Part 26

The Youth a Noble temper bears, Soft and compassionate, And thou canst only blame thy Stars, That made thee love too late; Yet had their Influence all been kind They had not cross’d my Fate, The tend’rest hours must have an end, And Passion has its date.

The softest love grows cold and shy, The face so late ador’d, Now unregarded passes by, Or grows at last abhorr’d; All things in Nature fickle prove, See how they glide away; Think so in time thy hopeless love Will die, as Flowers decay.

A SONG. _By Mrs._ A. B.

While, _Iris_, I at distance gaze, And feed my greedy eyes, That wounded heart, that dyes for you, Dull gazing can’t suffice; Hope is the Food of Love-sick minds, On that alone ‘twill Feast, The nobler part which Loves refines, No other can digest.

In vain, too nice and Charming Maid, I did suppress my Cares; In vain my rising sighs I stay’d, And stop’d my falling tears; The Flood would swell, the Tempest rise, As my despair came on; When from her Lovely cruel Eyes, I found I was undone. Yet at your feet while thus I lye, And languish by your Eyes, ‘Tis far more glorious here to dye, Than gain another Prize. Here let me sigh, here let me gaze, And wish at least to find As raptur’d nights, and tender days, As he to whom you’re kind.

A PARAPHRASE _on the_ LORDS PRAYER. _By Mrs._ A. B.

_OUR FATHER_,

O Wondrous condescention of a God! To poor unworthy sinful flesh and blood; Lest the high Mistery of Divinity, Thy sacred Title, shou’d too Awful be; Lest trembling prostrates should not freely come, As to their Parent, to their native home; Lest Thy incomprehensible God-head shou’d Not by dull Man; be rightly understood; Thou deignst to take a name, that fits our sense, Yet lessens not Thy glorious Excellence.

_WHICH ART IN HEAVEN_,

Thy Mercy ended not, when thou didst own Poor lost and out-cast Man to be thy Son; ‘Twas not enough the Father to dispense, In Heaven thou gav’st us an Inheritance; A Province, where thou’st deign’d each Child a share; Advance, my tim’rous Soul, thou needst not fear, Thou hast a God! a God and Father! there.

_HALLOWED BE THY NAME_,

For ever be it, may my Pious Verse, That shall thy great and glorious name rehearse, By singing Angels still repeated be, And tune a Song that may be worthy thee; While all the Earth with Ecchoing Heav’n shall joyn, To Magnifie a Being so Divine.

_THY KINGDOM COME_,

Prepare, my Soul, ‘gainst that Triumphant day, Adorn thy self with all that’s Heavenly gay, Put on the Garment, which no spot can stain, And with thy God! thy King! and Father! Reign; When all the Joyful Court of Heaven shall be One everlasting day of Jubilee; Make my Soul fit but there to find a room, Then when thou wilt, Lord let thy Kingdom come.

_THY WILL BE DONE_

With all submission prostrate I resign My Soul, my Faculties, and Will to thine; For thou, Oh Lord, art Holy, Wise, and Just, And raising Man from forth the common dust, Hast set thy Sacred Image on his Soul, And shall the Pot the Potters hand controul? Poor boasting feeble Clay, that Error shun, Submit and let th’ Almighty’s Will be done.

_IN EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN_.

For there the Angels, and the Saints rejoyce, Resigning all to the blest Heavenly Voice; Behold the Seraphins his Will obey, Wilt thou less humble be, fond Man, than they? Behold the Cherubins and Pow’rs Divine, } And all the Heavenly Host in Homage joyn; } Shall their Submission yield, and shall not thine? } Nay, shall even God submit to Flesh and Blood? For our Redemption, our Eternal good, Shall he submit to stripes, nay even to die } A Death reproachful, and of Infamy? } Shall God himself submit, and shall not I? } Vain, stubborn Fool, draw not thy ruine on, But as in Heav’n; on Earth God’s Will be done;

_GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD_,

For oh my God! as boasting as we are, We cannot live without thy heavenly care, With all our Pride, not one poor Morsel’s gain’d, Till by thy wondrous Bounty first obtain’d; With all our flatter’d Wit, our fanci’d sense, } We have not to one Mercy a pretence } Without the aid of thy Omnipotence. } Oh God, so fit my soul, that I may prove A pitied Object of thy Grace and Love; May my soul be with Heavenly Manna fed, And deign my grosser part thy daily bread.

