire of this, And every vertue which that cou'd Express. In all the heights that both could reach; And yet alas, in this Perfection di'd. Dropt like a Blossom with the Northern blast, (When all the scatter'd Leaves abroad were cast;) As quick as if his fate had been in hast: So have I seen an unfixt Star, Out-shine the rest of all the Numerous Train, As bright as that which Guides the Marriner, Dart swiftly from its darken'd Sphere: And nere shall sight the World again.

IV.

Ah why shou'd so much knowledge die! Or with his last kind breath, Why cou'd he not to some one friend bequeath The Mighty Legacie! But 'twas a knowledge given to him alone, That his eternis'd Name might be Admir'd to all Posteritie, By all to whom his grateful Name was known. Come all ye softer Beauties, come; Bring Wreaths of Flowers to deck his tomb; Mixt with the dismal Cypress and the Yew, For he still gave your Charmes their due: And from the injuries of Age and Time, Preserv'd the sweetness of your Prime: And best knew how t' adore that Sweetness too; Bring all your Mournful Tributes here, And let your Eyes a silent sorrow wear, Till every Virgin for a while become Sad as his Fate, and like his Picture's Dumb.

A Ballad on Mr. J. H. to Amoret, asking why I was so sad.

My Amoret, since you must know, The Grief you say my Eyes do show: Survey my Heart, where you shall find, More Love then for your self confin'd. And though you chide, you'll Pity too, A Passion which even Rivals you.

Amyntas on a Holyday As fine as any Lord of May, Amongst the Nimphs, and jolly Swaines, That feed their Flocks upon the Plaines: Met in a Grove beneath whose shade, A Match of Dancing they had made.

His Cassock was of Green, as trim As Grass upon a River brim; Untoucht or sullied with a spot, Unprest by either Lamb or Goat: And with the Air it loosely play'd, With every motion that he made.

His Sleeves a-many Ribbons ties, Where one might read Love-Mysteries: As if that way he wou'd impart, To all, the Sentiments of his Heart, Whose Passions by those Colours known, He with a Charming Pride wou'd own.

His Bonnet with the same was Ti'd, A Silver Scrip hung by his Side: His Buskins garnisht A-la-mode, Were grac'd by every step he Trod; Like Pan, a Majesty he took, And like Apollo when he spoke.

His Hook a Wreath of Flowers Braid, The Present of some Love-sick Maid, Who all the morning had bestow'd, And to her Fancy now compos'd: Which fresher seem'd when near that place, To whom the Giver Captive was.

His Eyes their best Attracts put on, Designing some should be undone; For he could at his pleasure move, The Nymphs he lik'd to fall in Love: Yet so he order'd every Glance, That still they seem'd but Wounds of Chance.

He well cou'd feign an Innocence, And taught his Silence Eloquence; Each Smile he us'd, had got the force, To Conquer more than soft Discourse: Which when it serv'd his Ends he'd use, And subtilly thro' a heart infuse.

His Wit was such it cou'd controul The Resolutions of a Soul; That a Religious Vow had made, By Love it nere wou'd be betra'd: For when he spoke he well cou'd prove Their Errors who dispute with Love.

With all these Charms he did Address Himself to every Shepherdess: Until the Bag-pipes which did play, Began the Bus'ness of the day; And in the taking forth to Dance, The Lovely Swain became my Chance.

To whom much Passion he did Vow, And much his Eyes and Sighs did show; And both imploy'd with so much Art, I strove in vain to guard my Heart; And ere the Night our Revels crost, I was intirely won and lost.

Let me advise thee, Amoret, Fly from the Baits that he has set In every grace; which will betray All Beauties that but look that way: But thou hast Charms that will secure A Captive in this Conquerour.

Our Cabal.

Come, my fair Cloris, come away, Hast thou forgot 'tis Holyday? And lovely Silvia too make haste, The Sun is up, the day does waste: Do'st thou not hear the Musick loud, Mix'd with the murmur of the Crowd? How can thy active Feet be still, And hear the Bag-pipes chearful Trill?

Mr. V. U.

Urania's drest as fine and gay, As if she meant t' out-shine the day; Or certain that no Victories Were to be gain'd but by her Eyes; Her Garment's white, her Garniture The springing Beauties of the Year, Which are in such nice Order plac'd, That Nature is by Art disgrac'd: Her natural Curling Ebon Hair, Does loosly wanton in the Air.

Mr. G. V.

With her the young Alexis came, Whose Eyes dare only speak his Flame: Charming he is, as fair can be, Charming without Effeminacy; Only his Eyes are languishing, Caus'd by the Pain he feels within; Yet thou wilt say that Languishment Is a peculiar Ornament. Deck'd up he is with Pride and Care, All Rich and Gay, to please his Fair: The Price of Flocks h' has made a Prey To th' Usual Vanity of this day.

My dear Brother J. C.

After them Damon Piping came, Who laughs at Cupid and his Flame; Swears, if the Boy should him approach, He'd burn his Wings with his own Torch: But he's too young for Love t' invade, Though for him languish many a Maid. His lovely Ayr, his chearful Face, Adorn'd with many a Youthful Grace, Beget more Sighs then if with Arts He should design to conquer Hearts: The Swains as well as Nymphs submit To's Charms of Beauty and of Wit. He'll sing, he'll dance, he'll pipe and play, And wanton out a Summer's day; And wheresoever Damon be, He's still the Soul o'th' Companie.

My dear Amoret, Mrs. B.

Next Amoret, the true Delight Of all that do approach her sight: The Sun in all its Course ne'er met Ought Fair or Sweet like Amoret. Alone she came, her Eyes declin'd, In which you'll read her troubled Mind; Yes, Silvia, for she'l not deny She loves, as well as thou and I. 'Tis Philocles, that Proud Ingrate, That pays her Passion back with Hate; Whilst she does all but him despise, And clouds the lustre of her Eyes: But once to her he did address, And dying Passion too express; But soon the Amorous Heat was laid, He soon forgot the Vows he'd made; Whilst she in every Silent Grove, Bewails her easie Faith and Love. Numbers of Swains do her adore, But she has vow'd to love no more.

