Part 25

But see the Nymphs and dancing swains Ascend the Hill from yonder Plains, With Wreathes and Garlands finely made, To crown the lovely Bride and Bridegrooms head, And I amongst the humbler throng My Sacrifice must bring A rural Hymeneal Song, _Alexis_ he shall pipe while I will sing. Had I been blest with Flocks or Herd A nobler Tribute I’d prepar’d, With darling Lambs the Altars I wou’d throng; But I, alas! can only offer song. Song too obscure, too humble verse For this days glory to reherse, But _Lysidus_, like Heav’n, is kind, And for the Sacrifice accepts the Humble mind. If he vouchsafe to listen to my Ode He makes me happyer than a fancy’d God.

_On Desire._

_A Pindarick. By Mrs._ B.

What Art thou, oh! thou new-found pain? From what infection dost thou spring? Tell me.--oh! tell me, thou inchanting thing, Thy nature, and thy name; Inform me by what subtil Art, What powerful Influence, You got such vast Dominion in a part Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart, That fame and Honour cannot drive yee thence. Oh! mischievous usurper of my Peace; Oh! soft intruder on my solitude, Charming disturber of my ease, Thou hast my nobler fate persu’d, And all the Glorys of my life subdu’d.

Thou haunt’st my inconvenient hours; The business of the Day, nor silence of the night, That shou’d to cares and sleep invite, Can bid defyance to thy conquering powers. Where hast thou been this live-long Age That from my Birth till now, Thou never could’st one thought engage, Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage That made it all its humble feebles know?

Where wert thou, oh, malicious spright, When shining Honour did invite? When interest call’d, then thou wert shy, Nor to my aid one kind propension brought, Nor wou’d’.t inspire one tender thought, When Princes, at my feet did lye.

When thou cou’d’.t mix ambition with thy joy, Then peevish _Phantôm_ thou wer’t nice and coy, Not Beauty cou’d invite thee then Nor all the Arts of lavish Men; Not all the powerful Rhetorick of the Tongue Not sacred Wit you’d charm thee on; Not the soft play that lovers make, Nor sigh cou’d fan thee to a fire, Not pleading tears, nor vows cou’d thee awake, Or warm the unform’d somthing--to desire. Oft I’ve conjur’d thee to appear By youth, by love, by all their powrs, Have searcht and sought thee every where, In silent Groves, in lonely bowrs: On Flowry beds where lovers wishing lye, In sheltering woods where sighing maids To their assigning Shepherds hye, And hide their blushes in the gloom of shades: Yet there, even there, thô youth assail’d, Where Beauty prostrate lay and fortune woo’d, My heart insensible to neither bow’d, The lucky aid was wanting to prevail.

In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphear But thou in crowds wer’t stifl’d there, Int’rest did all the loving business do, Invites the youths and wins the Virgins too. Or if by chance some heart thy empire own (Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone.

Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate Thy mighty force thrô every part, What God, or Human power did thee create In my, till now, unfacil heart? Art thou some welcome plague sent from above In this dear form, this kind disguise? Or the false offspring of mistaken love, Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove, With the bright peircing Beautys of _Lysanders_ Eyes?

Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now; And found to whom thou dost thy being owe, ‘Tis thou the blushes dost impart, For thee this languishment I wear, ‘Tis thou that tremblest in my heart When the dear Shepherd do’s appear, I faint, I dye with pleasing pain, My words intruding sighing break When e’re I touch the charming swain When e’re I gaze, when e’re I speak. Thy conscious fire is mingl’d with my love, As in the sanctifi’d abodes Misguided worshippers approve The mixing Idol with their Gods.

In vain, alas! in vain I strive With errors, which my soul do please and vex, For superstition will survive, Purer Religion to perplex.

Oh! tell me you, Philosophers, in love, That can its burning feaverish fits controul, By what strange Arts you cure the soul, And the fierce Calenture remove?

