Part 27

Not of the _Shepherds_, nor their Rural _Loves_. The Song was Glorious tho ‘twas sung in Groves! _Camilla’s_ Death the skilful _Youth_ inspir’d, As if th’ Heroic _Maid_ his Soul had fir’d; Such life was in his Song, such heat, such flight, As he had seen the Royal _Virgin_ fight. He made her deal her wounds with Graceful Art, } With vigorous Air fling the unfailing Dart, } And form’d her Courage to his own great heart. } Never was fighting in our _Sex_ a Charm, Till _Silvio_ did the bright _Camilla_ Arm; With Noble Modesty he shews us how To be at once _Hero_ and _Woman_ too. Oh Conquering _Maid_! how much thy Fame has won, } In the _Arcadian_ Language to be sung, } And by a Swain so soft, so sweet, so young. }

_Thirsis._

Well hast thou spoke the noble _Silvio’s_ Praise, For I have often heard his charming lays; Oft has he blest the Shades with strains Divine, Took many a _Virgins_ heart, and Ravish’d mine. Long may he sing in every Field and Grove, And teach the Swains to Pipe, the _Maids_ to Love.

_Amarillis._

_Daphnis_, and _Colin_ Pipe not half so well, E’en _Dions_ mighty self he does excell; As the last Lover of the _Muses_, blest, The last and young in Love are always best; And _She_ her darling Lover does requite With all the softest Arts of Noblest _Wit_.

_Thirsis._

Oh may he dedicate his Youth to her! Thus let ‘em live, and love upon the square, But see _Alexis_ homeward leads his Flock, And brouzing Goats descend from yonder Rock; The Sun is hasting on to _Thetis_ Bed, See his faint Beams have streak’d the Sky with Red. Let’s home e’er night approach, and all the way You shall of _Silvio_ sing, while I will play.

GILDON’S MISCELLANY, 1692.

VENUS _and_ CUPID.

_Venus._

_Cupid_, my darling _Cupid_, and my Joy, Thy Mother _Venus_ calls, come away, come away.

_Cupid._

Alas! I cannot, I am at Play.

_Venus._

Fond Boy, I do command thee, haste; Thy precious Hours no longer waste: In Groves and Cottages you make abode, Too mean a Condescention for a God! On barren Mountains idly play, For shame thou Wanton, come away, come away!

All useless lies thy Bow and Darts, That should be wounding heedless Hearts: The Swain that guards his Dove, Alas! no Leisure has for Love: His Flocks and Heards are all his Joy, Then leave the Shades and come away, come away.

_Cupid._

Alas! what would you have me do? Command and I’ll Obedience shew.

_Venus._

Hye then to Cities and to Court, Where all the Young and Fair resort; There try thy Power, let fly thy Darts, And bring me in some noble Hearts, Worthy to be by thee undone, For here’s no Glory to be won.

_Cupid._

Mistaken Queen, look down and see, } What Trophies are prepar’d for thee, } What glorious Slaves are destin’d me. }

_Venus._

Now, by my self, a Noble Throng; How Fair the Nymphs, the Swains how Young! No wonder if my little Loves Delight and play in Shades and Groves.

_Cupid._

Then, Mother, here I’ll bend my Bow, And bring you wounded Hearts enough.

_Venus._

My pretty Charming Wanton, do.

_Chorus._

‘Tis thus we over Mortals reign, And thus we Adoration gain From the proud Monarch to the humble Swain.

_Verses design’d by Mrs._ A. Behn _to be sent to a fair Lady, that desir’d she would absent herself to cure her Love. Left unfinish’d._

In vain to Woods and Deserts I retire, } To shun the lovely Charmer I admire, } Where the soft Breezes do but fann my Fire! } In vain in Grotto’s dark unseen I lie, Love pierces where the Sun could never spy. No place, no Art his _God-head_ can exclude, The _Dear_ Distemper reigns in Solitude: Distance, alas, contributes to my Grief; No more, of what fond Lovers call, Relief Than to the wounded Hind does sudden Flight From the chast Goddesses pursuing Sight: When in the Heart the fatal Shaft remains, And darts the Venom through our bleeding Veins. If I resolve no longer to submit My self a wretched Conquest to your Wit, More swift than fleeting Shades, ten thousand Charms From your bright Eyes that Rebel Thought disarms: The more I strugl’d, to my Grief I found My self in _Cupid’s_ Chains more surely bound: Like Birds in Nets, the more I strive, I find My self the faster in the Snare confin’d.