Mr. J. B.

Next Jolly Thirsis came along, With many Beauties in a Throng.

Mr. Je. B.

With whom the young Amyntas came, The Author of my Sighs and Flame: For I'll confess that Truth to you, Which every Look of mine can show. Ah how unlike the rest he appears! With Majesty above his years! His Eyes so much of Sweetness dress, Such Wit, such Vigour too express; That 'twou'd a wonder be to say, I've seen the Youth, and brought my Heart away. Ah Cloris! Thou that never wert In danger yet to lose a Heart, Guard it severely now, for he Will startle all thy Constancy: For if by chance thou do'st escape Unwounded by his Lovely Shape, Tempt not thy Ruine, lest his Eyes Joyn with his Tongue to win the Prize: Such Softness in his Language dwells, And Tales of Love so well he tells, Should'st thou attend their Harmony, Thou'dst be Undone, as well as I; For sure no Nymph was ever free, That could Amyntas hear and see.

Mr. N. R. V.

With him the lovely Philocless, His Beauty heightned by his Dress, If any thing can add a Grace To such a Shape, and such a Face, Whose Natural Ornaments impart Enough without the help of Art. His Shoulders cover'd with a Hair, The Sun-Beams are not half so fair; Of which the Virgins Bracelets make, And where for Philocless's sake: His Beauty such, that one would swear His face did never take the Air. On's Cheeks the blushing Roses show, The rest like whitest Daisies grow: His Lips, no Berries of the Field, Nor Cherries, such a Red do yield. His Eyes all Love, Soft'ning Smile; And when he speaks, he sighs the while: His Bashful Grace, with Blushes too, Gains more then Confidence can do. With all these Charms he does invade The Heart, which when he has betray'd, He slights the Trophies he has won, And weeps for those he has Undone; As if he never did intend His Charms for so severe an End. And all poor Amoret can gain, Is pitty from the Lovely Swain: And if Inconstancy can seem Agreeable, 'tis so in him. And when he meets Reproach for it, He does excuse it with his Wit.

Mr. E. B. and Mrs. F. M.

Next hand in hand the smiling Pair, Martillo, and the Lovely Fair: A Bright-Ey'd Phillis, who they say, Ne'er knew what Love was till to day: Long has the Gen'rous Youth in vain Implor'd some Pity for his Pain. Early abroad he would be seen, To wait her coming on the Green, To be the first that t' her should pay The Tribute of the New-born Day; Presents her Bracelets with their Names, And Hooks carv'd out with Hearts and Flames. And when a stragling Lamb he saw, And she not by to give it Law, The pretty Fugitive he'd deck With Wreaths of Flowers around its Neck; And gave her ev'ry mark of Love, Before he could her Pity move. But now the Youth no more appears Clouded with Jealousies and Fears: Nor yet dares Phillis softer Brow Wear Unconcern, or Coldness now; But makes him just and kind Returns; And as He does, so now She burns.

Mr. J. H.

Next Lysidas, that haughty Swain, With many Beauties in a Train, All sighing for the Swain, whilst he Barely returns Civility. Yet once to each much Love he Vowd, And strange Fantastique Passion show'd. Poor Doris, and Lucinda too, And many more whom thou dost know, Who had not power his Charms to shun, Too late do find themselves Undone. His Eyes are Black, and do transcend All Fancy e'er can comprehend; And yet no Softness in 'em move. They kill with Fierceness, not with Love: Yet he can dress 'em when he list, With Sweetness none can e'er resist. His Tongue no Amorous Parley makes, But with his Looks alone he speaks. And though he languish yet he'l hide, That grateful knowledge with his Pride; And thinks his Liberty is lost, Not in the Conquest, but the Boast. Nor will but Love enough impart, To gain and to secure a heart: Of which no sooner he is sure, And that its Wounds are past all Cure. But for New Victories he prepares, And leaves the Old to its Despairs: Success his Boldness does renew, And Boldness helps him Conquer too, He having gain'd more hearts than all Th' rest of the Pastoral Cabal.

Mr. Ed. Bed.

With him Philander, who nere paid A Sigh or Tear to any Maid: So innocent and young he is, He cannot guess what Passion is. But all the Love he ever knew, On Lycidas he does bestow: Who pays his Tenderness again, Too Amorous for a Swain to a Swain. A softer Youth was never seen, His Beauty Maid; but Man, his Mein: And much more gay than all the rest; And but Alexis finest Dress'd. His Eyes towards Lycidas still turn, As sympathising Flowers to the Sun; Whilst Lycidas whose Eyes dispense No less a grateful Influence, Improves his Beauty, which still fresher grows: Who would not under two such Suns as those? Cloris you sigh, what Amorous grown? Pan grant you keep your heart a home: For I have often heard you Vow, If any cou'd your heart subdue, Though Lycidas you nere had seen, It must be him, or one like him: Alas I cannot yet forget, How we have with Amyntas sat Beneath the Boughs for Summer made, Our heated Flocks and Us to shade; Where thou wou'dst wond'rous Stories tell, Of this Agreeable Infidel. By what Devices, Charms and Arts, He us'd to gain and keep his Hearts: And whilst his Falsehood we wou'd Blame, Thou woud'st commend and praise the same. And did no greater pleasure take, Then when of Lycidas we spake; By this and many Sighs we know, Thou'rt sensible of Loving too. Come Cloris, come along with us, And try thy power with Lycidas; See if that Vertue which you prize, Be proof against those Conquering Eyes. That Heart that can no Love admit, Will hardly stand his shock of Wit; Come deck thee then in all that's fine, Perhaps the Conquest may be thine; They all attend, let's hast to do, What Love and Musick calls us to.

