Part 1

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’.dit 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 ’.m.

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;_ _’.is_ 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._