Part 19

Restless and wild, ranging each Field and Grove; I meet the Author of my painful Love; But still surrounded with a numerous Train Of Lovers, whom _Love_ taught to Sigh and Fawn, At my approach, my Soul all Trembling flies, And tells its soft Resentment at my Eyes: My Face all pale, my steps unsteady fall, And faint Confusion spreads it self o’re all. I listen to each low breath’d Word she says, And the returns the happy Answerer pays: When catching half the Sense, the rest Invent, And turn it still to what will most Torment; If any thing by Whispers she impart, ‘Tis Mortal, ‘tis a Dagger at my Heart; And every Smile, each Motion, Gesture, Sign, In favour of some Lover I explain: When I am absent, in some Rivals Arms, I Fancy she distributes all her Charms, And if alone I find her; sighing cry, _Some happier Lover she expects than I._ So that I did not only Jealous grow, Of all I saw; but all I fancy’d too.

The COMPLAINT.

I.

_Oft in my Jealous Transports I wou’d cry,_ _Ye happy shades, ye happy Bow’rs,_ _Why speaks she tenderer things to you than me?_ _Why does she Smile, carress and praise your Flowers?_ _Why Sighs she (opening Buds) her Secrets all_ _Into your fragrant Leaves?_ _Why does she to her Aid your sweetness call,_ _Yet take less from you than she gives?_ _Why on your Beds must you be happy made,_ _And be together with_ Aminta _laid?_ _You from her Hands and Lips may KISSES take,_ _And never meet Reproaches from her Pride;_ _A thousand Ravishing stealths may make,_ _And even into her softer Bosome glide._ _And there expire! Oh happy Rival flowers,_ _How vainly do I wish my Fate like that of Yours?_

II.

_Tell me, ye silent Groves, whose Gloom invites,_ _The lovely Charmer to your Solitudes?_ _Tell me for whom she languishes and sighs?_ _For whom she feels her soft Inquietudes?_ _Name me the Youth for whom she makes her Vows,_ _For she has breath’d it oft amongst your listening Boughs?_ _Oh happy confidents of her Amours,_ _How vainly do I wish my Fortune blest as Yours._

III.

_Oh happy Brooks, oh happy Rivulets,_ _And Springs that in a thousand Windings move;_ _Upon your Banks how oft_ Aminta _sits,_ _And prattles to you all her Tale of Love:_ _Whilst your smooth surface little Circles bears,_ _From the Impressions of her falling Tears,_ _And as you wantonly reflecting pass,_ _Glide o’re the lovely Image of her Face;_ _And sanctifies your stream, which as you run,_ _You Boast in Murmurs to the Banks along._ _Dear Streams! to whom she gives her softest hours,_ _How vainly do I wish my happiness like yours._

Sometimes I rail’d again, and wou’d upbraid, Reproachfully, the charming fickle Maid: Sometimes I vow’d to do’t no more, But one, vain, short-liv’d hour, Wou’d Perjure all I’d Sworn before, And Damn my fancy’d Pow’r. Sometimes the sullen fit wou’d last, A teadious live-long day: But when the wrecking hours were past, With what Impatience wou’d I hast, And let her Feet weep my neglect away. Quarrels are the Reserves Love keeps in store, To aid his Flames and make ‘em burn the more.

The PENITENT.

I.

_With Rigor Arm your self, (I cry’d)_ _It is but just and fit;_ _I merit all this Treatment from your Pride,_ _All the reproaches of your Wit;_ _Put on the cruel Tyrant as you will,_ _But know, my tender Heart adores you still._

II.

_And yet that Heart has Murmur’d too,_ } _And been so insolent to let you know,_ } _It did complain, and rave, and rail’d at you;_ } _Yet all the while by every God I swear,_ _By every pitying Pow’r the wretched hear;_ _By all those Charms that dis-ingage,_ _My Soul from the extreams of Rage;_ _By all the Arts you have to save and kill,_ _My faithful tender Heart adores you still._

III.

_But oh you shou’d excuse my soft complaint,_ _Even my wild Ravings too prefer,_ _I sigh, I burn, I weep, I faint,_ _And vent my Passions to the Air;_ _Whilst all my Torment, all my Care_ _Serves but to make you put new Graces on,_ _You Laugh, and Rally my despair,_ _Which to my Rivals renders you more fair;_ _And but the more confirms my being undone:_ _Sport with my Pain as gayly as you will,_ _My fond, my tender Heart adores you still._

My differing Passions thus, did never cease, Till they had touch’d her Soul with tenderness; My _Rivals_ now are banish’d by degrees, } And with ‘em all my Fears and Jealousies; } And all advanc’d, as if design’d to please. }

The City of LOVE.