SONG.
The Willing Mistriss.

Amyntas led me to a Grove, Where all the Trees did shade us; The Sun it self, though it had Strove, It could not have betray'd us: The place secur'd from humane Eyes, No other fear allows, But when the Winds that gently rise, Doe Kiss the yeilding Boughs.

Down there we satt upon the Moss, And did begin to play A Thousand Amorous Tricks, to pass The heat of all the day. A many kisses he did give: And I return'd the same Which made me willing to receive That which I dare not name.

His Charming Eyes no Aid requir'd To tell their softning Tale; On her that was already fir'd, 'Twas Easy to prevaile. He did but Kiss and Clasp me round, Whilst those his thoughts Exprest: And lay'd me gently on the Ground; Ah who can guess the rest?

SONG.
Love Arm'd.

Love in Fantastique Triumph satt, Whilst Bleeding Hearts a round him flow'd, For whom Fresh paines he did Create, And strange Tryanick power he show'd; From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire, Which round about, in sport he hurl'd; But 'twas from mine he took desire, Enough to undo the Amorous World.

From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his Pride and Crueltie; From me his Languishments and Feares, And every Killing Dart from thee; Thus thou and I, the God have arm'd, And sett him up a Deity; But my poor Heart alone is harm'd, Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.

SONG.
The Complaint.

Amyntas that true hearted Swaine, Upon a Rivers Banck was lay'd, Where to the Pittying streames he did Complaine On Silvia that false Charming Maid While shee was still regardless of his paine. Ah! Charming Silvia, would he cry; And what he said, the Echoes wou'd reply: Be kind or else I dy: Ech:—I dy. Be kind or else I dy: Ech:—I dy.

Those smiles and Kisses which you give, Remember Silvia are my due; And all the Joyes my Rivall does receive, He ravishes from me not you: Ah Silvia! can I live and this believe? Insensibles are toucht to see My Languishments, and seem to pitty me: Which I demand of thee: Ech:—of thee. Which I demand of thee: Ech:—of thee.

Set by Mr. Banister.

SONG.
The Invitation.

Damon I cannot blame your will, 'Twas Chance and not Design did kill; For whilst you did prepare your Charmes, On purpose Silvia to subdue: I met the Arrows as they flew, And sav'd her from their harms.

Alas she cannot make returnes, Who for a Swaine already Burnes; A Shepherd whom she does Caress: With all the softest marks of Love, And 'tis in vaine thou seek'st to move The cruel Shepherdess.

Content thee with this Victory, Think me as faire and young as she: I'le make thee Garlands all the day, And in the Groves we'l sit and sing; I'le Crown thee with the pride o'th' Spring, When thou art Lord of May.

SONG.

When Jemmy first began to Love, He was the Gayest Swaine That ever yet a Flock had drove, Or danc't upon the Plaine. T'was then that I, weys me poor Heart, My Freedom threw away; And finding sweets in every smart, I cou'd not say him nay.

And ever when he talkt of Love, He wou'd his Eyes decline; And every sigh a Heart would move, Gued Faith and why not mine? He'd press my hand, and Kiss it oft, In silence spoke his Flame. And whilst he treated me thus soft, I wisht him more to Blame.

Sometimes to feed my Flocks with him, My Jemmy wou'd invite me: Where he the Gayest Songs wou'd sing, On purpose to delight me. And Jemmy every Grace displayd, Which were enough I trow, To Conquer any Princely Maid, So did he me I Vow.

But now for Jemmy must I mourn, Who to the Warrs must go; His Sheephook to a Sword must turne: Alack what shall I do? His Bag-pipe into War-like Sounds, Must now Exchanged bee: Instead of Braceletts, fearful Wounds; Then what becomes of me?

To Mr. Creech (under the Name of Daphnis) on his Excellent Translation of Lucretius.

Thou great Young Man! Permit amongst the Crowd Of those that sing thy mighty Praises lowd, My humble Muse to bring its Tribute too. Inspir'd by thy vast flight of Verse, Methinks I should some wondrous thing rehearse, Worthy Divine Lucretius, and Diviner Thou. But I of Feebler Seeds design'd, Whilst the slow moving Atomes strove, With careless heed to form my Mind: Compos'd it all of Softer Love. In gentle Numbers all my Songs are Drest, And when I would thy Glories sing, What in strong manly Verse I would express, Turns all to Womannish Tenderness within, Whilst that which Admiration does inspire, In other Souls, kindles in mine a Fire. Let them admire thee on—Whilst I this newer way Pay thee yet more than they: For more I owe, since thou hast taught me more, Then all the mighty Bards that went before. Others long since have Pal'd the vast delight; In duller Greek and Latin satisfy'd the Appetite: But I unlearn'd in Schools, disdain that mine Should treated be at any Feast but thine. Till now, I curst my Birth, my Education, And more the scanted Customes of the Nation: Permitting not the Female Sex to tread, The mighty Paths of Learned Heroes dead. The God-like Virgil, and great Homers Verse, Like Divine Mysteries are conceal'd from us. We are forbid all grateful Theams, No ravishing thoughts approach our Ear, The Fulsom Gingle of the times, Is all we are allow'd to understand or hear. But as of old, when men unthinking lay, Ere Gods were worshipt, or ere Laws were fram'd The wiser Bard that taught 'em first t' obey, Was next to what he taught, ador'd and fam'd; Gentler they grew, their words and manners chang'd, And salvage now no more the Woods they rang'd. So thou by this Translation dost advance Our Knowledg from the State of Ignorance, And equals us to Man! Ah how can we, Enough Adore, or Sacrifice enough to thee.