Tell me, yee fair ones, that exchange desire, How tis you hid the kindling fire. Oh! wou’d you but confess the truth, It is not real virtue makes you nice: But when you do resist the pressing youth, ‘Tis want of dear desire, to thaw the Virgin Ice. And while your young adorers lye All languishing and hopeless at your feet, Raising new Trophies to your chastity, Oh tell me, how you do remain discreet? How you suppress the rising sighs, And the soft yeilding soul that wishes in your Eyes? While to th’admiring crow’d you nice are found; Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound Informs you, all your virtu’s but a cheat And Honour but a false disguise, Your modesty a necessary bait To gain the dull repute of being wise.

Deceive the foolish World--deceive it on, And veil your passions in your pride; But now I’ve found your feebles by my own, From me the needful fraud you cannot hide. Thô tis a mighty power must move The soul to this degree of love, And thô with virtue I the World perplex, _Lysander_ finds the weakness of my sex, So _Helen_ while from _Theseus_ arms she fled, To charming _Paris_ yeilds her heart and Bed.

_To_ Amintas.

_Upon reading the Lives of some of the_ Romans. _by Mrs._ B.

Had’st thou, _Amintas_; liv’d in that great age, When hardly Beauty was to nature known, What numbers to thy side might’st thou engage And conquer’d Kingdoms by thy looks alone?

That age when valor they did Beauty name, When Men did justly our brave sex prefer, ‘Cause they durst dye, and scorn the publick shame Of adding Glory to the conqueror.

Had mighty _Scipio_ had thy charming face, Great _Sophonisbe_ had refus’d to dye, Her passion o’re the sense of her disgrace Had gain’d the more obliging victory.

Nor less wou’d _Massanissa_ too have done But to such Eyes, as to his Sword wou’d bow, For neither sex can here thy fetters shun, Being all _Scipio_, and _Amintas_ too.

Had’st thou great _Cæsar_ been, the greater Queen, Wou’d trembling have her mortal Asps lay’d by, In thee she had not only _Cæsar_ seen, But all she did adore in _Antony_.

Had daring _Sextus_ had thy lovely shape, The fairest Woman living had not dy’d But blest the darkness that secur’d the Rape, Suffering her Pleasure to have debauch’t her Pride.

Nor had he stoln to _Rome_ to have quencht his fire, If thee resistless in his Camp he’d seen, Thy Eyes had kept his virtue all intire, And _Rome_ a happy monarchy had been.

Had _Pompey_ lookt like thee, thô he had prov’d The vanquisht, yet from _Egypts_ faithless King He had receiv’d the vows of being belov’d, In stead of Orders for his murdering.

But here, _Amintas_, thy misfortune lys, Nor brave nor good are in our age esteem’d, Content thee then with meaner victorys, Unless that Glorious age cou’d be redeem’d.

_A. B._

_On the first discovery of falseness in_ Amintas.

_By Mrs._ B.

Make hast! make hast! my miserable soul, To some unknown and solitary Grove, Where nothing may thy Languishment controle Where thou maist never hear the name of Love. Where unconfin’d, and free, as whispering Air, Thou maist caress and welcome thy despair:

Where no dissembl’d complisance may veil The griefes with which, my soul, thou art opprest, But dying, breath thyself out in a tale That may declare the cause of thy unrest: The toyles of Death ‘twill render far more light And soon convey thee to the shades of night.

Search then, my soul, some unfrequented place, Some place that nature meant her own repose: When she herself withdrew from human race, Displeas’d with wanton Lovers vows and oaths. Where _Sol_ cou’d never dart a busy Ray, And where the softer winds ne’re met to play.

By the sad purling of some Rivulet O’re which the bending Yew and Willow grow, That scarce the glimmerings of the day permit, To view the melancholy Banks below, Where dwells no noyse but what the murmurs make, When the unwilling stream the shade forsakes.

There on a Bed of Moss and new-faln leaves, Which the Triumphant Trees once proudly bore, Thô now thrown off by every wind that breaths, Despis’d by what they did adorn before, And who, like useless me, regardless lye While springing beautys do the boughs supply.