In this vast Isle a famous _City_ stands, Who for its Beauty all the rest Commands, Built to delight the wondering Gazers Eyes, Of all the World the great _Metropolis_. Call’d by LOVE’s name: and here the Charming God, When he retires to Pleasure, makes abode; ‘Tis here both Art and Nature strive to show, } What Pride, Expence, and Luxury, can do, } To make it Ravishing and Awful too: } All Nations hourly thither do resort, To add a splendour to this glorious Court; The Young, the Old, the Witty, and the Wise, The Fair, the Ugly, Lavish, and Precise; Cowards and Braves, the Modest, and the Lowd, Promiscuously are blended in the Crowd. From distant Shoars young Kings their Courts remove, To pay their Homage to the God of Love. Where all their sacred awful Majesty, Their boasted and their fond Divinity; Loose their vast force; as lesser Lights are hid, When the fierce God of Day his Beauties spread. The wondering World for _Gods_ did _Kings_ adore, Till _LOVE_ confirm’d ‘em Mortal by his Pow’r; And in _Loves Court_, do with their Vassals live, Without or _Homage_, or _Prerogative_: Which the young _God_, not only Blind must show, But as Defective in his Judgment too.

LOVE’s Temple.

Midst this Gay Court a famous Temple stands, Old as the Universe which it commands; For mighty _Love_ a sacred being had, } Whilst yet ‘twas _Chaos_, e’re the World was made, } And nothing was compos’d without his Aid. } Agreeing _Attoms_ by his pow’r were hurl’d, And _Love_ and _Harmony_ compos’d the World. ‘Tis rich, ‘tis solemn all! Divine yet Gay! } From the Jemm’d Roof the dazling Lights display, } And all below inform without the Aids of day. } All Nations hither bring rich offerings, And ‘tis endow’d with Gifts of Love-sick Kings. Upon an Altar (whose unbounded store Has made the Rifled Universe so poor, Adorn’d with all the Treasure of the Seas, More than the Sun in his vast course surveys) Was plac’d the _God!_ with every Beauty form’d, Of Smiling Youth, but Naked, unadorn’d. His painted Wings displaid: His Bow laid by, (For here _Love_ needs not his Artillery) One of his little Hands aloft he bore, And grasp’d a wounded Heart that burnt all o’re, Towards which he lookt with lovely Laughing Eyes: As pleas’d and vain, with the fond Sacrifice, The other pointing downward seem’d to say, _Here at my Feet your grateful Victims lay_, Whilst in a Golden Tablet o’re his Head, } In Diamond Characters this _Motto_ stood, } _Behold the Pow’r that Conquers every GOD_. } The Temple Gates are open Night and Day, _Love’s_ Votaries at all hours Devotions pay, A Priest of _Hymen_ gives attendance near, But very rarely shows his Function here, For Priest cou’d ne’r the Marriage-cheat improve, Were there no other Laws, but those of Love! A Slavery generous Heav’n did ne’r design, Nor did its first lov’d Race of men confine; A Trick, that Priest, whom Avarice cunning made, Did first contrive, then sacred did perswade, That on their numerous and unlucky Race, They might their base got Wealth securely place. Curse--cou’d they not their own loose Race inthral, But they must spread the infection over all! That Race, whose Brutal heat was grown so wild, That even the Sacred Porches they defil’d; And Ravisht all that for Devotion came, Their Function, nor the Place restrains their flame. But _Love’s_ soft Votaries no such injuries fear, No pamper’d _Levits_ are in Pension here; Here are no fatted Lambs to Sacrifice, } No Oyl, fine Flower, or Wines of mighty price, } The subtil Holy Cheats to Gormandize. } _Love’s_ soft Religion knows no Tricks nor Arts, All the Attoning Offerings here are Hearts. The Mystery’s silent, without noyse or show, } In which the Holy Man has nought to do, } The Lover is both Priest and Victim too. } Hither with little force I did perswade, My lovely timorously yielding Maid, Implor’d we might together Sacrifice, And she agrees with Blushing down-cast Eyes; ‘Twas then we both our Hearts an Offering made, Which at the Feet of the young _God_ we laid, With equal Flames they Burnt; with equal Joy, But with a Fire that neither did destroy; Soft was its Force and Sympathy with them, Dispers’d it self through every trembling Limb; We cou’d not hide our tender new surprize, We languisht and confest it with our Eyes; Thus gaz’d we--when the Sacrifice perform’d, We found our Hearts entire--but still they burn, But by a Blessed change in taking back, The lovely Virgin did her Heart mistake: Her Bashful Eyes favour’d _Love’s_ great design, I took her Burning Victim: and she mine. Thus, _Lysidas_, without constraint or Art, I reign’d the _Monarch_ of _Aminta’s_ Heart; My great, my happy Title she allows, And makes me Lord of all her tender Vows, All my past Griefs in coming Joys were drown’d, And with eternal Pleasure I was Crown’d; My Blessed hours in the extream of Joy, With my soft Languisher I still imploy; When I am Gay, Love Revels in her Eyes, When sad--there the young God all panting lies. A thousand freedoms now she does impart, } Shows all her tenderness dis-rob’d of Art, } But oh this cou’d not satisfy my Heart. } A thousand Anguishes that still contains, It sighs, and heaves, and pants with pleasing pains. We look, and Kiss, and Press with new desire, Whilst every touch Blows the unusual Fire. For _Love’s_ last _Mystery_ was yet conceal’d, Which both still languisht for, both wisht reveal’d: Which I prest on--and faintly she deny’d, With all the weak efforts of dying Pride, Which struggled long for Empire in her Soul, Where it was wont to rule without controul. But Conquering Love had got possession now, And open’d every Sally to the Foe: And to secure my doubting happiness, Permits me to conduct her to the _Bow’r of Bliss_. That Bow’r that does eternal Pleasures yield, Where _Psyche_ first the _God of Love_ beheld: But oh, in entering this so blest abode, All Gay and Pleas’d as a Triumphing _God_, I new unlook’d for difficulties meet, Encount’ring _Honour_ at the sacred Gate.

