POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS: WITH A VOYAGE TO THE ISLAND OF LOVE.

Long has Wit's injur'd Empire been opprest By Rhiming Fools, this Nations common Jest, And sunk beneath the weight of heavy stafes, In Tory Ballads and Whig Epitaphs; The Ogs and Doegs reign'd, nay Baxter's zeal, Has not been wanting too in writing Ill; Yet still in spight of what the dull can doe, 'Tis here asserted and adorn'd by you. This Book come forth, their credit must decay, Ill Spirits vanish at th'approach of day: And justly we before your envy'd feet, There where our Hearts are due our Pens submit; Ne'er to resume the baffled things again, Unless in Songs of Triumph to thy Name; Which are out-done by every Verse of thine, } Where thy own Fame does with more lustre shine, } Than all that we can give who in thy Praises join. } Fair as the face of Heaven, when no thick Cloud Or darkning Storm the glorious prospect shroud; In all its beauteous parts shines thy bright style, And beyond Humane Wit commends thy skill; With all the thought and vigour of our Sex The moving softness of your own you mix. The Queen of Beauty and the God of Wars } Imbracing lie in thy due temper'd Verse, } Venus her sweetness and the force of Mars. } Thus thy luxuriant Muse her pleasure takes, As God of old in Eden's blissful walks; The Beauties of her new Creation view'd, Full of content She sees that it is good. Come then you inspir'd Swains and join your Verse, Though all in vain to add a Fame to hers; But then your Song will best Apollo please, When it is fraight with this his Favourite's praise. Declare how when her learned Harp she strung, Our joyfull Island with the Musick rung; Descending Graces left their Heavenly seat, To take their place in every Line she writ; Where sweetest Charms as in her Person smile, Her Face's Beauty's copy'd in her style. Say how as she did her just skill improve In the best Art and in soft Tales of Love. Some well sung Passion with success she crown'd, The melting Virgins languish'd at the sound. And envying Swains durst not the Pipe inspire, They'd nothing then to doe but to admire. Shepherds and Nymphs, to Pan direct-your Prayer, } If peradventure he your Vows will hear, } To make you sing, and make you look like her. } But, Nymphs and Swains, your hopes are all in vain, For such bright Eyes, and such a tunefull Pen. How many of her Sex spend half their days, To catch some Fool by managing a Face? But she secure of charming has confin'd Her wiser care t'adorn and dress the Mind. Beauty may fade, but everlasting Verse Exempts the better portion from the Hearse. The matchless Wit and Fancy of the Fair, Which moves our envy and our Sons despair. Long they shall live a monument of her Fame, And to Eternity extend her Name; While After-times deservedly approve The choicest object of this Ages Love. For when they reade, ghessing how far she charm'd, With that bright Body with such Wit inform'd; They will give heed and credit to our Verse, When we the Wonders of her Face rehearse.

'Tis not enough to reade and to admire, } Thy sacred Verse does nobler thoughts inspire, } Striking on every breast Poetick fire: } The God of Wit attends with chearfull Rays, Warming the dullest Statue into praise. Hail then, delight of Heaven and pride of Earth, Blest by each Muse at thy auspicious birth; Soft Love and Majesty have fram'd thy Mind, To shew the Beauties of both Sexes join'd: Thy Lines may challenge, like young David's face, A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace; Thy tender notions in loose numbers flow, With a strange power to charm where e'er they go: And when in stronger sounds thy voice we hear, At all the skilfull points you arm'd appear. Which way so'er thou dost thy self express, We find thy Beauty out in every dress; Such work so gently wrought, so strongly fine, Cannot be wrought by hands all Masculine. In vain proud Man weak Woman wou'd controul, No Man can argue now against a Woman's Soul.

'Twas vain for Man the Laurels to persue, (E'en from the God of Wit bright Daphne flew) Man, Whose course compound damps the Muses fire, It does but touch our Earth and soon expire; While in the softer kind th'Ætherial flame, Spreads and rejoices as from Heaven it came: This Greece in Sappho, in Orinda knew Our Isle; though they were but low types to you; But the faint dawn to your illustrious day, To make us patient of your brighter Ray. Oft may we see some wretched story told; In ductile sense spread thin as leaves of Gold. You have ingrost th'inestimable Mine; } Which in well polisht Numbers you refine, } While still the solid Mass shines thick in every Line. } Yet neither sex do you surpass alone, } Both in your Verse are in their glory shown, } Both Phæbus and Minerva are your own. } While in the softest dress you Wit dispense, With all the Nerves of Reason and of Sense. In mingled Beauties we at once may trace A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace. No wonder 'tis the Delphian God of old Wou'd have his Oracles by Women told. But oh! who e'er so sweetly could repeat Soft lays of Love, and youths delightfull heat? If Love's Misfortunes be your mournfull Theme, No dying Swan on fair Cayster's stream, Expires so sweet, though with his numerous Moan, The fading Banks and suffering Mountains groan. If you the gentle Passions wou'd inspire, With what resistless Charms you breathe desire? No Heart so savage, so relentless none, As can the sweet Captivity disown: Ah, needs must she th'unwary Soul surprise, Whose Pen sheds Flames as dangerous as her Eyes.