There lay thee down, my soul, and breath thy last, And calmly to the unknown regions fly; But e’re thou dost thy stock of life exhaust, Let the ungrateful know, why tis you dye. Perhaps the gentle winds may chance to bear Thy dying accents to _Amintas_ ear.

Breath out thy Passion; tell him of his power And how thy flame was once by thee approv’d. How soon as wisht he was thy conqueror, No sooner spoke of Love, but was belov’d. His wonderous Eyes, what weak resistance found, While every charming word begat a wound?

Here thou wilt grow impatient to be gone, And thrô my willing Eyes will silent pass, Into the stream that gently glides along, But stay thy hasty flight, (my Soul,) alas, A thought more cruel will thy flight secure, Thought, that can no admittance give to cure. Think, how the prostrate Infidel now lys, An humble suppliant at anothers feet, Think, while he begs for pity from her Eyes. He sacrifices thee without regreet. Think, how the faithless treated thee last night, And then, my tortur’d soul, assume thy flight.

_To the fair_ Clarinda, _who made Love to me, imagin’d more than Woman. By Mrs._ B.

Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee, Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth: And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth. This last will justifie my soft complaint, While that may serve to lessen my constraint; And without Blushes I the Youth persue, When so much beauteous Woman is in view. Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain } With thy deluding Form thou giv’st us pain, } While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain. } In pity to our Sex sure thou wer’t sent, That we might Love, and yet be Innocent: For sure no Crime with thee we can commit; Or if we shou’d--thy Form excuses it. For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves.

Thou beauteous Wonder of a different kind, Soft _Cloris_ with the dear _Alexis_ join’d; When e’r the Manly part of thee, wou’d plead Thou tempts us with the Image of the Maid, While we the noblest Passions do extend The Love to _Hermes_, _Aphrodite_ the Friend.

FINIS.

WESTMINSTER DROLLERY, 1671.

A SONG.

That Beauty I ador’d before, I now as much despise: ‘Tis Money only makes the Whore: She that for love with her Crony lies, _Is chaste: But that’s the Whore that kisses for prize._

Let _Jove_ with Gold his _Danae_ woo, It shall be no rule for me: Nay, ‘t may be I may do so too, When I’me as old as he. _Till then I’le never hire the thing that’s free._

If Coin must your affection Imp, Pray get some other Friend: My Pocket ne’re shall be my Pimp, I never that intend, _Yet can be noble too, if I see they mend._

Since Loving was a Liberal Art, How canst thou trade for gain? The pleasure is on your part, ‘Tis we Men take the pain: _And being so, must Women have the gain?_

No, no, I’le never farm your Bed, Nor your Smock-Tenant be: I hate to rent your white and red, You shall not let your Love to me: _I court a Mistris, not a Landlady._

A Pox take him that first set up, Th’ Excise of Flesh and Skin: And since it will no better be, Let’s both to kiss begin; _To kiss freely: if not, you may go spin._

MISCELLANY, 1685.

To SIR WILLIAM CLIFTON.

Sir,

I am very sensible how the ill-natur’d World has been pleased to Judge of almost all Dedications, and when not addrest to themselves will not let ‘em pass without the imputation of Flattery; for there is scarce any Man so just to allow those Praises to another in which he does not immediately share in some degree himself, nor can the Fantastic Humors of the Age agree in point of Merit, but every Mans Vertue is measured according to the sence another has of it, and not by its own intrinsic value, so that if another does not see with my Eyes and judge with my Sence, I must be Branded with the Crime of Fools and Cowards; nor will they be undeceived in an Error that so agreeably flatters them, either by a better knowledge of the Person commended, or by a right understanding from any other Judgment; they hate to be convinced of what will make no part of their satisfaction when they are so, for as ’.is natural to despise all those that have no vertue at all, so ‘tis as natural to Envy those we find have more than our selves instead of imitating ‘em: and I have heard a Man rail at a Dedication for being all over Flattery, and Damn it in gross, who when it has been laid before him, and he has been asked to answer according to his Conscience, and upon Honour to every particular, could not contradict one single Vertue that has been justly given there, yet angry at being convinced has cry’d, with a peevish, uneasie tone.--YET I DON’T KNOW HOW, NOR I DON’T KNOW WHAT-BUT ‘TIS ALL TOGETHER METHINKS A PIECE OF FLATTERY--When indeed the business was, _he did not know how_ to afford him so good a Character, nor _he did not know what_ other reason he had to find fault with it, and was only now afflicted to find ‘twas all true; whereas before he charged it all on the effects of some little sinister end or advantage of the Author.

