Part 14

_Shepherd_, you urge my Love in vain, For I can ne’er Reward your pain; _A Slave_ each Smile of mine can win, And all my softning Darts, When e’er I please, can bring me in A Thousand Yeilding Hearts.

_Damon._

Yet if those _Slaves_ you treat with Cruelty, ‘Tis an Inglorious Victory; And those unhappy _Swaines_ you so subdue, May Learn at last to scorn, as well as you; Your Beauty though the Gods design’d Shou’d be Ador’d by all below; Yet if you want a God-like Pittying Mind, Our Adoration soon will colder grow: ‘Tis Pitty makes a Deity, Ah, _Sylvia_! daine to pitty me, And I will worship none but thee.

_Sylvia._

Perhaps I may your Councel take, And Pitty, tho’ not Love, for _Damons_ sake; Love is a Flame my Heart ne’er knew, Nor knows how to begin to burn for you.

_Damon._

Ah, _Sylvia_, who’s the happy _Swain_, For whom that Glory you ordain! Has _Strephon_, _Pithius_, _Hilus_, more Of Youth, of Love, or Flocks a greater store? My flame pursues you too, with that Address, Which they want Passion to Profess: Ah then make some Returns my Charming _Shepherdess_.

_Sylvia._

Too Faithful _Shepherd_, I will try my Heart, And if I can will give you part.

_Damon._

Oh that was like your self exprest, Give me but part, and I will steal the rest.

_Sylvia._

Take care, _Young Swain_, you treat it well, If you wou’d have it in your Bosom dwell; Now let us to the Shades Retreat, Where all the _Nymphs_ and _Shepherds_ meet.

_Damon._

And give me there your leave my Pride to show, For having but the hopes of Conquering you; Where all the _Swaines_ shall Passion learn of me: And all the _Nymphs_ to bless like thee.

_Sylvia._

Where every Grace I will bestow, And every Look and Smile, shall show How much above the rest I vallue you.

_Damon._

And I those Blessings will improve; By constant Faith, and tender Love.

[_A Chorus of Satyrs and Nymphs made by another hand._]

_On Mr._ J. H. _In a Fit of Sickness._

I.

If when the God of Day retires, The Pride of all the Spring decays and dies: Wanting those Life-begetting Fires From whence they draw their Excellencies; Each little Flower hangs down its Gawdy Head, Losing the Luster which it did Retain; No longer will its fragrant face be spread, But Languishes into a Bud again: So with the Sighing Crowd it fares Since you, _Amyntas_, have your Eies withdrawn, Ours Lose themselves in Silent Tears, Our days are Melancholy Dawn; The _Groves_ are Unfrequented now, The Shady Walks are all Forlorn; Who still were throng to gaze on you: With Nymphs, whom your Retirement has undone.

II.

Our Bag-pipes now away are flung, Our Flocks a Wandering go; Garlands neglected on the Boughs are hung, That us’d to adorn each Chearful Brow, Forsaken looks the enameld _May_: And all its wealth Uncourted dies; Each little Bird forgets its wonted Lay, That Sung Good Morrow to the welcome Day. Or rather to thy Lovely Eies. The Cooling Streams do backward glide: Since on their Banks they saw not thee, Losing the Order of their Tide, And Murmuring chide thy Cruelty; Then hast to lose themselves i’th’ Angry Sea.

III.

Thus every thing in its Degree, Thy sad Retreat Deplore; Hast then _Amyntas_, and Restore; The whole Worlds Loss in thee. For like an Eastern Monarch, when you go, (If such a Fate the World must know) A Beautious and a Numerous Host Of Love-sick Maids, will wait upon thy Ghost; And Death that Secret will Reveal, Which Pride and Shame did here Conceal; Live then thou Lovelyest of the Plaines, Thou Beauty of the Envying _Swaines_; Whose Charms even Death it self wou’d court, And of his Solemn Business make a Sport.