To speak of thee no Muse will I invoke, Thou onely canst inspire what shou'd be spoke; For all their wealth the Nine have given to thee, Thy rich and flowing stream has left them dry: Cupid may throw away his useless Darts, Thou'st lent him one will massacre more Hearts Than all his store, thy Pen disarms us so, We yield our selves to the first beauteous Foe; The easie softness of thy thoughts surprise, And this new way Love steals into our Eyes; Thy gliding Verse comes on us unawares, No rumbling Metaphors alarm our Ears, And puts us in a posture of defence; We are undone and never know from whence. So to th' Assyrian Camp the Angel flew, And in the silent Night his Millions slew. Thou leadst us by the Soul amongst thy Loves, And bindst us all in thy inchanting Groves; Each languishes for thy Aminta's Charms, Sighs for thy fansied Raptures in her Armes, Sees her in all that killing posture laid, When Love and fond Respect guarded the sleeping Maid, Persues her to the very Bower of Bliss, Times all the wrecking joys and thinks 'em his; In the same Trance with the young pair we lie, And in their amorous Ecstasies we die. You Nymphs, who deaf to Love's soft lays have been, Reade here, and suck the sweet destruction in: Smooth is the stream and clear is every thought, And yet you cannot see with what you're caught; Or else so very pleasing is the Bait, With careless heed you play and leap at it: She poisons all the Floud with such an art, That the dear Philter trickles to the Heart, With such bewitching pleasure that each sup Has all the joys of life in every drop. I see the Banks with Love-sick Virgins strow'd, Their Bosoms heav'd with the young fluttering Gods; Oh, how they pant and struggle with their pain! Yet cannot wish their former health again: Within their Breasts thy warmth and spirit glows, And in their Eyes thy streaming softness flows; Thy Raptures are transfus'd through every vein, And thy blest hour in all their heads does reign; The Ice that chills the Soul thou dost remove, And meltst it into tenderness and Love; The flints about their Hearts dance to thy lays, Till the quick motion sets 'em on a Blaze. Orpheus and you the stones do both inspire, But onely you out of those flints strike fire, Not with a sudden Spark, a short liv'd Blaze, Like Womens Passions in our Gilting days; But what you fire burns with a constant flame, Like what you write, and always is the same. Rise, all ye weeping Youth, rise and appear, Whom gloomy Fate has damn'd to black Despair; Start from the ground and throw your Mourning by, Loves great Sultana says you shall not die: The dismal dark half year is over past, The Sea is op'd, the Sun shines out at last, And Trading's free, the storms are husht as death, Or happy Lovers ravisht out of breath; And listen to Astræa's Harmony, Such power has elevated Poetry.

Oh, wonder of thy Sex! Where can we see, Beauty and Knowledge join'd except in thee? Such pains took Nature with your Heav'nly Face, Form'd it for Love, and moulded every Grace; I doubted first and fear'd that you had been Unfinish'd left like other She's within: I see the folly of that fear, and find Your Face is not more beauteous than your Mind: Whoe'er beheld you with a Heart unmov'd, That sent not sighs, and said within he lov'd? I gaz'd and found, a then, unknown delight, Life in your looks, and Death to leave the sight. What joys, new Worlds of joys has he possest, That gain'd the sought-for welcome of your Breast? Your Wit wou'd recommend the homeliest Face, Your Beauty make the dullest Humour please; But where they both thus gloriously are join'd, All Men submit, you reign in every Mind. What Passions does your Poetry impart? } It shews th'unfathom'd thing a Woman's Heart, } Tells what Love is, his Nature and his Art, } Displays the several Scenes of Hopes and Fears, Love's Smiles, his Sighs, his Laughing and his Tears. Each Lover here may reade his different Fate, His Mistress kindness or her scornfull hate. Come all whom the blind God has led astray, Here the bewildred Youth is shew'd his way: Guided by this he may yet love and find Ease in his Heart, and reason in his Mind. Thus sweetly once the charming W——lr strove In Heavenly sounds to gain his hopeless Love: All the World list'ned but his scornfull Fair, Pride stopt her ears to whom he bent his prayer. Much happier you that can't desire in vain, But what you wish as soon as wish'd obtain.

Ye bold Magicians in Philosophy, That vainly think (next the Almighty three) The brightest Cherubin in all the Hierarchy Will leave that Glorious Sphere And to your wild inchantments will appear; To the fond summons of fantastick Charms, As Barbarous and inexplicable Terms: As those the trembling Sorcerer dreads, When he the Magick Circle treads: And as he walks the Mystick rounds, And mutters the detested sounds, The Stygian fiends exalt their wrathfull heads; And all ye bearded Drudges of the Schools, That sweat in vain to mend predestin'd fools, With senseless Jargon and perplexing Rules; Behold and with amazement stand, Behold a blush with shame and wonder too, What Divine Nature can in Woman doe. Behold if you can see in all this fertile Land Such an Anointed head, such an inspired hand.