_AND FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES_

How prone we are to Sin, how sweet were made The pleasures, our resistless hearts invade! Of all my Crimes, the breach of all thy Laws Love, soft bewitching Love! has been the cause; Of all the Paths that Vanity has trod, That sure will soonest be forgiven of God; If things on Earth may be to Heaven resembled, It must be love, pure, constant, undissembled: But if to Sin by chance the Charmer press, Forgive, O Lord, forgive our Trespasses.

_AS WE FORGIVE THEM THAT TRESPASS AGAINST US_,

Oh that this grateful, little Charity, } Forgiving others all their sins to me, } May with my God for mine attoning be. } I’ve sought around, and found no foe in view, } Whom with the least Revenge I would pursue, } My God, my God, dispense thy Mercies too. }

_LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION_

Thou but permits it, Lord, ‘tis we go on, And give our selves the Provocation; ‘Tis we, that prone to pleasures which invite, Seek all the Arts to heighten vain delight; But if without some Sin we cannot move, May mine proceed no higher than to love; And may thy vengeance be the less severe, Since thou hast made the object lov’d so fair.

_BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL._

From all the hasty Fury Passion breeds, And into deaf and blinded Error leads, From words that bear Damnation in the sound, And do the Soul as well as Honour wound, That by degrees of Madness lead us on To Indiscretion, Shame, Confusion; From Fondness, Lying, and Hypocrisie, From my neglect of what I ow to thee; From Scandal, and from Pride, divert my thought, And from my Neighbour grant I covet nought; From black Ingratitude, and Treason, Lord, Guard me, even in the least unreverend word. In my Opinion, grant, O Lord, I may, } Be guided in the true and rightful way, } And he that guides me may not go astray; } Do thou, oh Lord, instruct me how to know Not whither, but which way I am to go; For how should I an unknown passage find, When my instructing Guide himself is blind. All Honour, Glory, and all Praise be given To Kings on Earth, and to our God in Heaven.

--_Amen._

SELINDA _and_ CLORIS, _made in an Entertainment at Court. By Mrs._ A. B.

_Selinda._

As young _Selinda_ led her Flock, Beneath the Shelter of a shaded Rock, The Melancholy _Cloris_ by, Thus to the Lovely Maid did sighing cry.

_Cloris._

_Selinda_, you too lightly prize, The powerful Glorys of your Eyes; To suffer young _Alexis_ to adore, _Alexis_, whom Love made my slave before; I first adorn’d him with my Chains, } He Sigh’d beneath the rigour of my Reign; } And can that Conquest now be worth your pain? } A Votary you deserve who ne’er knew how, To any Altars but your own to bow.

_Selinda._

Is it your Friendship or your Jealousie, That brings this timely aid to me? With Reason we that Empire quit, Who so much Rigour shows, And ‘twould declare more Love than Wit, Not to recall his Vows. If Beauty could _Alexis_ move, He might as well be mine; He saw the Errors of his Love, He saw how long in vain he strove, And did your scorn decline; And, _Cloris_, I the Gods may imitate, And humble Penitents receive, tho late.

_Cloris._

Mistaken Maid, can his Devotion prove Agreeable or true, Who only offers broken Vows of Love? Vows which, _Selinda_, are my due. How often prostrate at my feet h’as lain, Imploring Pity for his Pain? My heart a thousand ways he strove to win, Before it let the Charming Conqueror in; Ah then how soon the Amorous heat was laid! How soon he broke the Vows he made! Slighting the Trophies he had won. And smiling saw me sigh for being undone.

_Selinda._

Enough, enough, my dear abandon’d Maid, Enough thy Eyes, thy Sighs, thy Tongue have said, In all the Groves, on all the Plains, ‘Mongst all the Shepherds, all the Swains, I never saw the Charms cou’d move My yet unconquer’d heart, to Love; And tho a God _Alexis_ were, He should not Rule the Empire here.