The Mystick Terms of Rough Philosophy, Thou dost so plain and easily express; Yet Deck'st them in so soft and gay a Dress: So intelligent to each Capacity, That they at once Instruct and Charm the Sense, With heights of Fancy, heights of Eloquence; And Reason over all Unfetter'd plays, Wanton and undisturb'd as Summers Breeze; That gliding murmurs o're the Trees: And no hard Notion meets or stops its way. It Pierces, Conquers and Compels, Beyond poor Feeble Faith's dull Oracles. Faith the despairing Souls content, Faith the Last Shift of Routed Argument.

Hail Sacred Wadham! whom the Muses Grace And from the Rest of all the Reverend Pile; Of Noble Pallaces, design'd thy Space: Where they in soft retreat might dwell. They blest thy Fabrick, and said—Do thou, Our Darling Sons contain; We thee our Sacred Nursery Ordain, They said and blest, and it was so. And if of old the Fanes of Silvian Gods, Were worshipt as Divine Abodes; If Courts are held as Sacred Things, For being the Awful Seats of Kings. What Veneration should be paid, To thee that hast such wondrous Poets made. To Gods for fear, Devotion was design'd, And Safety made us bow to Majesty; Poets by Nature Aw and Charm the Mind, Are born not made by dull Religion or Necessity.

The Learned Thirsis did to thee belong, Who Athens Plague has so divinely Sung. Thirsis to wit, as sacred friendship true, Paid Mighty Cowley's Memory its due. Thirsis who whilst a greater Plague did reign, Then that which Athens did Depopulate: Scattering Rebellious Fury o're the Plain, That threaten'd Ruine to the Church and State, Unmov'd he stood, and fear'd no Threats of Fate. That Loyal Champion for the Church and Crown, That Noble Ornament of the Sacred Gown, Still did his Soveraign's Cause Espouse, And was above the Thanks of the mad Senate-house. Strephon the Great, whom last you sent abroad, Who Writ, and Lov'd, and Lookt like any God; For whom the Muses mourn, the Love-sick Maids Are Languishing in Melancholly Shades. The Cupids flag their Wings, their Bows untie, And useless Quivers hang neglected by, And scatter'd Arrows all around 'em lye. By murmuring Brooks the careless Deities are laid, Weeping their rifled power now Noble Strephon's Dead.

Ah Sacred Wadham! should'st thou never own But this delight of all Mankind and thine; For Ages past of Dulness, this alone, This Charming Hero would Attone. And make thee Glorious to succeeding time; But thou like Natures self disdain'st to be, Stinted to Singularity. Even as fast as she thou dost produce, And over all the Sacred Mystery infuse. No sooner was fam'd Strephon's Glory set, Strephon the Soft, the Lovely and the Great; But Daphnis rises like the Morning-Star, That guides the Wandring Traveller from afar. Daphnis whom every Grace, and Muse inspires, Scarce Strephons Ravishing Poetic Fires So kindly warm, or so divinely Cheer. Advance Young Daphnis, as thou hast begun, So let thy Mighty Race be run. Thou in thy large Poetick Chace, Begin'st where others end the Race. If now thy Grateful Numbers are so strong, If they so early can such Graces show, Like Beauty so surprizing, when so Young, What Daphnis will thy Riper Judgment do, When thy Unbounded Verse in their own Streams shall flow! What Wonder will they not produce, } When thy Immortal Fancy's loose; } Unfetter'd, Unconfin'd by any other Muse! } Advance Young Daphnis then, and mayst thou prove Still sacred in thy Poetry and Love. May all the Groves with Daphnis Songs be blest, Whilst every Bark is with thy Disticks drest. May Timerous Maids learn how to Love from thence And the Glad Shepherd Arts of Eloquence. And when to Solitude thou would'st Retreat, May their tun'd Pipes thy Welcome celebrate. And all the Nymphs strow Garlands at thy Feet. May all the Purling Streams that murmuring pass, The Shady Groves and Banks of Flowers, The kind reposing Beds of Grass, Contribute to their Softer Hours. Mayst thou thy Muse and Mistress there Caress, And may one heighten to 'thers Happiness. And whilst thou so divinely dost Converse, We are content to know and to admire thee in thy Sacred Verse.

To Mrs. W. On her Excellent Verses (Writ in Praise of some I had made on the Earl of Rochester) Written in a Fit of Sickness.

Enough kind Heaven! to purpose I have liv'd, And all my Sighs and Languishments surviv'd. My Stars in vain their sullen influence have shed, Round my till now Unlucky Head: I pardon all the Silent Hours I've griev'd, My Weary Nights, and Melancholy Days; When no Kind Power my Pain Reliev'd, I lose you all, ye sad Remembrancers, I lose you all in New-born Joys, Joys that will dissipate my Falling Tears. The Mighty Soul of Rochester's reviv'd, Enough Kind Heaven to purpose I have liv'd. I saw the Lovely Phantom, no Disguise, Veil'd the blest Vision from my Eyes, 'Twas all o're Rochester that pleas'd and did surprize. Sad as the Grave I sat by Glimmering Light, Such as attends Departing Souls by Night. Pensive as absent Lovers left alone, Or my poor Dove, when his Fond Mate was gone. Silent as Groves when only Whispering Gales, Sigh through the Rushing Leaves, As softly as a Bashful Shepherd Breaths, To his Lov'd Nymph his Amorous Tales. So dull I was, scarce Thought a Subject found, Dull as the Light that gloom'd around; When lo the Mighty Spirit appear'd, All Gay, all Charming to my sight; My Drooping Soul it Rais'd and Cheer'd, And cast about a Dazling Light. In every part there did appear, The Great, the God-like Rochester, His Softness all, his Sweetness everywhere. It did advance, and with a Generous Look, To me Addrest, to worthless me it spoke: With the same wonted Grace my Muse it prais'd, With the same Goodness did my Faults Correct; And careful of the Fame himself first rais'd, Obligingly it School'd my loose Neglect. The soft, the moving Accents soon I knew The gentle Voice made up of Harmony; Through the Known Paths of my glad Soul it flew; I knew it straight, it could no others be, 'Twas not Alied but very very he. So the All-Ravisht Swain that hears The wondrous Musick of the Sphears, For ever does the grateful Sound retain, Whilst all his Oaten Pipes and Reeds, The Rural Musick of the Groves and Meads, Strive to divert him from the Heavenly Song in vain. He hates their harsh and Untun'd Lays, Which now no more his Soul and Fancy raise. But if one Note of the remembred Air He chance again to hear, He starts, and in a transport cries,—'Tis there. He knows it all by that one little taste, And by that grateful Hint remembers all the rest. Great, Good, and Excellent, by what new way Shall I my humble Tribute pay, For this vast Glory you my Muse have done, For this great Condescension shown! So Gods of old sometimes laid by Their Awful Trains of Majesty, And chang'd ev'n Heav'n a while for Groves and Plains, And to their Fellow-Gods preferr'd the lowly Swains, And Beds of Flow'rs would oft compare To those of Downey Clouds, or yielding Air; At purling Streams would drink in homely Shells, Put off the God, to Revel it in Woods and Shepherds Cells; Would listen to their Rustick Songs, and show Such Divine Goodness in Commending too, Whilst the transported Swain the Honour pays With humble Adoration, humble Praise.

