FAMILIAR LETTERS, 1718.
Reading edition
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.