_Cloris._

Then from his charming Language fly; Or thou’rt undone as well as I; The God of Love is sure his Friend, Who taught him all his Arts, And when a Conquest he design’d, He furnish’d him with Darts; His Quiver, and his gilded Bow, To his assistance brings, And having given the fatal Blow, Lends him his fleeting wings. Tho not a Cottage-Slave, can be, Before the Conquest, so submiss as he, To Fold your sheep, to gather Flowers, To Pipe and sing, and sigh away your hours; Early your Flocks to fragrant Meads, Or cooling shades, and Springs he Leads; Weaves Garlands, or go seek your Lambs, That struggle from their bleating Dams, Or any humble bus’ness do, But once a Victor, he’s a Tyrant too.

_Selinda._

_Cloris_, such little Services would prove Too mean, to be repaid with Love; A Look, a Nod, a Smile would quit that score, And she deserves to be undone, that pays a Shepherd more.

_Cloris._

His new-blown Passion if _Selinda_ Scorn, _Alexis_ may again to me return.

_Selinda._

Secure thy Fears, the Vows he makes to me I send a Present, back to thee;

_Cloris._

Then we will sing, in every Grove, The greatness of your Mind,--

_Selinda._

... And I your Love.

_Both._

And all the Day, With Pride and Joy, We’ll let the Neighb’ring Shepherds see, That none like us, Did e’er express, The heights of Love and Amity; And all the day, &c.

A PINDARIC _to Mr._ P. _who sings finely_. _By Mrs._ A. B.

_Damon_, altho you waste in vain That pretious breath of thine, Where lies a Pow’r in every strain, To take in any other heart, but mine; Yet do not cease to sing, that I may know, By what soft Charms and Arts, What more than Humane ‘tis you do, To take, and keep your hearts; Or have you Vow’d never to wast your breath, But when some Maid must fall a Sacrifice, As _Indian_ Priests prepare a death, For Slaves t’addorn their Victories, Your Charm’s as powerful, if I live, For I as sensible shall be, What wound you can, to all that hear you, give, As if you wounded me; And shall as much adore your wondrous skill, As if my heart each dying Note cou’d kill.

And yet I should not tempt my Fate, Nor trust my feeble strength, Which does with ev’ry softning Note abate And may at length Reduce me to the wretched Slave I hate; Tis strange extremity in me, To venture on a doubtful Victory, Where if you fail, I gain no more, Than what I had before; But ‘twill certain comfort bring, If I unconquer’d do escape from you; If I can live, and hear you sing, No other Forces can my Soul subdue; Sing, _Damon_, then, and let each Shade, Which with thy Heavenly voice is happy made, Bear witness if my courage be not great, To hear thee sing, and make a safe retreat.

_On the Author of that Excellent Book Intituled The Way to Health, Long Life, and Happiness._

_By Mrs._ A. B.

Hail, Learned Bard! who dost thy power dispence, And show’st us the first State of Innocence In that blest golden Age, when Man was young, When the whole Race was Vigorous and strong; When Nature did her wond’rous dictates give, And taught the Noble Savage how to live; When Christal Streams, and every plenteous Wood Afforded harmless drink, and wholsom food; E’er that ingratitude in Man was found, His Mother Earth with Iron Ploughs to wound; When unconfin’d, the spacious Plains produc’d What Nature crav’d, and more than Nature us’d; When every Sense to innocent delight Th’ agreeing Elements unforc’d invite; When Earth was gay, and Heaven was kind and bright, And nothing horrid did perplex the sight; Unprun’d the Roses and the Jes’min grew, } Nature each day drest all the World anew, } And Sweets without Mans aid each Moment grew; } Till wild Debauchery did Mens minds invade, And Vice, and Luxury became a Trade; Surer than War it laid whole Countrys wast, Not Plague nor Famine ruins half so fast; By swift degrees we took that Poison in, Regarding not the danger, nor the sin; Delightful, Gay, and Charming was the Bait, While Death did on th’ inviting Pleasure wait, And ev’ry Age produc’d a feebler Race, } Sickly their days, and those declin’d apace, } Scarce Blossoms Blow, and Wither in less space. } Till Nature thus declining by degrees, We have recourse to rich restoratives, By dull advice from some of Learned Note, We take the Poison for the Antidote; Till sinking Nature cloy’d with full supplys, O’er-charg’d grows fainter, Languishes and dies. These are the Plagues that o’er this Island reign, And have so many threescore thousands slain; Till you the saving Angel, whose blest hand Have sheath’d that Sword, that threatned half the Land; More than a Parent, Sir, we you must own, They give but life, but you prolong it on; You even an equal power with Heav’n do shew, Give us long life, and lasting Vertue too: Such were the mighty Patriarchs, of old, Who God in all his Glory did behold, Inspir’d like you, they Heavens Instructions show’d, And were as Gods amidst the wandring Croud; Not he that bore th’ Almighty Wand cou’d give Diviner Dictates, how to eat, and live. And so essential was this cleanly Food, For Mans eternal health, eternal good, That God did for his first-lov’d Race provide, What thou by Gods example hast prescrib’d: O mai’st thou live to justifie thy fame, To Ages lasting as thy glorious Name! May thy own life make thy vast Reasons good, (Philosophy admir’d and understood,) To every sense ‘tis plain, ‘tis great, and clear, And Divine Wisdom does o’er all appear; Learning and Knowledge do support the whole, And nothing can the mighty truth controul; Let Fools and Mad-men thy great work condemn, I’ve tri’d thy Method, and adore thy Theme; Adore the Soul that you’d such truths discern, And scorn the fools that want the sense to learn.