The Sence of a Letter sent me, made into Verse; To a New Tune.

I.

In vain I have labour'd the Victor to prove Of a Heart that can ne'er give Admittance to Love: So hard to be won That nothing so young Could e'er have resisted a Passion so long.

II.

But nothing I left unattempted or said, To soften the Heart of the Pityless Maid; Yet still she was shy, And would blushing deny, Whilst her willinger Eyes gave her Language the Lye.

III.

When before the Impregnable Fort I lay down, I resolv'd or to die, or to Purchase Renown, But how vain was the Boast! All the Glory I lost, And now vanquish'd and sham'd I've quitted my Post.

The Return.

I.

Amyntas, whilst you Have an Art to subdue, And can conquer a Heart with a Look or a Smile; You Pityless grow, And no Faith will allow; 'Tis the Glory you seek when you rifle the Spoil.

II.

Your soft warring Eyes, When prepar'd for the Prize, Can laugh at the Aids of my feeble Disdain; You can humble the Foe, And soon make her to know Tho' she arms her with Pride, her Efforts are but vain.

III.

But Shepherd beware, Though a Victor you are; A Tyrant was never secure in his Throne; Whilst proudly you aim New Conquests to gain, Some hard-hearted Nymph may return you your own.

On a Copy of Verses made in a Dream, and sent to me in a Morning before I was Awake.

Amyntas, if your Wit in Dreams Can furnish you with Theams, What must it do when your Soul looks abroad, Quick'nd with Agitations of the Sence, And dispossest of Sleeps dull heavy Load, When ev'ry Syllable has Eloquence? And if by Chance such Wounds you make, And in your Sleep such welcome Mischiefs do; What are your Pow'rs when you're awake, Directed by Design and Reason too?

I slept, as duller Mortals use, Without the Musick of a Thought, When by a gentle Breath, soft as thy Muse, Thy Name to my glad Ear was brought: Amyntas! cry'd the Page—And at the Sound, My list'ning Soul unusual Pleasure found. So the Harmonius Spheres surprize, Whilst the All-Ravish'd Shepherd gazes round, And wonders whence the Charms should rise, That can at once both please and wound. Whilst trembling I unript the Seal Of what you'd sent, My Heart with an Impatient Zeal, Without my Eyes, would needs reveal Its Bus'ness and Intent.

But so beyond the Sence they were Of ev'ry scribling Lovers common Art, That now I find an equal share Of Love and Admiration in my Heart. And while I read, in vain I strove To hide the Pleasure which I took; Bellario saw in ev'ry Look My smiling Joy and blushing Love. Soft ev'ry word, easie each Line, and true; Brisk, witty, manly, strong and gay; The Thoughts are tender all, and new, And Fancy ev'ry where does gently play, Amyntas, if you thus go on, Like an unwearied Conqueror day and night, The World at last must be undone. You do not only kill at sight, But like a Parthian in your flight, Whether you Rally or Retreat, You still have Arrows for Defeat.

To my Lady Morland at Tunbridge.

As when a Conqu'rour does in Triumph come, And proudly leads the vanquish'd Captives home, The Joyful People croud in ev'ry Street, And with loud shouts of Praise the Victor greet; While some whom Chance or Fortune kept away, Desire at least the Story of the Day; How brave the Prince, how gay the Chariot was, How beautiful he look'd, with what a Grace; Whether upon his Head he Plumes did wear; Or if a Wreath of Bays adorn'd his Hair: They hear 'tis wondrous fine, and long much more To see the Hero then they did before. So when the Marvels by Report I knew, Of how much Beauty, Cloris, dwelt in you; How many Slaves your Conqu'ring Eyes had won, And how the gazing Crowd admiring throng: I wish'd to see, and much a Lover grew Of so much Beauty, though my Rivals too. I came and saw, and blest my Destiny; I found it Just you should out-Rival me. 'Twas at the Altar, where more Hearts were giv'n To you that day, then were address'd to Heav'n. The Rev'rend Man whose Age and Mystery Had rendred Youth and Beauty Vanity, By fatal Chance casting his Eyes your way, } Mistook the duller Bus'ness of the Day, } Forgot the Gospel, and began to Pray. } Whilst the Enamour'd Crowd that near you prest, } Receiving Darts which none could e'er resist, } Neglected the Mistake o'th' Love-sick Priest. } Ev'n my Devotion, Cloris, you betray'd, And I to Heaven no other Petition made, But that you might all other Nymphs out-do In Cruelty as well as Beauty too. I call'd Amyntas Faithless Swain before, But now I find 'tis Just he should Adore. Not to love you, a wonder sure would be, Greater then all his Perjuries to me. And whilst I Blame him, I Excuse him too; Who would not venture Heav'n to purchase you? But Charming Cloris, you too meanly prize The more deserving Glories of your Eyes, If you permit him on an Amorous score, To be your Slave, who was my Slave before. He oft has Fetters worn, and can with ease Admit 'em or dismiss 'em when he please. A Virgin-Heart you merit, that ne'er found It could receive, till from your Eyes, the Wound; A Heart that nothing but your Force can fear, And own a Soul as Great as you are Fair.