_Verses by Madam_ Behn, _never before printed_.

_On a Conventicle_.

Behold that Race, whence _England’s_ Woes proceed, The Viper’s Nest, where all our Mischiefs breed, There, guided, by _Inspiration_, Treason speaks, And through the Holy Bag-pipe _Legion_ squeaks. The Nation’s Curse, Religion’s ridicule, The Rabble’s _God_, the Politicians _Tool_, _Scorn_ of the Wise, and _Scandal_ of the Just, The Villain’s _Refuge_, and the Women’s Lust.

GILDON’S CHORUS POETARUM, 1694.

_By Madam_ Behn.

1.

The Gods are not more blest than he, Who fixing his glad eyes on thee, With thy bright Rays his senses chears, And drinks with ever thirsty Ears, The charming Musick of thy Tongue Does ever hear and ever long, That sees with more than humane Grace Sweet smiles adorn thy Angel Face.

2.

So when with kinder Beams you shine, And so appear much more Divine, My feebled Sense and dazzled Sight } No more support the glorious Light, } And the fierce torrent of Delight. } O then I feel my Life decay, My ravish’d Soul then flies away; Then Faintness does my Limbs surprize, And Darkness swims before my Eyes.

3.

Then my Tongue fails, and from my Brow The Liquid Drops in Silence flow; Then wand’ring Fires run thro my Blood, Then Cold binds up the languid Flood; All Pale and Breathless then I lie, I sigh, I tremble, and I die.

MUSES MERCURY, _June, 1707_.

_The Complaint of the poor_ Cavaliers.

I.

Give me the Man that’s hollow Since he is the only Fellow, For Honesty’s out of Date; And he’s the only Gallant That shew’d himself so Valiant, To cut off his Master’s Pate. These--these be the Men that flaunt, As if they were Sons of Gaunt, And ev’ry Knave Is Fine and Brave, While the poor _Cavalier’s_ in want.

II.

The Man that chang’d his Note, And he who has turn’d his Coat, Shall now have a good Reward; He’s either made a Knight, Or else by this good Light, A very Reverend Lord: And let him be so for me, I’m as gay and as good as he.

III.

Hang Sorrow, why should we repine, We’ll drive down our Grief with good Wine, Not caring for those that rise; For had they been but true Men, They never had been new Men, And we had ne’er been wise. The Blockhead that merits most, That has all his Fortune lost, Must now be turn’d out And a new-found Rout, Of Courtiers rule the Roast.

The next Verses are so tender, that one may see the Author writ ‘em with no affected Passion. And indeed she had no need to affect what was so natural to her.

_On a Pin that hurt_ Amintas’ _Eye_.

Injurious Pin, how durst thou steal so nigh? To touch, nay worse, to hurt his precious Eye. Base Instrument, so ill thou’st play’d thy part, Wounding his Eye, thou’st wounded my poor Heart, And for each pity’d Drop his Eye did shed, My sympathizing Heart a thousand bled: Too daring Pin, was there no Tincture good, To bath thy Point, but my _Amintas’. Blood?

Cou’d thy Ambition teach thee so to sin? Was that a Place for thee to revel in? ‘Twas there thy Mistress had design’d to be, And must she find a Rival too in thee? Curs’d Fate! that I shou’d harbour thee so long, And thou at last conspire to do me wrong: Tho well I knew thy Nature to be rude, And all thy Kin full of Ingratitude, I little thought thou wouldst presume so far, To aim thy Malice at so bright a Star.

Now all the Service thou canst render me Will never recompense this Injury. Well, get thee gone--for thou shalt never more Have Power to hurt what I so much adore. Hence from my Sight, and mayst thou ever lie A crooked Object to each scornful Eye.

_To Mrs._ Harsenet, _on the Report of a Beauty, which she went to see at Church._

As when a Monarch does in Triumph come, And proudly leads the vanquish’d Captive home, The joyful People swarm in ev’ry Street, And with loud Shouts the glorious Victor meet.

But others whom Misfortune kept away Desire to hear the Story of the Day, How brave the Prince, how brave his Chariot was, How beautiful he look’d, with what a Grace; How rich his Habit, if he Plumes did wear, Or if a Wreath of Bays adorn’d his Hair: They think ‘twas wondrous fine, and long much more, To see the Conqu’ror than they did before.