_Epitaph on the Tombstone of a Child, the last of Seven that died before. By Mrs._ A. B.

This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument, Contains all that was sweet and innocent; The softest pratler that e’er found a Tongue, His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song; Which now each List’ning Angel smiling hears, Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres; Wanton as unfledg’d Cupids, ere their Charms Had learn’d the little arts of doing harms; Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind, And tho translated could not be refin’d; The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given, Toil’d here on Earth, retir’d to rest in Heaven; Where they the shining Host of Angels fill, Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.

_Epilogue to the Jealous Lovers._

_By Mrs._ Behn, _in_ 1682.

And how, and how, _Mesieurs_! what do you say To our good Moderate, Conscientious Play? Not Whig, nor Tory, here can take Offence; It Libels neither _Patriot_, _Peer_, nor _Prince_, Nor _Shrieve_, nor _Burgess_, nor the Reverend _Gown_. } Faith here’s no Scandal worth eight hundred pound; } Your Damage is at most but half-a-Crown. } Only this difference you must allow, } ‘Tis you receive th’ Affront and pay us too, } Wou’d Rebell WARD had manag’d matters so. } Here’s no Reflections on Damn’d Witnesses, } We scorn such out-of-Fash’on’d Things as These; } They fail to be believ’d, and fail to please. } No _Salamanca_ Doctor-ship abus’d, Not a Malicious _States-man_ here accus’d; No Smutty Scenes, no intrigues up Stairs, That make your _City_ Wives in Love with _Players_. But here are fools of every sort and Fashion, } Except State-Fools, the Tools of _Reformation_, } Or Cullys of the Court--_Association_. } And those Originals decline so fast We shall have none to Copy by at last; Here’s _Jo_, and _Jack_ a pair of whining Fools, And _L[e]igh_ and _I_ brisk Lavish keeping Fools, He’s for Mischief all, and carry’s it on With Fawne and Sneere as Jilting _Whigg_ has done. And like theirs too his Projects are o’rethrown.

A PASTORAL _to Mr._ Stafford, _Under the Name of_ SILVIO _on his Translation of the Death of_ Camilla: _out of_ VIRGIL. _By Mrs._ Behn.

THIRSIS _and_ AMARILLIS.

_Thirsis._

Why, _Amarillis_, dost thou walk alone, And the gay pleasures of the Meadows shun? Why to the silent Groves dost thou retire, When uncompell’d by the Suns scorching fire? Musing with folded Arms, and down-cast look, Or pensive yield to thy supporting _Hook_: Is _Damon_ false? and has his Vows betray’d, And born the Trophies to some other Maid?

_Amarillis._

The Gods forbid I should survive to see The fatal day he were unjust to me. Nor is my Courage, or my Love so poor } T’ out-live that Scorn’d, and miserable hour; } Rather let _Wolves_ my new-yean’d Lambs devour, } Wither ye Verdant Grass, dry up ye Streams, And let all Nature turn to vast extreams: In Summer let the Boughs be cale and dry, } And now gay Flowers the wandring Spring supply, } But with my _Damons_ Love, Let all that’s charming die. }

_Thirsis._

Why then this dull retreat, if he be true, Or, _Amarillis_, is the change in you? You love some Swains more rich in Herds and Flocks, For none can be more powerful in his looks; His shape, his meen, his hair, his wondrous face, And on the Plaines, none _dances_ with his Grace; ‘Tis true, in _Piping_ he does less excell.