HONOUR.

I.

_Honour’s a mighty Phantom! which around_ _The sacred Bower does still appear;_ _All Day it haunts the hallow’d ground._ _And hinders Lovers entering there._ _It rarely ever takes its flight,_ _But in the secret shades of night._ _Silence and gloom the charm can soonest end,_ _And are the luckyest hours to lay the Fiend,_ _Then ‘tis the Vision only will remove,_ _With Incantations of soft Vows of_ Love.

II.

_But as a God he’s Worshipt here,_ _By all the lovely, young, and fair,_ _Who all their kind desires controul,_ _And plays the Tyrant o’re the Soul:_ _His chiefest Attributes, are Pride and Spight,_ _His pow’r, is robbing Lovers of delight,_ _An Enemy to Humane kind,_ _But most to Youth severe;_ _As Age ill-natur’d, and as ignorance Blind,_ _Boasting, and Baffled too, as Cowards are;_ _Fond in opinion, obstinately Wise,_ _Fills the whole World with bus’ness and with noise._

III.

_Where wert thou born? from what didst thou begin?_ _And what strange Witchcraft brought thy Maxims in?_ _What hardy Fool first taught thee to the Crowd?_ _Or who the Duller Slaves that first believ’d?_ _Some Woman sure, ill-natur’d, old, and proud,_ _Too ugly ever to have been deceiv’d;_ _Unskill’d in Love; in Virtue, or in Truth,_ _Preach’d thy false Notions first, aud so debaucht our Youth._

IV.

_And as in other Sectuaries you find,_ _His Votaries most consist of Womankind,_ _Who Throng t’ adore the necessary Evil,_ _But most for fear, as Indians do the Devil._ _Peevish, uneasy all; for in Revenge,_ _Love shoots ‘em with a thousand Darts._ _They feel, but not confess the change;_ _Their false Devotion cannot save their Hearts._ _Thus while the Idol Honour they obey,_ } _Swift time comes on, and blooming Charms decay,_ } _And Ruin’d Beauty does too late the Cheat betray._ }