Song to Ceres. In the Wavering Nymph, or Mad Amyntas.

I.

Ceres, Great Goddess of the bounteous Year, Who load'st the Teeming Earth with Gold and Grain, Blessing the Labours of th' Industrious Swain, And to their Plaints inclin'st thy gracious Ear: Behold two fair Cicilian Lovers lie Prostrate before thy Deity; Imploring thou wilt grant the Just Desires Of two Chaste Hearts that burn with equal Fires.

II.

Amyntas he, brave, generous and young; Whom yet no Vice his Youth has e'er betray'd: And Chaste Urania is the Lovely Maid; His Daughter who has serv'd thy Altars long, As thy High Priest: A Dowry he demands At the young Amorous Shepherds hands: Say, gentle Goddess, what the Youth must give, E'er the Bright Maid he can from thee receive.

Song in the same Play, by the Wavering Nymph.

Pan, grant that I may never prove So great a Slave to fall in love, And to an Unknown Deity Resign my happy Liberty: I love to see the Amorous Swains Unto my Scorn their Hearts resign: With Pride I see the Meads and Plains Throng'd all with Slaves, and they all mine: Whilst I the whining Fools despise, That pay their Homage to my Eyes.

The Disappointment.

I.

One day the Amorous Lysander By an impatient Passion sway'd, Surpriz'd fair Cloris, that lov'd Maid, Who could defend her self no longer. All things did with his Love conspire; The gilded Planet of the Day, In his gay Chariot drawn by Fire, Was now descending to the Sea, And left no Light to guide the World, But what from Cloris Brighter Eyes was hurld.

II.

In a lone Thicket made for Love, Silent as yielding Maids Consent, She with a Charming Languishment, Permits his Force, yet gently strove; Her Hands his Bosom softly meet, But not to put him back design'd, Rather to draw 'em on inclin'd: Whilst he lay trembling at her Feet, Resistance 'tis in vain to show; She wants the pow'r to say—Ah! What d'ye do?

III.

Her Bright Eyes sweet, and yet severe, Where Love and Shame confus'dly strive, Fresh Vigor to Lysander give; And breathing faintly in his Ear, She cry'd—Cease, Cease—your vain Desire, Or I'll call out—What would you do? My Dearer Honour ev'n to You I cannot, must not give—Retire, Or take this Life, whose chiefest part I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart.

IV.

But he as much unus'd to Fear, As he was capable of Love, The blessed minutes to improve, Kisses her Mouth, her Neck, her Hair; Each Touch her new Desire Alarms, His burning trembling Hand he prest Upon her swelling Snowy Brest, While she lay panting in his Arms. All her Unguarded Beauties lie The Spoils and Trophies of the Enemy.

V.

And now without Respect or Fear, He seeks the Object of his Vows, (His Love no Modesty allows) By swift degrees advancing—where His daring Hand that Altar seiz'd, Where Gods of Love do sacrifice: That Awful Throne, that Paradice Where Rage is calm'd, and Anger pleas'd; That Fountain where Delight still flows, And gives the Universal World Repose.

VI.

Her Balmy Lips encount'ring his, Their Bodies, as their Souls, are joyn'd; Where both in Transports Unconfin'd Extend themselves upon the Moss. Cloris half dead and breathless lay; Her soft Eyes cast a Humid Light, Such as divides the Day and Night; Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay: And now no signs of Life she shows, But what in short-breath'd Sighs returns and goes.

VII.

He saw how at her Length she lay; He saw her rising Bosom bare; Her loose thin Robes, through which appear A Shape design'd for Love and Play; Abandon'd by her Pride and Shame. She does her softest Joys dispence, Off'ring her Virgin-Innocence A Victim to Loves Sacred Flame; While the o'er-Ravish'd Shepherd lies Unable to perform the Sacrifice.

VIII.

Ready to taste a thousand Joys, The too transported hapless Swain Found the vast Pleasure turn'd to Pain; Pleasure which too much Love destroys The willing Garments by he laid, And Heaven all open'd to his view. Mad to possess, himself he threw On the Defenceless Lovely Maid. But Oh what envying God conspires To snatch his Power, yet leave him the Desire!

IX.

Nature's Support, (without whose Aid She can no Humane Being give) It self now wants the Art to live; Faintness its slack'ned Nerves invade: In vain th' inraged Youth essay'd To call its fleeting Vigor back, No motion 'twill from Motion take; Excess of Love his Love betray'd: In vain he Toils, in vain Commands The Insensible fell weeping in his Hand.

X.

In this so Amorous Cruel Strife, Where Love and Fate were too severe, The poor Lysander in despair Renounc'd his Reason with his Life: Now all the brisk and active Fire That should the Nobler Part inflame, Serv'd to increase his Rage and Shame, And left no Spark for New Desire: Not all her Naked Charms cou'd move Or calm that Rage that had debauch'd his Love.

XI.

Cloris returning from the Trance Which Love and soft Desire had bred, Her timerous Hand she gently laid (Or guided by Design or Chance) Upon that Fabulous Priapus; That Potent God, as Poets feign; But never did young Shepherdess, Gath'ring of Fern upon the Plain, More nimbly draw her Fingers back, Finding beneath the verdant Leaves a Snake:

XII.