’.is therefore, Sir, that I have taken the Liberty here of addressing my self to one, whose Generosity and Goodness has prevented any such Scandal, and secured me from the imputation of Flattery by rend’ring this, but a small part of that Duty only, which I have so long owed you; ‘tis only, Sir, my debt of gratitude I pay, or rather an humble acknowledgment of what I ought to pay you; for favours of that nature are not easily returned, and one must be a great while discharging it out of the Barren Stock of Poetry; but where my own failed, I borrowed of my Friends, who were all ready to give me Credit for so good and just an occasion, and we all soon agreed where first we should begin the work of gratitude. For, Sir, your worth is every where known, and valued; it bears the Royal stamp and passes for currant to every ready hand; Loyalty being that standard Vertue of the Soul which finds its price all over the World; nor is it in these our glorious days, who bears that Rate now, but who has always done so through Fate and Fortune; dyed in the true Grain, not to be varied with every glittering Sun-shine, nor lost in every falling Shower, but stanch to its first beautiful colour, endures all weathers.

Nor is it enough that where you are known, you are beloved and blest, but you, whose Quality and Fortune elevate you above the common Crowd, ought to have your Loyal Names fixed every where, as great and leading Examples to the rest, as the Genius of your Country and the Star that influences, where your Lustre shines. You, who in spight of all the Follies we import from _France_ so much in fashion here, still retain, and still maintain the good old _English_ Customs of Noble Hospitality, and treat the underworld about you, even into good nature and Loyalty; and have kept your Country honest, while elsewhere for want of such great Patrons and Presidents, Faction and Sedition have over-run those Villages where Ignorance abounded, and got footing almost every where, whose Inhabitants are a sort of Bruits, that ought no more to be left to themselves than Fire, and are as Mischievous and as Destructive. While every great Landlord is a kind of Monarch that awes and civilizes ‘em into Duty and Allegiance, and whom because they know, they Worship with a Reverence equal to what they would pay their King, whose Representative they take him at least to be if not that of God himself, since they know no greater or more indulgent; and are sure to be of his opinion, he’s their Oracle, their very Gospel, and whom they’ll sooner credit; never was new Religion, Misunderstanding, and Rebellion known in Countries till Gentlemen of ancient Families reformed their way of living to the new Mode, pulled down their great Halls, retrenched their Servants, and confined themselves to scanty lodgings in the City, starved the Poor of their Parish, and rackt their Tenants to keep the Tawdry Jilt in Town a hundred times more expensive, but you, Sir, retain still the perfect measure of true Honour, you understand the joys and comforts of life and blest retreat; you value Courts tho you do not always shine there, you dare be brave, liberal, and honest tho you do not always behold the Illustrious Pattern of all Glorious Vertue in your King, and absent from the lavish City. You are pleased and contented with the favour of your Monarch, tho you have no need of his Bounty, dare serve him with your Life and Fortune, and can find your reward in your own Vertue and Merit; this I dare avow to all the World is your Character in short, for which your lasting Name shall live, when the turbulent, busie hot-brain’d disturbers of their own tranquillity and the Kingdoms Peace, shall live in fear, die in Shame and their memory rot in the forgotten Grave, or stand to after Ages Branded and Reproached, while we can never enough Celebrate that Glorious one of yours; nor knew we where to fix it to render it Durable to all Eternity so well as to lasting Verse, that out-wears Time and Marble. If anything within can contribute to the diversion of your Hours of least concern, ‘twill be sufficient recompence to all who beg your Patronage here, especially

Sir, Your obliged and most humble Servant, A. BEHN.