This Goblin here--the lovely Maid Alarms, And snatch’d her, even from my Trembling Arms, With all the Pow’r of _Non-sence_ he commands, Which she for mighty Reason understands. Aminta, _fly_, he crys! _fly, heedless Maid,_ _For if thou enter’st this Bewitching shade,_ _Thy Flame, Content, and Lover, all are lost,_ _And thou no more of Him, or Fame shall boast,_ _The charming Pleasure soon the Youth will cloy,_ _And what thou wouldst preserve, that will destroy._ _Oh hardy Maid by too much Love undone,_ _Where are thy Modesty, and Blushes gone?_ _Where’s all that Virtue made thee so Ador’d?_ _For Beauty stript of Virtue, grows abhorr’d:_ _Dyes like a flower whose scent quick Poyson gives,_ _Though every gawdy Glory paints its leaves;_ _Oh fly, fond Maid, fly that false happiness,_ _That will attend Thee in the Bower of Bliss._

Thus spoke the Phantom, while the listening Maid, Took in the fatal Councel; and obey’d: Frighted she flys, even from the Temple door, And left me fainting on the sacred floor: LOVE saw my Griefs, and to my rescue came, Where on his Bosom, thus I did complain.

The LOSS.

_Weep, weep,_ Lysander, _for the lovely Maid,_ _To whom thy sacred Vows were paid;_ _Regardless of thy Love, thy Youth, thy Vows,_ _The Dull Advice of Honour now pursues;_ _Oh say my lovely Charmer, where_ _Is all that softness gone?_ _Your tender Voice and Eyes did wear,_ _When first I was undone._ _Oh whether are your Sighs and Kisses fled?_ _Where are those clasping Arms,_ _That left me oft with Pleasures dead,_ _With their Excess of Charms?_ _Where is the Killing Language of thy Tongue,_ _That did the Ravisht Soul surprize?_ _Where is that tender Rhetorick gone,_ _That flow’d so softly in thy Eyes?_ _That did thy heavenly face so sweetly dress,_ _That did thy wonderous Soul so well express?_ _All fled with Honour on a Phantom lost;_ _Where Youth’s vast store must perish unpossest._ _Ah, my dear Boy, thy loss with me bemoan,_ _The lovely Fugitive is with Honour gone!_

_Love_ laughing spread his Wings and mounting flies, } As swift as Lightning through the yielding Skies, } Where _Honour_ bore away the Trembling Prize. } There at her Feet the _Little Charmer_ falls, And to his Aid his powerful softness calls: _Assails_ her with his Tears, his Sighs and Crys, Th’ unfailing Language of his Tongue and Eyes.

_Return_, said he, _return oh fickle Maid,_ _Who solid Joys abandon’st for a shade;_ _urn and behold the Slaughter of thy Eyes;_ _See--the Heart-broken Youth all dying lyes._ _Why dost thou follow this Phantastick spright?_ _This faithless_ Ignis Fatuus _of the Light?_ _This Foe to Youth, and Beauties worst Disease,_ _Tyrant of Wit, of Pleasure, and of Ease;_ _Of all substantial Harms he Author is,_ _But never pays us back one solid Bliss._ _--You’ll urge, your Fame is worth a thousand Joys;_ _Deluded Maid, trust not to empty noise,_ _A sound, that for a poor Esteem to gain,_ _Damns thy whole Life t’ uneasyness and pain._ _Mistaken Virgin, that which pleases me_ } _I cannot by another tast and see;_ } _And what’s the complementing of the World to thee?_ } _No, no, return with me, and there receive,_ _What poor, what scanted_ Honour _cannot give,_ _Starve not those Charms that were for pleasure made,_ _Nor unpossest let the rich Treasure fade._ _When time comes on;_ Honour _that empty word,_ _Will leave thee then fore-slighted Age to guard;_ _Honour as other faithless Lovers are,_ _Is only dealing with the young and fair;_ _Approaching Age makes the false_ Hero _fly,_ _He’s Honour with the Young, but with the old necessity._

--Thus said the _God!_ and all the while he spoke, Her Heart new Fire, her Eyes new softness took.