_Amarillis._

The Musick of his _Voice_ can Charm as well, When tun’d to words of Love, and sighs among, With the soft tremblings of his bashful tongue, And, _Thirsis_, you accuse my Faith in vain, To think it wavering, for another Swain; ‘Tis admiration now that fills my soul, And does ev’n love suspend, if not controul. My thoughts are solemn all, and do appear With wonder in my Eyes, and not despair! My heart is entertain’d with silent Joys, And I am pleas’d above the Mirth of Noise.

_Thirsis._

What new-born pleasure can divert you so? Pray let me hear, that I may wonder too.

_Amarillis._

Last night, by yonder purling stream I stood, Pleas’d with the murmurs of the little Flood, Who in its rapid glidings bore away The Fringing Flow’rs, that made the Bank so gay, Which I compar’d to fickle _Swains_, who invade First this, then that deceiv’d, and yielding _Maid_: Whose flattering Vows an easie passage find, } Then unregarded leave ‘em far behind, } To sigh their Ruin to the flying Wind. } So the soild flow’rs their rifled Beaut[i]es hung, While the triumphant Ravisher passes on. This while I sighing view’d, I heard a voice That made the Woods, the Groves, and Hills rejoyce. Who eccho’d back the charming sound again, } Answering the Musick of each softning strain, } And told the wonder over all the Plain. } Young _Silvio_ ‘twas that tun’d his happy Pipe, The best that ever grac’d a Shepherds Lip! _Silvio_ of Noble Race, yet not disdains To mix his harmony with Rustic _Swains_, To th’ humble Shades th’ _Illustrious Youth_ resorts, } Shunning the false delights of gaudy Courts, } For the more solid happiness of Rural sports. } Courts which his _Noble Father_ long pursu’d, And Serv’d till he out-serv’d their gratitude.

_Thirsis._

Oh _Amarillis_, let that tale no more Remembred be on the _Arcadian_ Shore, Lest Mirth should on our Meads no more be found, But _Stafford’s_ Story should throughout resound, And fill with pitying cryes the Echoes all around.

_Amarillis._

_Arcadia_, keep your peace, but give me leave, Who knew the _Heroes Loyalty_, to grieve; Once, _Thirsis_, by th’ _Arcadian_ Kings Commands, I left these Shades, to visit foreign Lands; Imploy’d in public toils of State Affairs, Unusual with my Sex, or to my Years; There ‘twas my chance, so Fortune did ordain, To see this great, this good, this God-like Man: Brave, Pious, Loyal, Just, without constraint, The Soul all _Angell_, and the Man a _Saint_; His temper’d mind no Passion e’er inflam’d, But when his _King_ and _Countrey_ were profan’d; Then oft I’ve seen his generous blood o’er spread His awful face, with a resenting Red, In Anger quit the Room, and would disdain To herd with the Rebellious _Publican_. But, _Thirsis_, ‘twould a worship’d Volume fill, If I the _Heroes_ wondrous Life should tell; His Vertues were his Crime, like _God_ he bow’d A necessary Victim to the frantick Croud; So a tall sheltring _Oak_ that long had stood, The mid-days shade, and glory of the _Wood_; Whose aged boughs a reverence did command, Fell lop’d at last by an Ignoble hand: And all his branches are in pieces torn, That _Victors_ grac’d, and did the Wood adorn. --With him young _Silvio_, who compos’d his Joys, The darling of his Soul and of his Eyes, Inheriting the Vertues of his _Sire_, But all his own is his Poetic fire; When young, the _Gods_ of _Love_, and _Wit_ did grace The pointed, promis’d Beautys of his face, Which ripening years did to perfection bring, And taught him how to _Love_, and how to _Sing_.

_Thirsis._

But what, dear _Amarillis_, was the Theam The Noble _Silvio_ Sung by yonder Stream?

_Amarillis._