MISCELLANY, 1685.

_On the Death of the late Earl of_ Rochester, _by Mrs._ A. B.

Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The Young, the Noble _Strephon_ is no more. Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light, And ne’re shall rise from Deaths eternal Night, So rich a Prize the _Stygian_ Gods ne’re bore, Such Wit, such Beauty, never grac’d their Shore. He was but lent this duller World t’ improve In all the charms of Poetry, and Love; Both were his gift, which freely he bestow’d, And like a God, dealt to the wond’ring Crowd. Scorning the little Vanity of Fame, Spight of himself attain’d a Glorious name. But oh! in vain was all his peevish Pride, The Sun as soon might his vast Lustre hide, As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright, As suffering no vicissitudes of Night. Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The Young, the Noble _Strephon_ is no more.

Now uninspir’d upon your Banks we lye, Unless when we wou’d mourn his Elegie; His name’s a Genius that wou’d Wit dispense, And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Sense. But all fine thought that Ravisht when it spoke, With the soft Youth eternal leave has took; Uncommon Wit that did the soul o’recome, Is buried all in _Strephon’s_ Worship’d Tomb; Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone, The Fop and Cully now may be undone; That dear instructing Rage is now allay’d, And no sharp Pen dares tell ‘em how they’ve stray’d; Bold as a God was ev’ry lash he took, But kind and gentle the chastising stroke. Mourn, Mourn, ye Youths, whom Fortune has betray’d, The last Reproacher of your Vice is dead.

Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your _Cyprus_ on, The truest Swain that e’re Ador’d you’s gone; Think how he lov’d, and writ, and sigh’d, and spoke, Recall his Meen, his Fashion, and his Look. By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize, Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes. Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow’rs, Bedew’d with everlasting falling Show’rs; Fix your fair eyes upon your victim’d Slave, Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave. See where the Noble Swain Extended lies, Too sad a Triumph of your Victories; Adorn’d with all the Graces Heav’n e’re lent, } All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent } You’ve laid into his early Monument. } Mourn, Mourn, ye Beauties, your sad loss deplore, The Young, the Charming _Strephon_ is no more.

Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whose Darts Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts; Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow, The useless Toys can do no Mischief now, Those Eyes that all your Arrows points inspir’d, Those Lights that gave ye fire are now retir’d, Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mothers Doves; Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves, For you the humblest Votary have lost That ever your Divinities could boast; Upon your hands your weeping Heads decline, And let your wings encompass round his Shrine; In stead of Flow’rs your broken Arrows strow, And at his feet lay the neglected Bow. Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore, The soft, the Charming _Strephon_ is no more.

Large was his Fame, but short his Glorious Race, Like young _Lucretius_ liv’d and dy’d apace. So early Roses fade, so over all They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall, While all the scatter’d perfum’d leaves declare, How lovely ‘twas when whole, how sweet, how fair. Had he been to the _Roman_ Empire known, When great _Augustus_ fill’d the peaceful Throne; Had he the noble wond’rous Poet seen, And known his Genius, and survey’d his Meen, (When Wits, and Heroes grac’d Divine abodes,) He had increas’d the number of their Gods; The Royal Judge had Temples rear’d to’s name. And made him as Immortal as his Fame; In Love and Verse his _Ovid_ he’ad out-done, And all his Laurels, and his _Julia_ won. Mourn, Mourn, unhappy World, his loss deplore, The great, the charming _Strephon_ is no more.

SONG. _By_ A. B.

Cease, cease, _Aminta_, to complain, Thy Languishment give o’re, Why shoud’st thou sigh because the Swain Another does Adore? Those Charms, fond Maid, that vanquish’d thee, Have many a Conquest won, And sure he could not cruel be, And leave ‘em all undon.