So when at first by Fame I only knew The Charms so much admir’d and prais’d in you; How many Slaves your conqu’ring Eyes had won, And how the wond’ring Crowd did gazing throng; I wish’d to see, and half a Lover grew, Of so much Beauty, tho my Rival too.

I came, I saw you, and I must confess, I wish’d my Beauty greater, or yours less; Alas! My whole Devotion you betray’d, I only thought of you, and only pray’d, That you might all your jealous Sex out-do In Cruelty as well as Beauty too. I call’d _Amintas_ faithless Man before, But now I find ‘tis just he should adore. Not to love you, if such a Sin could be, Were greater than his Perjury to me; Thus while I blame him, I excuse him too, Who can be innocent that looks on you?

But, lovely _Chloris_, you too meanly prize The Treasures of your Youth, and of your Eyes; Ne’re hear his Vows that he to others swore, Nor let him be your Slave, that was a Slave before; He oft has Fetters worn, and can with Ease Admit them, or dismiss them, as he please. A Virgin Heart you merit, that ne’re found It could receive, till from your Eyes, a Wound, The Soul that nothing but their Force could fear, As great, if that can be, as you are fair.

_For_ Damon, _being ask’d a Reason for his Love_.

I.

You ask me, _Phillis_, why I still pursue, And court no other Nymph but you; And why with Looks and Sighs I still betray A Passion which I dare not say. ‘Tis all, Because I do: you ask me why, And with a Woman’s Reason, I reply.

II.

You ask what Argument I have to prove, That my _Unrest_ proceeds from Love, You’ll not believe my Passion till you know, A better Reason why ‘tis so. Then, _Phillis_, let this Reason go for one, I know I love because my Reason’s gone.

III.

You say a Love like mine must needs declare The Object so belov’d not fair; That neither Wit nor Beauty in her dwell, Whose Lover can no Reason tell, What ‘tis that he adores, and why he burns: _Phillis_, let those give such that have returns.

IV.

And by the very Reasons that you use, _Damon_ might justly you accuse; Why do you Scorn, and with a proud Disdain Receive the Vow, and slight the Swain? You say you cannot Love, you know no Cause: May I not prove my Love by your own Laws?

V.

Am not I Youthful, and as gay a Swain, As e’er appeared upon the Plain? Have I not courted you with all th’ Address An am’rous Shepherd cou’d profess? And add to this, my Flocks and Herds are great, But _Phillis_ only can my Joy compleat.

VI.

Yet you no Reason for your Coldness give, And ‘tis but just you shou’d believe That all your Beauties unadorn’d by Art, Have hurt and not oblig’d my Heart. Be kind to that, my hearty Vows return And then I’ll tell you why, for what I burn.

FAMILIAR LETTERS, 1718.

_A Letter to the Earl of_ Kildare, _dissuading him from marrying_ Moll Howard.

My Lord, We pity such as are by Tempest lost, And those by Fortune’s blind Disposal crost; But when Men see, and may the Danger shun, Yet headlong into certain Ruin run: To pity such, must needs be Ridicule; Do not (my Lord) be that unpity’d Fool.

There’s a report, which round the Town is spread, } The fam’d _Moll Howard_ you intend to Wed; } If it be true, my Lord, then guard your Head: } Horns, Horns, by wholesale, will adorn your Brows, If e’r you make that rampant Whore your Spouse. Think on the lewd Debauches of her Life; Then tell me, if she’s fit to be your Wife. She that to quench her lustful, hot Desire, } Has Kiss’d with Dukes, Lords, Knights, and Country Squire; } Nay, Grooms and Footmen have been claw’d off by her. }

Whoring has all her Life-time been her Trade, And _D----set_ says, she is an exc’lent Baud: But finding both will not defray Expence, She lately is become an _Evidence_; Swears against all that won’t her Lust supply, And says, they’re false as Hell to Monarchy.

You had a Wife; but, rest her Soul, she’s dead, By whom your Lordship by the Nose was led: And will you run into that Noose again, To be the greatest Monster among Men? Think on the Horns that will adorn your Head, And the Diseases that will fill your Bed: Pox upon Pox, most horrid and most dire! And Ulcers filled with Hell’s Eternal Fire.

Forbear therefore, and call your Senses home; Let Reason Love’s blind Passion overcome: For, if you make this base Report once true, You’ll wound your Honour, Purse, and Body too.

_To Mrs._ Price.

My Dear,

In your last, you admir’d how I cou’d pass my Time so long in the Country: I am sorry your Taste is so deprav’d, as not to relish a Country-Life. Now I think there’s no Satisfaction to be found amidst an Urban Throng (as Mr. _Bayes_ calls it).