Rest on in peace, ye blessed Spirits, rest, With Imperial bliss for ever blest: Upon your sacred Urn she scorns to tread, Or rob the Learned Monuments of the dead: Nor need her Muse a foreign aid implore, In her own tunefull breast there's wonderous store. Had she but flourisht in these times of old, When Mortals were amongst the Gods inrolld, She had not now as Woman been Ador'd, But with Diviner sacrifice Implor'd; Temples and Altars had preserv'd her name And she her self been thought Immortal as her fame.

Curst be the balefull Tongue that dares abuse The rightfull offspring of her God-like Muse: And doubly Curst be he that thinks her Pen Can be instructed by the best of men. The times to come (as surely she will live, As many Ages as are past, As long as Learning, Sense, or wit survive, As long as the first principles of Bodies last.) The future Ages may perhaps believe One soft and tender Arm cou'd ne'er atchieve The wonderous deeds that she has done So hard a prize her Conqu'ring Muse has won. But we that live in the great Prophetesses days Can we enough proclaim her praise, We that experience every hour The blest effects of her Miraculous power? To the sweet Musick of her charming tongue, In numerous Crowds the ravisht hearers throng: And even a Herd of Beasts as wild as they That did the Thracian Lyre obey, Forget their Madness and attend her song. The tunefull Shepherds on the dangerous rocks Forsake their Kinds and leave their bleating Flocks, And throw their tender Reeds away, As soon as e'er her softer Pipe begins to play. No barren subject, no unfertile soil Can prove ungratefull to her Muses Toil, Warm'd with the Heavenly influence of her Brain, Upon the dry and sandy plain, On craggy Mountains cover'd o'er with Snow, The blooming Rose and fragrant Jes'min grow: When in her powerful Poetick hand, She waves the mystick wand, Streight from the hardest Rocks the sweetest numbers flow.

Hail bright Urania! Erato hail! Melpomene, Polymnia, Euterpe, hail! And all ye blessed powers that inspire The Heaven-born Soul with intellectual fire; Pardon my humble and unhallow'd Muse, If she too great a veneration use, And prostrate at your best lov'd Darling's feet Your holy Fane with sacred honour greet: Her more than Pythian Oracles are so divine, You sure not onely virtually are Within the glorious Shrine, But you your very selves must needs be there. The Delian Prophet did at first ordain, That even the mighty Nine should reign, In distant Empires of different Clime; And if in her triumphant Throne, She rules those learned Regions alone, The fam'd Pyerides are out-done by her omnipotent Rhime. In proper Cells her large capacious Brain The images of all things does contain, As bright almost as were th'Ideas laid, In the last model e'er the World was made. And though her vast conceptions are so strong, The powerfull eloquence of her charming tongue Does, clear as the resistless beams of day, To our enlightned Souls the noble thoughts convey Well chosen, well appointed, every word Does its full force and natural grace afford; And though in her rich treasury, Confus'd like Elements great Numbers lie, When they their mixture and proportion take, What beauteous forms of every kind they make! Such was the Language God himself infus'd, And such the style our great Forefather us'd, From one large stock the various sounds he fram'd, And every Species of the vast Creation nam'd. While most of our dull Sex have trod In beaten paths of one continued Road, Her skilfull and well manag'd Muse Does all the art and strength of different paces use: For though sometimes with slackned force, She wisely stops her fleetest course, That slow but strong Majestick pace Shews her the swiftest steed of all the chosen Race.

Well has she sung the learned Daphnis praise, And crown'd his Temple with immortal Bays; And all that reade him must indeed confess, Th'effects of such a cause could not be less. For ne'er was (at the first bold heat begun) So hard and swift a Race of glory run, But yet her sweeter Muse did for him more, Than he himself or all Apollo's sons before; For shou'd th' insatiate lust of time Root out the memory of his sacred Rhime, The polish'd armour in that single Page Wou'd all the tyranny and rage Of Fire and Sword defie, For Daphnis can't but with Astræa die. And who can dark oblivion fear, That is co-eval with her mighty Works and Her? Ah learned Chymist, 'tis she onely can By her almighty arm, Within the pretious salt collect, The true essential form, And can against the power of death protect Not onely Herbs and Trees, but raise the buried Man.