Than Cloris her fair Hand withdrew, Finding that God of her Desires Disarm'd of all his Awful Fires, And Cold as Flow'rs bath'd in the Morning Dew. Who can the Nymph's Confusion guess? The Blood forsook the hinder Place, And strew'd with Blushes all her Face, Which both Disdain and Shame exprest: And from Lysander's Arms she fled, Leaving him fainting on the Gloomy Bed.

XIII.

Like Lightning through the Grove she hies, Or Daphne from the Delphick God, No Print upon the grassey Road She leaves, t' instruct Pursuing Eyes. The Wind that wanton'd in her Hair, And with her Ruffled Garments plaid, Discover'd in the Flying Maid All that the Gods e'er made, if Fair. So Venus, when her Love was slain, With Fear and Haste flew o'er the Fatal Plain.

XIV.

The Nymph's Resentments none but I Can well Imagine or Condole: But none can guess Lysander's Soul, But those who sway'd his Destiny. His silent Griefs swell up to Storms, And not one God his Fury spares; He curs'd his Birth, his Fate, his Stars; But more the Shepherdess's Charms, Whose soft bewitching Influence Had Damn'd him to the Hell of Impotence.

On a Locket of Hair Wove in a True-Loves Knot, given me by Sir R. O.

What means this Knot, in Mystick Order Ty'd, And which no Humane Knowledge can divide? Not the Great Conqu'rours Sword can this undo Whose very Beauty would divert the Blow. Bright Relique! Shrouded in a Shrine of Gold! Less Myst'ry made a Deity of Old. Fair Charmer! Tell me by what pow'rful Spell You into this Confused Order fell? If Magick could be wrought on things Divine, Some Amorous Sybil did thy Form design In some soft hour, which the Prophetick Maid In Nobler Mysteries of Love employ'd. Wrought thee a Hieroglyphick, to express The wanton God in all his Tenderness; Thus shaded, and thus all adorn'd with Charms, Harmless, Unfletch'd, without Offensive Arms, He us'd of Old in shady Groves to Play, } E'er Swains broke Vows, or Nymphs were vain and coy, } Or Love himself had Wings to fly away. } Or was it (his Almighty Pow'r to prove) Design'd a Quiver for the God of Love? And all these shining Hairs which th'inspir'd Maid Has with such strange Mysterious Fancy laid, Are meant his Shafts; the subt'lest surest Darts That ever Conqu'red or Secur'd his Hearts; Darts that such tender Passions do convey, Not the young Wounder is more soft than they. 'Tis so; the Riddle I at last have learn'd: But found it when I was too far concern'd.

The Dream. A Song.

I.

The Grove was gloomy all around, Murm'ring the Streams did pass, Where fond Astrae laid her down Upon a Bed of Grass.

I slept and saw a piteous sight, Cupid a weeping lay, Till both his little Stars of Light Had wept themselves away.

II.

Methought I ask'd him why he cry'd, My Pity led me on: All sighing the sad Boy reply'd, Alas I am undone!

As I beneath yon Myrtles lay, Down by Diana's Springs, Amyntas stole my Bow away, And Pinion'd both my Wings.

III.

Alas! cry'd I, 'twas then thy Darts Wherewith he wounded me: Thou Mighty Deity of Hearts, He stole his Pow'r from thee.

Revenge thee, if a God thou be, Upon the Amorous Swain; I'll set thy Wings at Liberty, And thou shalt fly again.

IV.

And for this Service on my Part, All I implore of thee, Is, That thou't wound Amyntas Heart, And make him die for me.

His Silken Fetters I Unty'd, And the gay Wings display'd; Which gently fann'd, he mounts and cry'd, Farewel fond easy Maid.

V.

At this I blush'd, and angry grew I should a God believe; And waking found my Dream too true, Alas I was a Slave.

A letter to a Brother of the Pen in Tribulation.

Poor Damon! Art thou caught? Is't e'vn so? Art thou become a [1]Tabernacler too? Where sure thou dost not mean to Preach or Pray, Unless it be the clean contrary way: This holy[2] time I little thought thy sin Deserv'd a Tub to do its Pennance in. O how you'll for th' Egyptian Flesh-pots wish, When you'r half-famish'd with your Lenten-dish, Your Almonds, Currans, Biskets hard and dry, Food that will Soul and Body mortifie: Damn'd Penetential Drink, that will infuse Dull Principles into thy Grateful Muse. —Pox on't that you must needs be fooling now, Just when the Wits had greatest[3] need of you. Was Summer then so long a coming on, That you must make an Artificial one? Much good may't do thee; but 'tis thought thy Brain E'er long will wish for cooler Days again. For Honesty no more will I engage: I durst have sworn thou'dst had thy Pusillage. Thy Looks the whole Cabal have cheated too; But thou wilt say, most of the Wits do so. Is this thy writing[4] Plays? who thought thy Wit An Interlude of Whoring would admit? To Poetry no more thou'lt be inclin'd, Unless in Verse to damn all Womankind: And 'tis but Just thou shouldst in Rancor grow Against that Sex that has Confin'd thee so. All things in Nature now are Brisk and Gay At the Approaches of the Blooming May: The new-fletch'd Birds do in our Arbors sing A Thousand Airs to welcome in the Spring; Whilst ev'ry Swain is like a Bridegroom drest, And ev'ry Nymph as going to a Feast: The Meadows now their flowry Garments wear, And ev'ry Grove does in its Pride appear: Whilst thou poor Damon in close Rooms are pent, Where hardly thy own Breath can find a vent. Yet that too is a Heaven, compar'd to th' Task Of Codling every Morning in a Cask. Now I could curse this Female, but I know, She needs it not, that thus cou'd handle you. Besides, that Vengeance does to thee belong. And 'twere Injustice to disarm thy Tongue. Curse then, dear Swain, that all the Youth may hear, And from thy dire Mishap be taught to fear. Curse till thou hast undone the Race, and all That did contribute to thy Spring and Fall.

[1] So he called a Sweating-Tub.

[2] Lent.