The peaceful Place where gladly I resort, Is freed from noisy Factions of the Court: There joy’d with viewing o’er the rural Scene, Pleas’d with the Meadows ever green, The Woods and Groves with tuneful Anger move, And nought is heard but gentle Sighs of Love: The Nymphs and Swains for rural Sports prepare, And each kind Youth diverts his smiling Fair. But if by Chance is found a flinty Maid, Whose cruel Eyes has Shepherds Hearts betray’d, In other Climes a Refuge she must find, Banish’d from hence Society of Kind. Here gentle _Isis_, with a Bridegroom’s Haste, Glides to o’ertake the _Thame_, as fair, as chaste; Then mixt, embracing, they together flie; They Live together, and together Die. Here ev’ry Object adds to our Delight, Calm is our Day, and peaceful is our Night. Then, kind _Æmilia_, flie that hated Town, Where’s not a Moment thou canst call thy own: Haste for to meet a Happiness divine, And share the Pleasures I count only mine.

_P. S._ A SONG.

1.

‘Tis not your saying that you love, Can ease me of my Smart; Your Actions must your Words approve, Or else you break my Heart.

2.

In vain you bid my Passion cease, And ease my troubled Breast; Your Love alone must give me Peace, Restore my wonted Rest.

3.

But, if I fail your Heart to move, And ‘tis not yours to give; I cannot, wonnot cease to love, But I will cease to live.

_A. Behn._

PROLOGUE _to_ ROMULUS,

_Spoken by Mrs._ Butler.

_Written by Mrs._ Behn.

How we shall please ye now I cannot say; But, Sirs, ‘Faith here is _News from Rome_ to day; Yet know withal, we’ve no such PACKETS here, As you read once a week from Monkey CARE. But ‘stead of that Lewd Stuff (that cloys the Nation) Plain Love and Honour; (tho quite out of Fashion;) Ours is a Virgin ROME, long, long, before Pious GENEVA Rhetorick call’d her Whore; For be it known to their Eternal Shames, Those Saints were always good at calling Names; Of _Scarlet Whores_ let ‘em their Wills devise, But let ‘em raise no other _Scarlet Lies_; LIES that advance the _Good Old Cause_, and bring Into Contempt the PRELATES with the KING. Why shou’d the _Rebel Party_ be affraid? They’re _Ratts_ and _Weazles_ gnaw the _Lyon’s_ Beard, And then in IGNORAMUS Holes they think, Like other Vermin, to lie close, and stink. What have ye got, ye _Conscientious Knaves_, With all your _Fancy’d Power_, and _Bully Braves_? With all your standing to’t; your _Zealous Furies_; Your _Lawless Tongues_, and _Arbitrary Juries_? Your _Burlesque Oaths_, when one _Green-Ribbon-Brother_ In Conscience will be _Perjur’d for another_? Your PLOTS, _Cabals_, your _Treats_, _Association_, Ye shame, ye very Nusance of the Nation, What have ye got but one poor Word? Such Tools Were _Knaves_ before; to which you’ve added _Fools_. Now I dare swear, some of you _Whigsters_ say, _Come on, now for a swinging_ TORY PLAY. But, Noble _Whigs_, pray let not those _Fears_ start ye, Nor fright hence any of the _Sham Sheriff’s Party_; For, if you’ll take my censure of the Story, } It is as harmless as e’re came before ye, } And writ before the times of _Whig_ and _Tory_. }

EPILOGUE _to the Same_.

_Spoken by the Lady_ SLINGSBY.