Wretched [OE]none's inauspicious fate, That she was born so soon, or her blest Muse so late! Cou'd the poor Virgin have like her complain'd, She soon her perjur'd Lover had regain'd, In spight of all the fair Seducers tears, In spight of all her Vows and Prayers; Such tender accents through his Soul had ran, As wou'd have pierc'd the hardest heart of Man. At every Line the fugitive had swore By all the Gods, by all the Powers divine, My dear [OE]none, I'll be ever thine, And ne'er behold the flattering Grecian more. How does it please the learned Roman's Ghost (The sweetest that th' Elysian Field can boast) To see his noble thoughts so well exprest, So tenderly in a rough Language drest; Had she there liv'd, and he her Genius known, So soft, so charming, and so like his own, One of his Works had unattempted been, And Ovid ne'er in mournfull Verse been seen; Then the great Cæsar to the Scythian plain, From Rome's gay Court had banish'd him in vain, Her plenteous Muse had all his wants supplied, And he had flourish'd in exalted pride: No barbarous Getans had deprav'd his tongue, For he had onely list'ned to her Song, Not as an exile, but proscrib'd by choice, Pleas'd with her Form, and ravish'd with her voice. His last and dearest part of Life, Free from noise and glorious strife, He there had spent within her softer Armes, And soon forgot the Royal Julia's charmes.

Long may she scourge this mad rebellious Age, } And stem the torrent of Fanatick rage, } That once had almost overwhelm'd the Stage. } O'er all the Land the dire contagion spread, And e'en Apollo's Sons apostate fled: But while that spurious race imploy'd their parts } In studying strategems and subtile arts, } To alienate their Prince's Subjects hearts, } Her Loyal Muse still tun'd her loudest strings, To sing the praises of the best of Kings. And, O ye sacred and immortal Gods, From the blest Mansions of your bright abodes, To the first Chaos let us all be hurld, E'er such vile wretches should reform the World, That in all villany so far excell, } If they in sulphurous flames must onely dwell, } The Cursed Caitiffs hardly merit Hell. } Were not those vile Achitophels so lov'd, (The blind, the senseless and deluded Crowd) Did they but half his Royal Vertues know, But half the blessings which to him they owe, His long forbearance to provoking times, And God-like mercy to the worst of crimes: Those murmuring Shimei's, even they alone, } Cou'd they bestow a greater than his own, } Wou'd from a Cottage raise him to a Throne. }

See, ye dull Scriblers of this frantick Age, That load the Press, and so o'erwhelm the Stage, That e'en the noblest art that e'er was known, As great as an Egyptian Plague is grown: Behold, ye scrawling Locusts, what ye've done, What a dire judgment is brought down, By your curst Dogrel Rhimes upon the Town; On Fools and Rebels hangs an equal Fate, And both may now repent too late, For the great Charter of your Wit as well as Trade is gone. Once more the fam'd Astræa's come; 'Tis she pronounc'd the fatal doom, And has restor'd it to the rightfull Heirs, Since Knowledge first in Paradise was theirs.

Never was Soul and Body better joyn'd, A Mansion worthy of so blest a Mind; See but the Shadow of her beauteous face, The pretious minitures of every Grace, There one may still such Charms behold, That as Idolaters of old, The works of their own hands ador'd, And Gods which they themselves had made implor'd; Jove might again descend below, And, with her Wit and Beauty charm'd, to his own Image bow. But oh, the irrevocable doom of Nature's Laws! How soon the brightest Scene of Beauty draws! Alas, what's all the glittering Pride Of the poor perishing Creatures of a day, With what a violent and impetuous Tide, E'er they're flow'd in their glories ebb away? The Pearl, the Diamond and Saphire must Be blended with the common Pebbles dust, And even Astræa with all her sacred store, Be wreckt on Death's inevitable Shore, Her Face ne'er seen and her dear Voice be heard no more. And wisely therefore e'er it was too late, She has revers'd the sad Decrees of Fate, And in deep Characters of immortal Wit, So large a memorandum's writ, That the blest memory of her deathless Name Shall stand recorded in the Book of Fame; When Towns inter'd in their own ashes lie, And Chronicles of Empires die, When Monuments like Men want Tombs to tell Where the remains of the vast ruines fell.

We all can well admire, few well can praise Where so great merit does the Subject raise: To write our Thoughts alike from dulness free, On this hand, as on that from flattery; He who wou'd handsomly the Medium hit, Must have no little of Astræa's Wit. Let others in the noble Task engage, Call you the Phœnix, wonder of the Age, The Glory of your Sex, the Shame of ours, Crown you with Garlands of Rhetorick Flowers; For me, alas, I nothing can design, } To render your soft Numbers more divine, } Than by comparison with these of mine: } As beauteous paintings are set off by shades, And some fair Ladies by their dowdy Maids; Yet after all, forgive me if I name One Fault where, Madam, you are much to blame, To wound with Beauty's fighting on the square, But to o'ercome with Wit too is not fair; 'Tis like the poison'd Indian Arrows found, For thus you're sure to kill where once you wound.

When the sad news was spread, The bright, the fair Orinda's dead, We sigh'd, we mourn'd, we wept, we griev'd, And fondly with our selves conceiv'd, A loss so great could never be retriev'd. The Ruddy Warriour laid his Truncheon by, Sheath'd his bright sword, and glorious Arms forgot, The sounds of Triumph, braggs of Victory, Rais'd in his Breast no emulative thought; For pond'ring on the common Lot, Where is, said He the Diff'rence in the Grave, Betwixt the Coward and the Brave? Since She, alas, whose inspir'd Muse should tell To unborn Ages how the Hero fell, From the Impoverisht Ignorant World is fled, T'inhance the mighty mighty Number of the dead.