IV.

In Pitty to each Sighing Maid, Revive, come forth, be Gay and Glad; Let the Young God of Love implore, In Pity lend him Darts, For when thy Charming Eies shall shoot no more; He’ll lose his Title of the God of Hearts. In Pity to _Astrea_ live, _Astrea_, whom from all the Sighing Throng, You did your oft-won Garlands give: For which she paid you back in Grateful Song: _Astrea_ who did still the Glory boast, To be ador’d by thee, and to adore thee most.

V.

With Pride she saw her Rivals Sigh and Pine, And vainly cry’d, The lovely Youth is mine! By all thy Charms _I_ do Conjure thee, live; By all the Joys thou canst receive, and give: By each Recess and Shade where thou and I, Loves Secrets did Unfold; And did the dull Unloving World defy: Whilst each the Hearts fond Story told. If all these Conjurations nought Prevail, Not Prayers or Sighs, or Tears avail, But Heaven has Destin’d we Depriv’d must be, Of so much _Youth_, _Wit_, _Beauty_, and of Thee; I will the Deaf and Angry Powers defie, Curse thy Decease, Bless thee, and with thee die.

_To_ Lysander, _on some Verses he writ, and asking more for his Heart then ‘twas worth._

I.

Take back that Heart, you with such Caution give, Take the fond valu’d Trifle back; I hate Love-Merchants that a Trade wou’d drive; And meanly cunning Bargains make.

II.

I care not how the busy Market goes, And scorn to Chaffer for a price: Love does one Staple Rate on all impose, Nor leaves it to the Traders Choice.

III.

A Heart requires a Heart Unfeign’d and True, Though Subt’ly you advance the Price, And ask a Rate that Simple Love ne’er knew: And the free Trade Monopolize.

IV.

An Humble _Slave_ the Buyer must become, She must not bate a Look or Glance, You will have all, or you’ll have none; See how Loves Market you inhaunce.

V.

Is’t not enough, I gave you Heart for Heart, But I must add my Lips and Eies; I must no friendly Smile or Kiss impart; But you must _Dun_ me with Advice.

VI.

And every Hour still more unjust you grow, Those Freedoms you my life deny, You to _Adraste_ are oblig’d to show, And give her all my Rifled Joy.

VII.

Without Controul she gazes on that Face, And all the happy Envyed Night, In the pleas’d Circle of your fond imbrace: She takes away the Lovers Right.

VIII.

From me she Ravishes those silent hours, That are by Sacred Love my due; Whilst _I_ in vain accuse the angry Powers, That make me hopeless Love pursue.

IX.

_Adrastes_ Ears with that dear Voice are blest, That Charms my Soul at every Sound, And with those _Love-Inchanting_ Touches prest, Which _I_ ne’er felt without a Wound.

X.

She has thee all: whilst _I_ with silent Greif, The Fragments of thy Softness feel, Yet dare not blame the happy licenc’d Thief: That does my Dear-bought Pleasures steal.

XI.

Whilst like a Glimering Taper still _I_ burn, And waste my self in my own flame, _Adraste_ takes the welcome rich Return: And leaves me all the hopeless Pain.

XII.

Be just, my lovely _Swain_, and do not take Freedoms you’ll not to me allow; Or give _Amynta_ so much Freedom back: That she may Rove as well as you.

XIII.

Let us then love upon the honest Square, Since Interest neither have design’d, For the sly Gamester, who ne’er plays me fair, Must Trick for Trick expect to find.

_To the Honourable_ Edward Howard, _on his Comedy called The New_ Utopia.

I.