Now crys, _I yield, I yield the Victory!_ _Lead on, young Charming Boy, I follow thee;_ _Lead to_ Lysander, _quickly let’s be gone,_ _I am resolv’d to Love, and be undone;_ _I must not, cannot_, Love _at cheaper rate,_ Love _is the word_, Lysander _and my fate._

Thus to my Arms _Love_ brought the trembling Maid; _Who on my Bosom sighing, softly, said:_ _Take, charming Victor--what you must--subdue--_ _’.is_ Love_--and not Aminta gives it you,_ Love _that o’re all, and every part does reign,_ _And I shou’d plead-and struggle--but in vain;_ _Take what a yielding Virgin--can bestow,_ _I am--dis-arm’d--of all resistance now_.-- _Then down her Cheeks a tender shower did glide,_ _The Trophies of my Victory, Joy, and Pride:_ _She yields, ye Gods_ (I cry’d) _and in my Arms,_ _Gives up the wonderous Treasure of her Charms._ --Transported to the Bower of Bliss we high, But once more met _Respect_ upon the way, But not as heretofore with Meen and Grace All formal, but a gay and smiling Face; A different sort of Air his looks now wears, Galljard and Joyful every part appears. And thus he said--

_Go, happy Lovers, perfect the desires,_ _That fill two Hearts that burn with equal Fires;_ _Receive the mighty Recompence at last,_ _Of all the Anxious hours you’ve past,_ _Enter the Bower where endless Pleasures flow,_ _Young Joys, new Raptures all the year:_ _Respect has nothing now to do,_ _He always leaves the Lover here._ _Young_ Loves _attend and here supply all want,_ _In secret Pleasures I’m no confident._

_Respect_ here left me: and He scarce was gone, But I perceiv’d a Woman hasting on, Naked she came; all lovely, and her Hair Was loosely flying in the wanton Air: _Love_ told me ‘twas _Occasion_, and if I The swift pac’d Maid shou’d pass neglected by, My Love, my Hopes, and Industry were vain, For she but rarely e’re returned again. I stopt her speed, and did implore her Aid, Which granted, she _Aminta_ did perswade Into the _Palace of true Joys_ to hast, And thither ‘twas, we both arriv’d at last. Oh _Lysidas_, no Mortal Sense affords, No Wit, no Eloquence can furnish Words Fit for the soft Discription of the _Bower_; Some _Love-blest God in the Triumphing hour_, Can only guess, can only say what ‘tis; } Yet even that God but faintly wou’d express, } Th’ unbounded pleasures of the _Bower of Bliss_. } A slight, a poor Idea may be given, Like that we fancy when we paint a Heav’n, As solid Christal, Diamonds, shining Gold, May fancy Light, that is not to be told. To vulgar Senses, Love like Heaven shou’d be (To make it more Ador’d) a Mystery: Eternal Powers! when ere I sing of Love, And the unworthy Song immortal prove; To please my wandering Ghost when I am Dead, Let none but Lovers the soft stories read; Praise from the Wits and Braves I’le not implore; Listen, ye Lovers all, I ask no more; That where Words fail, you may with thought supply, If ever any lov’d like me, or were so blest as I.

The Prospect and Bower of Bliss.

I.

_’.is all eternal Spring around,_ _And all the Trees with fragrant flowers are Crown’d;_ _No Clouds, no misty Showers obscure the Light,_ _But all is calm, serene and gay,_ _The Heavens are drest with a perpetual bright,_ _And all the Earth with everlasting_ May. _Each minute blows the Rose and Jesamine,_ _And twines with new-born Eglantine,_ _Each minute new Discoveries bring;_ _Of something sweet, of something ravishing._

II.

_Fountains, wandering Brooks soft rills,_ _That o’re the wanton Pebbles play;_ _And all the Woods with tender murmuring fills,_ _Inspiring Love, inciting Joy;_ _(The sole, the solemn business of the day)_ _Through all the Groves, the Glades and thickets run,_ _And nothing see but_ Love _on all their Banks along;_ _A thousand Flowers of different kinds,_ _The neighbouring Meads adorn;_ _Whose sweetness snatcht by flying Winds,_ _O’re all the_ Bow’r _of Bliss is born;_ _Whether all things in nature strive to bring,_ _All that is soft, all that is ravishing._

III.

_The verdant Banks no other Prints retain,_ _But where young Lovers, and young Loves have lain._ _For_ Love _has nothing here to do,_ _But to be wanton, soft and gay,_ _And give a lavish loose to joy._ _His emptyed Quiver, and his Bow,_ _In flowry Wreaths with rosy Garlands Crown’d,_ _In Myrtle shades are hung,_ _As Conquerors when the Victories won,_ _Dispose their glorious Trophies all around._ _Soft Winds and Eccho’s that do haunt each Grove,_ _Still whisper, and repeat no other Songs than Love._ _Which round about the sacred Bower they sing,_ _Where every thing arrives that’s sweet and ravishing._

IV.