The trembling Lover broke his tuneless Lute, And said be thou for ever mute: Mute as the silent shades of night, Whither Orinda's gone, Thy musicks best instructress and thy musicks song; She that could make Thy inarticulated strings to speak, In language soft as young desires, In language chaste as Vestal fires; But she hath ta'n her Everlasting flight: Ah! cruel Death, How short's the date of Learned breath! No sooner do's the blooming Rose, Drest fresh and gay, In the embroy'dries of her Native May, Her odorous sweets expose, But with thy fatal knife, The fragrant flow'r is crop't from off the stalk of life.

Come, ye Stoicks, come away, You that boast an Apathy, And view our Golgotha; See how the mourning Virgins all around, With Tributary Tears bedew the sacred ground; And tell me, tell me where's the Eye That can be dry, Unless in hopes (nor are such hopes in vain) Their universal cry, Should mount the vaulted sky, And of the Gods obtain, A young succeeding Phœnix might arise From Orinda's spicy obsequies. In Heaven the voice was heard, Heaven does the Virgins pray'rs regard; And none that dwells on high, If once the beauteous Ask, the beauteous can deny.

'Tis done, 'tis done, th' imperial grant is past, We have our wish at last, And now no more with sorrow be it said, Orinda's dead; Since in her seat Astræa does Appear, The God of Wit has chosen her, To bear Orinda's and his Character. The Laurel Chaplet seems to grow On her more gracefull Brow; And in her hand Look how she waves his sacred Wand: Loves Quiver's tyde In an Azure Mantle by her side, And with more gentle Arts Than he who owns the Aureal darts, At once she wounds, and heals our hearts.

Hark how the gladded Nymphs rejoyce, And with a gracefull voice, Commend Apollo's Choice. The gladded Nymphs their Guardian Angel greet, And chearfully her name repeat, And chearfully admire and praise, The Loyal musick of her layes; Whilst they securely sit, Beneath the banners of her wit, And scorn th'ill-manner'd Ignorance of those, Whose Stock's so poor they cannot raise To their dull Muse one subsidy of praise, Unless they're dubb'd the Sexes foes, These squibbs of sense themselves expose. Or if with stolen light They shine one night, The next their earth-born Lineage shows, They perish in their slime, And but to name them, wou'd defile Astræa's Rhime.

But you that would be truely wise, And vertues fair Idea prize; You that would improve In harmless Arts of not indecent Love: Arts that Romes fam'd Master never taught, Or in the Shops of fortune's bought. Would you know what Wit doth mean, Pleasant wit yet not obscene, The several garbs that Humours wear, The dull, the brisk, the jealous, the severe? Wou'd you the pattern see Of spotless and untainted Loyalty, Deck't in every gracefull word That language that afford; Tropes and Figures, Raptures and Conceits that ly, Disperst in all the pleasant Fields of poesie? Reade you then Astræa's lines, 'Tis in those new discover'd Mines, Those golden Quarries that this Ore is found With which in Worlds as yet unknown Astræa shall be crown'd.

And you th' Advent'rous sons of fame, You that would sleep in honours bed With glorious Trophies garnished; You that with living labours strive Your dying Ashes to survive; Pay your Tributes to Astræa's name, Her Works can spare you immortality, For sure her Works shall never dye. Pyramids must fall and Mausolean Monuments decay, Marble Tombs shall crumble into dust, Noisie Wonders of a short liv'd day, That must in time yield up their Trust; And had e'er this been perisht quite Ith' ruines of Eternal night, Had no kind Pen like her's, In powerfull numbers powerfull verse, Too potent for the gripes of Avaritious fate, To these our ages lost declar'd their pristine State.

But time it self, bright Nymph, shall never conquer thee, For when the Globe of vast Eternity; Turns up the wrong-side of the World, And all things are to their first Chaos hurl'd, Thy lasting praise in thy own lines inroll'd, With Roman and with the British Names shall Equal honour hold. And surely none 'midst the Poetick Quire, But justly will admire The Trophies of thy wit, Sublime and gay as e'er were yet In Charming Numbers writ. Or Virgil's Shade or Ovid's Ghost, Of Ages past the pride and boast; Or Cowley (first of ours) refuse That thou shouldst be Companion of their Muse. And if 'twere lawfull to suppose (As where's the Crime or Incongruity) Those awfull Souls concern'd can be At any sublunary thing, Alas, I fear they'll grieve to see, That whilst I sing, And strive to praise, I but disparage thee.

