Miscellany, 1685.
Reading edition
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 'tis 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.
'Tis 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. 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.