Beyond the Merit of the Age, You have adorn’d the Stage; So from rude Farce, to Comick Order brought, Each Action, and each Thought; To so Sublime a Method, as yet none (But Mighty _Ben_ alone) Cou’d e’er arive, and he at distance too; Were he alive he must resign to you: You have out-done what e’er he writ, In this last great Example of your Wit. Your _Solymour_ does his _Morose_ destroy, And your _Black Page_ undoes his _Barbers Boy_; All his Collegiate Ladies must retire, While we thy braver _Heroins_ do admire. This new _Utopia_ rais’d by thee, Shall stand a Structure to be wondered at, And men shall cry, this--this--is he Who that Poetick City did create: Of which _Moor_ only did the Model draw, You did Compleat that little World, and gave it Law.

II.

If you too great a Prospect doe allow To those whom Ignorance does at distance Seat, ‘Tis not to say, the Object is less great, But they want sight to apprehend it so: The ancient Poets in their times, When thro’ the Peopl’d Streets they sung their Rhimes, Found small applause; they sung but still were poor; Repeated Wit enough at every door. T’have made ‘em demy Gods! but ‘twou’d not do, Till Ages more refin’d esteem’d ‘em so. The Modern Poets have with like Success, Quitted the Stage, and Sallyed from the Press. Great _Johnson_ scarce a Play brought forth, But Monster-like it frighted at its Birth: Yet he continued still to write, And still his Satyr did more sharply bite. He writ tho certain of his Doom, Knowing his Pow’r in Comedy: To please a wiser Age to come: And though he Weapons wore to Justify The reasons of his Pen; he cou’d not bring, Dull Souls to Sense by Satyr, nor by Cudgelling.

III.

In vain the Errors of the Times, You strive by wholesom Precepts to Confute, Not all your Pow’r in Prose or Rhimes, Can finish the Dispute: ‘Twixt those that damn, and those that do admire: The heat of your Poetick fire. Your Soul of Thought you may imploy A Nobler way, Then in revenge upon a Multitude, Whose Ignorance only makes ‘em rude. Shou’d you that Justice do, You must for ever bid adieu, To Poetry divine, And ev’ry Muse o’th’ Nine: For Malice then with Ignorance would join, And so undo the World and You: So ravish from us that delight, Of seeing the Wonders which you Write: And all your Glories unadmir’d must lye, As Vestal Beauties are Intomb’d before they dye.

IV.

Consider and Consult your Wit, Despise those Ills you must indure: And raise your Scorne as great as it, Be Confident and then Secure. And let your rich-fraught Pen, Adventure our again; Maugre the Stormes that do opose its course, Stormes that destroy without remorse: It may new Worlds decry, Which Peopl’d from thy Brain may know More than the Universe besides can show: More Arts of Love, and more of Gallantry. Write on! and let not after Ages say, The Whistle or rude Hiss cou’d lay Thy mighty Spright of Poetry, Which but the Fools and Guilty fly; Who dare not in thy Mirror see Their own Deformity: Where thou in two, the World dost Character, Since most of Men Sir _Graves_, or _Peacocks_ are.

V.

And shall that Muse that did ere while, Chant forth the Glories of the British Isle, Shall shee who lowder was than Fame; Now useless lie, and tame? Shee who late made the _Amazons_ so Great, And shee who Conquered _Scythia_ too; (Which _Alexander_ ne’re cou’d do) Will you permitt her to retreat? Silence will like Submission show: And give Advantage to the Foe! Undaunted let her once gain appear, And let her lowdly Sing in every Ear: Then like thy Mistris Eyes, who have the skill, Both to preserve and kill; So thou at once maist be revenged on those That are thy Foes, And on thy Friends such Obligations lay, As nothing but the Deed the Doer can repay.

_To_ Lysander _at the_ Musick-Meeting.