When th'Almighty Powers th'Universe had fram'd, And Man as King, the lesser World was nam'd. The Glorious Consult soon his joys did bless. And sent him Woman his chief happiness. She by an after-birth Heaven did refine, And gave her Beauty with a Soul divine; She with delight was Natures chiefest pride, Dearer to Man than all the World beside; Her soft embraces charm'd his Manly Soul, And softer Words his Roughness did controul: So thou, great Sappho, with thy charming Verse, Dost here the Soul of Poetry rehearse; From your sweet Lips such pleasant Raptures fell, As if the Graces strove which shou'd excell. Th'admiring World when first your Lute you strung. Became all ravisht with th' immortal Song; So soft and gracefull Love in you is seen, As if the Muses had design'd you Queen. For thee, thou great Britannia of our Land, How does thy Praise our tunefull Feet command? With what great influence do thy Verses move? } How hast thou shewn the various sense of Love? } Admir'd by us, and blest by all above. } To you all tribute's due, and I can raise No glory but by speaking in your praise. Go on and bless us dayly with your Pen, And we shall oft return thee thanks again.

Blest Age! when ev'ry Purling Stream Ran undisturb'd and clear, When no scorn'd Shepherds on your Banks were seen, Tortur'd by Love, by Jealousie, or Fear; When an Eternal Spring drest ev'ry Bough, And Blossoms fell, by new ones dispossest; These their kind Shade affording all below, And those a Bed where all below might rest. The Groves appear'd all drest with Wreaths of Flowers, And from their Leaves dropt Aromatick Showers, Whose fragrant Heads in Mystick Twines above, Exchang'd their Sweets, and mix'd with thousand Kisses, As if the willing Branches strove To beautifie and shade the Grove Where the young wanton Gods of Love Offer their Noblest Sacrifice of Blisses.

Calm was the Air, no Winds blew fierce and loud, The Skie was dark'ned with no sullen Cloud; But all the Heav'ns laugh'd with continued Light, And scattered round their Rays serenely bright. No other Murmurs fill'd the Ear But what the Streams and Rivers purl'd, When Silver Waves o'er Shining Pebbles curl'd; Or when young Zephirs fan'd the Gentle Breez, Gath'ring fresh Sweets from Balmy Flow'rs and Trees, Then bore 'em on their Wings to perfume all the Air: While to their soft and tender Play, The Gray-Plum'd Natives of the Shades Unwearied sing till Love invades, Then Bill, then sing again, while Love and Musick makes the Day.

The stubborn Plough had then, Made no rude Rapes upon the Virgin Earth; Who yielded of her own accord her plentious Birth, Without the Aids of men; As if within her Teeming Womb, All Nature, and all Sexes lay, Whence new Creations every day Into the happy World did come: The Roses fill'd with Morning Dew, Bent down their loaded heads, T'Adorn the careless Shepherds Grassy Beds While still young opening Buds each moment grew And as those withered, drest his shaded Couch a new; Beneath who's boughs the Snakes securely dwelt, Not doing harm, nor harm from others felt; With whom the Nymphs did Innocently play, No spightful Venom in the wantons lay; But to the touch were Soft, and to the sight were Gay.

Then no rough sound of Wars Alarms, Had taught the World the needless use of Arms: Monarchs were uncreated then, Those Arbitrary Rulers over men: Kings that made Laws, first broke 'em, and the Gods By teaching us Religion first, first set the World at Odds: Till then Ambition was not known, That Poyson to Content, Bane to Repose; Each Swain was Lord o'er his own will alone, His Innocence Religion was, and Laws. Nor needed any troublesome defence Against his Neighbours Insolence. Flocks, Herds, and every necessary good Which bounteous Nature had design'd for Food, Whose kind increase o'er-spread the Meads and Plaines, Was then a common Sacrifice to all th'agreeing Swaines.

Right and Property were words since made, When Power taught Mankind to invade: When Pride and Avarice became a Trade; Carri'd on by discord, noise and wars, For which they barter'd wounds and scarrs; And to Inhaunce the Merchandize, miscall'd it, Fame, And Rapes, Invasions, Tyrannies, Was gaining of a Glorious Name: Stiling their salvage slaughters, Victories; Honour, the Error and the Cheat Of the Ill-natur'd Bus'ey Great, Nonsense, invented by the Proud, Fond Idol of the slavish Crowd, Thou wert not known in those blest days Thy Poyson was not mixt with our unbounded Joyes; Then it was glory to pursue delight, And that was lawful all, that Pleasure did invite, Then 'twas the Amorous world injoy'd its Reign; And Tyrant Honour strove t' usurp in Vain.

The flowry Meads, the Rivers and the Groves, Were fill'd with little Gay-wing'd Loves: That ever smil'd and danc'd and Play'd, And now the woods, and now the streames invade, And where they came all things were gay and glad: When in the Myrtle Groves the Lovers sat Opprest with a too fervent heat; A Thousands Cupids fann'd their wings aloft, And through the Boughs the yielded Ayre would waft: Whose parting Leaves discovered all below, And every God his own soft power admir'd, And smil'd and fann'd, and sometimes bent his Bow; Where e'er he saw a Shepherd uninspir'd. The Nymphs were free, no nice, no coy disdain; Deny'd their Joyes, or gave the Lover pain; The yielding Maid but kind Resistance makes; Trembling and blushing are not marks of shame, But the Effect of kindling Flame: Which from the sighing burning Swain she takes, While she with tears all soft, and down-cast-eyes, Permits the Charming Conqueror to win the prize.