[3] I wanted a Prologue to a Play.

[4] He pretended to Retire to Write.

The Reflection: A Song.

I.

Poor Lost Serena, to Bemoan The Rigor of her Fate, High'd to a Rivers-side alone, Upon whose Brinks she sat. Her Eyes, as if they would have spar'd, The Language of her Tongue, In Silent Tears a while declar'd The Sense of all her wrong.

II.

But they alas too feeble were, Her Grief was swoln too high To be Exprest in Sighs and Tears; She must or speak or dye. And thus at last she did complain, Is this the Faith, said she, Which thou allowest me, Cruel Swain, For that I gave to thee?

III.

Heaven knows with how much Innocence I did my Soul Incline To thy Soft Charmes of Eloquence, And gave thee what was mine. I had not one Reserve in Store, But at thy Feet I lay'd Those Arms that Conquer'd heretofore, Tho' now thy Trophies made.

IV.

Thy Eyes in Silence told their Tale Of Love in such a way, That 'twas as easie to Prevail, As after to Betray. And when you spoke my Listning Soul, Was on the Flattery Hung: And I was lost without Controul, Such Musick grac'd thy Tongue.

V.

Alas how long in vain you strove My coldness to divert! How long besieg'd it round with Love, Before you won the Heart. What Arts you us'd, what Presents made, What Songs, what Letters writ: And left no Charm that cou'd invade, Or with your Eyes or Wit.

VI.

Till by such Obligations Prest, By such dear Perjuries won: I heedlesly Resign'd the rest, And quickly was undone. For as my Kindling Flames increase, Yours glimeringly decay: The Rifled Joys no more can Please, That once oblig'd your Stay.

VII.

Witness ye Springs, ye Meads and Groves, Who oft were conscious made To all our Hours and Vows of Love; Witness how I'm Betray'd. Trees drop your Leaves, be Gay no more, Ye Rivers waste and drye: Whilst on your Melancholy Shore, I lay me down and dye.

SONG. To Pesibles Tune.

I.

'Twas when the Fields were gay, The Groves and every Tree: Just when the God of Day, Grown weary of his Sway, Descended to the Sea, And Gloomy Light around did all the World survey. 'Twas then the Hapless Swain, Amyntas, to Complain Of Silvia's cold Disdain, Retir'd to Silent Shades; Where by a Rivers Side, His Tears did swell the Tide, As he upon the Brink was lay'd.

II.

Ye Gods, he often cry'd, Why did your Powers design In Silvia so much Pride, Such Falshood too beside, With Beauty so Divine? Why should so much of Hell with so much Heaven joyn? Be witness every Shade, How oft the lovely Maid Her tender Vows has paid; Yet with the self-same Breath, With which so oft before, And solemnly she swore, Pronounces now Amyntas Death.

III.

But, Charming Nymph, beware, Whilst I your Victim die, Some One, my Perjur'd Fair, Revenging my Despair, Will prove as false to thee; Which yet my wandring Ghost wou'd look more pale to see. For I shall break my Tomb, And nightly as I rome, Shall to my Silvia come, And show the Piteous Sight; My bleeding Bosom too, Which wounds were given by you; Then vanish in the Shades of Night.

SONG.
On her Loving Two Equally. Set by Captain Pack.

I.

How strongly does my Passion flow, Divided equally 'twixt two? Damon had ne'er subdu'd my Heart, Had not Alexis took his part; Nor cou'd Alexis pow'rful prove. Without my Damons Aid, to gain my Love.

II.

When my Alexis present is, Then I for Damon sigh and mourn; But when Alexis I do miss, Damon gains nothing but my Scorn. But if it chance they both are by, For both alike I languish, sigh, and die.

III.

Cure then, thou mighty winged God, This restless Feaver in my Blood; One Golden-Pointed Dart take back: But which, O Cupid, wilt thou take? If Damons, all my Hopes are crost; Or that of my Alexis, I am lost.

The Counsel. A Song. Set by Captain Pack.

I.

A Pox upon this needless Scorn: Sylvia, for shame the Cheat give o'er: The End to which the Fair are born, Is not to keep their Charms in store: But lavishly dispose in haste Of Joys which none but Youth improve; Joys which decay when Beauty's past; And who, when Beauty's past, will love?

II.

When Age those Glories shall deface, Revenging all your cold Disdain; And Sylvia shall neglected pass, By every once-admiring Swain; And we no more shall Homage pay: When you in vain too late shall burn, If Love increase, and Youth decay, Ah Sylvia! who will make Return?

III.

Then haste, my Sylvia, to the Grove, Where all the Sweets of May conspire To teach us ev'ry Art of Love, And raise our Joys of Pleasure higher: Where while embracing we shall lie Loosly in Shades on Beds of Flow'rs, The duller World while we defie, Years will be Minutes, Ages Hours.

SONG.
The Surprize. Set by Mr. Farmer.

I.

Phillis, whose Heart was Unconfin'd, And free as Flow'rs on Meads and Plains, None boasted of her being Kind, 'Mong'st all the languishing and amorous Swains. No Sighs or Tears the Nymph cou'd move, To pity or return their Love.

II.

Till on a time the hapless Maid Retir'd to shun the Heat o'th' Day Into a Grove, beneath whose shade Strephon the careless Shepherd sleeping lay: But O such Charms the Youth adorn, Love is reveng'd for all her Scorn.

III.

Her Cheeks with Blushes cover'd were, And tender Sighs her Bosom warm, A Softness in her Eyes appear; Unusual Pain she feels from ev'ry Charm: To Woods and Ecchoes now she cries, For Modesty to speak denies.

SONG.

I.

Ah! what can mean that eager Joy Transports my Heart when you appear? Ah, Strephon! you my Thoughts imploy In all that's Charming, all that's Dear. When you your pleasing Story tell, A Softness does invade each Part, And I with Blushes own I feel Something too tender at my Heart.

II.