It was too much, ye Gods, to see and hear; Receiving wounds both from the Eye and Ear: One Charme might have secur’d a Victory, Both, rais’d the Pleasure even to Extasie: So Ravisht Lovers in each others Armes, Faint with excess of Joy, excess of Charmes: Had I but gaz’d and fed my greedy Eyes, Perhaps you’d pleas’d no farther than surprize. That Heav’nly Form might Admiration move, But, not without the _Musick_, charm’d with _Love_: At least so quick the Conquest had not been; You storm’d without, and Harmony within: Nor cou’d I listen to the sound alone, But I alas must look--and was undone: I saw the Softness that compos’d your Face, While your Attention heightend every Grace: Your Mouth all full of Sweetness and Content, And your fine killing Eyes of Languishment: Your Bosom now and then a sigh wou’d move, (For _Musick_ has the same effects with Love.) Your Body easey and all tempting lay, } Inspiring wishes which the Eyes betray, } In all that have the fate to glance that way: } A careless and a lovely Negligence, Did a new Charm to every Limb dispence: So look young Angels, Listening to the sound, When the Tun’d Spheres Glad all the Heav’ns around: So Raptur’d lie amidst the wondering Crowd, So Charmingly Extended on a Cloud. When from so many ways Loves Arrows storm, } Who can the heedless Heart defend from harm? } Beauty and _Musick_ must the Soul disarme; } Since Harmony, like Fire to Wax, does fit The softned Heart Impressions to admit: As the brisk sounds of Warr the Courage move, Musick prepares and warms the Soul to Love. But when the kindling Sparks such Fuel meet, No wonder if the Flame inspir’d be great.

_An_ Ode _to_ Love.

I.

Dull Love no more thy Senceless Arrows prize, Damn thy Gay Quiver, break thy Bow; ‘Tis only young _Lysanders_ Eyes, That all the Arts of Wounding know.

II.

A Pox of Foolish Politicks in Love, A wise delay in Warr the Foe may harme: By Lazy Siege while you to Conquest move; His fiercer Beautys vanquish by a Storme.

III.

Some wounded God, to be reveng’d on thee, The Charming Youth form’d in a _lucky_ houre, Drest him in all that fond Divinity, That has out-Rivall’d thee, a God, in Pow’r.

IV.

Or else while thou supinely laid Basking beneath som Mirtle shade, In careless sleepe, or tir’d with play, When all thy Shafts did scatterd ly; Th’unguarded Spoyles he bore away, And Arm’d himself with the Artillery.

V.

The Sweetness from thy Eyes he took, The Charming Dimples from thy Mouth, That wonderous Softness when you spoke; And all thy Everlasting Youth.

VI.

Thy bow, thy Quiver, and thy Darts: Even of thy Painted Wing has rifled thee, To bear him from his Conquer’d broken Hearts, To the next Fair and Yeilding She.

_Love Reveng’d_, A Song.

I.

_Celinda_ who did Love Disdain, For whom had languisht many a Swain; Leading her Bleating Flock to drink, She spy’d upon the Rivers Brink A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare, How much he lov’d, but lov’d not her.

II.

At first she Laught, but gaz’d the while, And soon she lessen’d to a Smile; Thence to Surprize and Wonder came, Her Breast to heave, her Heart to flame: Then cry’d she out, Now, now I prove, Thou art a God, Almighty Love.

III.

She would have spoke, but shame deny’d, And bid her first consult her Pride; But soon she found that Aid was gone; For Love alas had left her none: Oh how she burns, but ‘tis too late, For in her Eyes she reads her Fate.

SONG.

_To a New_ Scotch _Tune._

I.

_Young Jemmy_ was a Lad, Of Royal Birth and Breeding, With ev’ry Beauty Clad: And ev’ry Grace Exceeding; A face and shape so wondrous fine, So Charming ev’ry part: That every Lass upon the Green: For _Jemmy_ had a Heart.

II.

In _Jemmy’s_ Powerful Eyes, Young Gods of Love are playing, And on his Face there lies A Thousand Smiles betraying. But Oh he dances with a Grace, None like him e’er was seen; No God that ever fancy’d was, Has so Divine a Miene.

III.

To _Jemmy_ ev’ry Swaine Did lowly doff his Bonnet; And every Nymph would strain, To praise him in her Sonnet: The Pride of all the Youths he was, The Glory of the Groves, The Joy of ev’ry tender Lass: The Theam of all our Loves.