The Lovers thus, thus uncontroul'd did meet, Thus all their Joyes and Vows of Love repeat: Joyes which were everlasting, ever new And every Vow inviolably true: Not kept in fear of Gods, no fond Religious cause, Nor in obedience to the duller Laws. Those Fopperies of the Gown were then not known, Those vain, those Politick Curbs to keep man in, Who by a fond mistake Created that a Sin; Which freeborn we, by right of Nature claim our own. Who but the Learned and dull moral Fool Could gravely have forseen, man ought to live by Rule?

Oh cursed Honour! thou who first didst damn, A Woman to the Sin of shame; Honour! that rob'st us of our Gust, Honour! that hindred mankind first, At Loves Eternal Spring to squench his amorous thirst. Honour! who first taught lovely Eyes the art, To wound, and not to cure the heart: With Love to invite, but to forbid with Awe, And to themselves prescribe a Cruel Law; To Veil 'em from the Lookers on, When they are sure the slave's undone, And all the Charmingst part of Beauty hid; Soft Looks, consenting Wishes, all deny'd. It gathers up the flowing Hair, That loosely plaid with wanton Air. The Envious Net, and stinted order hold, The lovely Curls of Jet and shining Gold; No more neglected on the Shoulders hurl'd: Now drest to Tempt, not gratify the World: Thou, Miser Honour, hord'st the sacred store, And starv'st thy self to keep thy Votaries poor.

Honour! that put'st our words that should be free Into a set Formality. Thou base Debaucher of the generous heart, That teachest all our Looks and Actions Art; What Love design'd a sacred Gift, What Nature made to be possest; Mistaken Honour, made a Theft, For Glorious Love should be confest: For when confin'd, all the poor Lover gains, Is broken Sighs, pale Looks, Complaints and Pains. Thou Foe to Pleasure, Nature's worst Disease, Thou Tyrant over mighty Kings, What mak'st thou here in Shepheards Cottages; Why troublest thou the quiet Shades and Springs? Be gone, and make thy Fam'd resort To Princes Pallaces; Go Deal and Chaffer in the Trading Court, That busie Market for Phantastick Things; Be gone and interrupt the short Retreat, Of the Illustrious and the Great; Go break the Politicians sleep, Disturb the Gay Ambitious Fool, That longs for Scepters, Crowns, and Rule, Which not his Title, nor his Wit can keep; But let the humble honest Swain go on, In the blest Paths of the first rate of man; That nearest were to Gods Alli'd, And form'd for love alone, disdain'd all other Pride.

Be gone! and let the Golden age again, Assume its Glorious Reign; Let the young wishing Maid confess, What all your Arts would keep conceal'd: The Mystery will be reveal'd, And she in vain denies, whilst we can guess, She only shows the Jilt to teach man how, To turn the false Artillery on the Cunning Foe. Thou empty Vision hence, be gone, And let the peaceful Swain love on; The swift pac'd hours of life soon steal away: Stint not, yee Gods, his short liv'd Joy. The Spring decays, but when the Winter's gone, The Trees and Flowers a new comes on; The Sun may set, but when the night is fled, And gloomy darkness does retire, He rises from his Watry Bed: All Glorious, Gay, all drest in Amorous Fire. But Sylvia when your Beauties fade, When the fresh Roses on your Cheeks shall die Like Flowers that wither in the Shade, Eternally they will forgotten lye, } And no kind Spring their sweetness will supply. } When Snow shall on those lovely Tresses lye. } And your fair Eyes no more shall give us pain, But shoot their pointless Darts in vain. What will your duller honour signifie? Go boast it then! and see what numerous Store Of Lovers will your Ruin'd Shrine Adore. Then let us, Sylvia, yet be wise, And the Gay hasty minutes prize: The Sun and Spring receive but our short Light, Once sett, a sleep brings an Eternal Night.

Farewell the Great, the Brave and Good, By all admir'd and understood; For all thy vertues so extensive are, Writ in so noble and so plain a Character, That they instruct humanity what to do, How to reward and imitate 'em too, The mighty Cesar found and knew, The Value of a Swain so true: And early call'd the Industrious Youth from Groves Where unambitiously he lay, And knew no greater Joyes, nor Power then Loves; Which all the day The careless and delighted Celladon Improves; So the first man in Paradice was laid, So blest beneath his own dear fragrant shade, Till false Ambition made him range, So the Almighty call'd him forth, And though for Empire he did Eden change; Less Charming 'twas, and far less worth.