Fair Ladies, pity an unhappy Maid, By Fortune, and by faithless Love betray’d. Innocent once--I scarce knew how to sin, Till that unlucky Devil entring in, Did all my Honour, all my Faith undo: LOVE! like _Ambition_ makes us Rebels too: And of all Treasons, mine was most accurst; Rebelling ‘gainst a KING and FATHER first. A Sin, which Heav’n nor Man can e’re forgive; Nor could I _Act_ it with the Face to live. My Dagger did my Honours cause redress; But Oh! my blushing Ghost must needs confess, Had my young Charming Lover faithful been, I fear I dy’d with unrepented Sin. There’s nothing can my Reputation save With all the _True_, the _Loyal_ and the _Brave_; Not my Remorse, or Death can expiate With them a Treason ‘gainst the KING and _State_. Some Love-sick Maid perhaps, now I am gone, (Raging with Love, and by that Love undone,) May form some little _Argument_ for me, T’ excuse m’ _Ingratitude_ and _Treachery_. Some of the Sparks too, that infect the _Pit_, (Whose Honesty is equal to their Wit, And think _Rebellion_ but a petty Crime, Can turn to all sides Int’rest does incline,) May cry ‘_I gad I think the Wench is wise;_ _’.ad it prov’d Lucky, ‘twas the Way to rise._ _’.he had a_ Roman _Spirit, that disdains_ _’.ull Loyalty, and the Yoke of Sovereigns._ _’. Pox of Fathers, and Reproach to come;_ _’.he was the first and Noblest_ Whig _of_ Rome. But may that Ghost in quiet never rest, Who thinks it self with Traytors Praises blest.

_Mrs._ Behn’s _Satyr on_ Dryden.

(_On Mr._ Dryden, _Renegate_.)

Scorning religion all thy life time past, And now embracing popery at last, Is like thyself; & what thou’st done before Defying wife and marrying a whore. Alas! how leering Hereticks will laugh To see a gray old hedge bird caught with chaffe. A Poet too from great heroick theames And inspiration, fallen to dreaming dreams. But this the priests will get by thee at least That if they mend thee, miracles are not ceast. For ‘tis not more to cure the lame & blind, Than heal an impious ulcerated mind. This if they do, and give thee but a grain Of common honesty, or common shame, ‘Twill be more credit to their cause I grant, Than ‘twould to make another man a saint. But thou noe party ever shalt adorn, To thy own shame & Nature’s scandall borne: All shun alike thy ugly outward part, Whilest none have right or title to thy heart. Resolved to stand & constant to the time, Fix’d in thy lewdness, settled in thy crime. Whilest Moses with the Israelites abode, Thou seemdst content to worship Moses’ God: But since he went & since thy master fell, Thou foundst a golden calf would do as well. And when another Moses shall arise Once more I know thou’lt rub and clear thy eyes, And turn to be an Israelite again, } For when the play is done & finisht clean, } What should the Poet doe but shift the scene. }

VALENTINIAN.

_Prologue spoken by Mrs._ Cook _the first Day._

_Written by Mrs._ Behn.

[Sidenote: The Fair on the _Thames_ so called.]

With that assurance we to day address, As standard Beauties, certain of Success. With careless Pride at once they charm and vex, And scorn the little Censures of their Sex. Sure of the unregarded Spoyl, despise The needless Affectation of the Eyes, The softening Languishment that faintly warms, But trust alone to their resistless Charms. So we secur’d by undisputed Wit, Disdain the damning Malice of the Pit, Nor need false Arts to set great Nature off, Or studied tricks to force the Clap and Laugh. Ye wou’d-be-Criticks, you are all undone, For here’s no Theam for you to work upon. Faith seem to talk to _Jenny_, I advise, Of who likes who, and how Loves Markets rise. Try these hard Times how to abate the Price; Tell her how cheap were Damsels on the Ice. ‘Mongst City-Wives, and Daughters that came there, How far a Guinny went at _Blanket-Fair_. Thus you may find some good Excuse for failing Of your beloved Exercise of Railing. That when Friend cryes--How did the Play succeed? Deme, I hardly minded--what they did. We shall not your Ill-nature please to day, With some fond Scribblers new uncertain Play, Loose as vain Youth, and tedious as dull Age, Or Love and Honour that o’re-runs the Stage. Fam’d and substantial Authors give this Treat, And ‘twill be solemn, Noble all and Great. Wit, sacred Wit, is all the bus’ness here; Great _Fletcher_, and the greater _Rochester_. Now name the hardy Man one fault dares find, In the vast Work of two such Heroes joyn’d. None but Great _Strephon’s_ soft and pow’rful Wit Durst undertake to mend what _Fletcher_ writ, Different their heav’nly Notes; yet both agree To make an everlasting Harmony. Listen, ye Virgins, to his charming Song, Eternal Musick dwelt upon his Tongue. The Gods of Love and Wit inspir’d his Pen, And Love and Beauty was his glorious Theam.

Now, Ladies, you may celebrate his Name, Without a scandal on your spotless Fame. With Praise his dear lov’d Memory pursue, And pay his Death, what to his Life was due.

_To_ Henry Higden, _Esq.; on his Translation of the_ Tenth Satyr _of_ Juvenal.

I.