IV.

But Oh Unlucky Fate, A Curse upon Ambition: The Busie Fopps of State Have ruin’d his Condition. For Glittering Hopes he’as left the Shade, His Peaceful Hours are gone: By flattering Knaves and Fools betray’d, Poor _Jemmy_ is undone.

_The Cabal at_ Nickey Nackeys.

I.

A _Pox_ of the States-man that’s witty, Who watches and Plots all the Sleepless Night: For Seditious Harangues, to the Whiggs of the City; And Maliciously turns a Traytor in Spight. Let him Wear and Torment his lean Carrion: To bring his Sham-Plots about, Till at last King Bishop and Barron, For the Publick _Good_ he have quite rooted out.

II.

But we that are no _Polliticians_, But Rogues that are Impudent, Barefac’d and Great, Boldly head the _Rude Rable_ in times of Sedition; And bear all down before us, in Church and in State. Your Impudence is the best State-Trick; And he that by Law meanes to rule, Let his History with ours be related; And tho’ we are the Knaves, we know who’s the Fool.

_A Paraphrase on the Eleventh_ Ode _Out of the first Book of_ Horace.

Dear _Silvia_, let’s no farther strive, To know how long we have to Live; Let Busy Gown-men search to know Their Fates above, while we Contemplate Beauties greater Power below, Whose only Smiles give Immortality; But who seeks Fortune in a Star, } Aims at a Distance much too far, } She’s more inconstant than they are. } What though this year must be our last, } Faster than Time our Joys let’s hast; } Nor think of Ills to come, or past. } Give me but Love and Wine, I’ll ne’er Complain my Destiny’s severe. Since Life bears so uncertain Date, } With Pleasure we’ll attend our Fate, } And Chearfully go meet it at the Gate. } The Brave and Witty know no Fear or Sorrow, Let us enjoy to day, we’ll dye to Morrow.

_A Translation._

I.

_Lydia_, Lovely Maid, more fair Than Milk or whitest Lilies are, Than Polisht _Indian_ Iv’ry shows, Or the fair unblushing Rose.

II.

Open, Maid, thy Locks that hold Wealth more bright than shining Gold, Over thy white shoulders laid, Spread thy Locks, my Charming Maid.

III.

_Lydia_, ope’ thy starry Eyes, Shew the Beds where _Cupid_ lies, Open, Maid, thy Rosie-Cheeks, Red as Sun-declining streaks.

IV.

Shew thy Coral Lips, my Love, Kiss me softer than the Dove, Till my Ravisht Soul does lie Panting in an Ecstasie.

V.

Oh hold--and do not pierce my Heart, Which beats, as life wou’d thence depart, Hide thy Breasts that swell and rise, Hide ‘em from my wishing Eyes.

VI.

Shut thy Bosome, white as Snow, Whence _Arabian_ perfumes flow; Hide it from my Raptur’d Touch, I have gaz’d--and kist too much.

VII.

Cruel Maid--on Malice bent, Seest thou not my Languishment? _Lydia!_--Oh I faint!--I die! With thy Beauties Luxury.

_A Paraphrase on_ OVID’S _Epistle of_ OENONE _to_ PARIS.

THE ARGUMENT.

Hecuba, _being with Child of_ Paris, _dream’d she was delivered of a Firebrand:_ Priam, _consulting the Prophets, was answer’d the Child shou’d be the Destruction of_ Troy, _wherefore_ Priam _commanded it should be deliver’d to wild Beasts as soon as born; but_ Hecuba _conveys it secretly to Mount_ Ida, _there to be foster’d by the Shepherds, where he falls in love with the Nymph_ OEnone, _but at last being known and own’d, he sails into_ Greece, _and carries_ Helen _to_ Troy, _which_ OEnone _understanding, writes him this Epistle._