Part 12

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,--_’.is 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.