Yet he obeyes and leaves the peaceful Plains, The weeping Nymphs, and sighing Swains, Obeys the mighty voice of Jove. The Dictates of his Loyalty pursues, Bus'ness Debauches all his hours of Love; Bus'ness, whose hurry, noise and news Even Natures self subdues; Changes her best and first simplicity, Her soft, her easie quietude Into mean Arts of cunning Policy, The Grave and Drudging Coxcomb to Delude. Say, mighty Celladon, oh tell me why, Thou dost thy nobler thoughts imploy In bus'ness, which alone was made To teach the restless States-man how to Trade In dark Cabals for Mischief and Design, But n'ere was meant a Curse to Souls like thine. Business the Check to Mirth and Wit, Business the Rival of the Fair, The Bane to Friendship, and the Lucky Hit, Onely to those that languish in Dispair; Leave then that wretched troublesome Estate To him to whom forgetful Heaven, Has no one other vertue given, But dropt down the unfortunate, To Toyl, be Dull, and to be Great.

But thou whose nobler Soul was fram'd, For Glorious and Luxurious Ease, By Wit adorn'd, by Love inflam'd; For every Grace, and Beauty Fam'd, Form'd for delight, design'd to please, Give, Give a look to every Joy, That youth and lavish Fortune can invent, Nor let Ambition, that false God, destroy Both Heaven and Natures first intent. But oh in vain is all I say, And you alas must go, The Mighty Cæsar to obey, And none so fit as you. From all the Envying Croud he calls you forth, He knows your Loyalty, and knows your worth; He's try'd it oft, and put it to the Test, It grew in Zeal even whilst it was opprest, The great, the God-like Celladon, Unlike the base Examples of the times, Cou'd never be Corrupted, never won, To stain his honest blood with Rebel Crimes. Fearless unmov'd he stood amidst the tainted Crowd, And justify'd and own'd his Loyalty aloud.

Hybernia hail! Hail happy Isle, Be glad, and let all Nature smile. Ye Meads and Plains send forth your Gayest Flowers; Ye Groves and every Purling Spring, Where Lovers sigh, and Birds do sing, Be glad and gay, for Celladon is yours; He comes, he comes to grace your Plains. To Charm the Nymphs, and bless the Swains, Ecchoes repeat his Glorious Name To all the Neighbouring Woods and Hills; Ye Feather'd Quire chant forth his Fame, Ye Fountains, Brooks, and Wand'ring Rills, That through the Meadows in Meanders run, Tell all your Flowry Brinks, the generous Swain is come.

Divert him all ye pretty Solitudes, And give his Life some softning Interludes: That when his weari'd mind would be, From Noise and Rigid Bus'ness free; He may upon your Mossey Beds lye down, Where all is Gloomy, all is Shade, With some dear Shee, whom Nature made, To be possest by him alone; Where the soft tale of Love She breathes, Mixt with the rushing of the wind-blown leaves, The different Notes of Cheerful Birds, And distant Bleating of the Herds: Is Musick far more ravishing and sweet, Then all the Artful Sounds that please the noisey Great.

Mix thus your Toiles of Life with Joyes, And for the publick good, prolong your days: Instruct the World, the great Example prove, Of Honour, Friendship, Loyalty, and Love. And when your busier hours are done, And you with Damon sit alone; Damon the honest, brave and young; Whom we must Celebrate where you are sung, For you (by Sacred Friendship ty'd,) Love nor Fate can nere divide; When your agreeing thoughts shall backward run, Surveying all the Conquests you have won, The Swaines you'ave left, the sighing Maids undone; Try if you can a fatal prospect take, Think if you can a soft Idea make: Of what we are, now you are gone, Of what we feel for Celladon.

'Tis Celladon the witty and the gay, That blest the Night, and cheer'd the world all Day: 'Tis Celladon, to whom our Vows belong, And Celladon the Subject of our Song. For whom the Nymphs would dress, the Swains rejoice, The praise of these, of those the choice; And if our Joyes were rais'd to this Excess, Our Pleasures by thy presence made so great: Some pittying God help thee to guess, (What fancy cannot well Express.) Our Languishments by thy Retreat; Pitty our Swaines, pitty our Virgins more, And let that pitty haste thee to our shore; And whilst on happy distant Coasts you are, Afford us all your sighs, and Cesar all your care.

Whilst happy I Triumphant stood, The Pride and Glory of the Wood; My Aromatick Boughs and Fruit, Did with all other Trees dispute. Had right by Nature to excel, In pleasing both the tast and smell: But to the touch I must confess, Bore an Ungrateful Sullenness. My Wealth, like bashful Virgins, I Yielded with some Reluctancy; For which my vallue should be more, Not giving easily my store. My verdant Branches all the year } Did an Eternal Beauty wear; } Did ever young and gay appear. } Nor needed any tribute pay, For bounties from the God of Day: Nor do I hold Supremacy, (In all the Wood) o'er every Tree. But even those too of my own Race, That grow not in this happy place. But that in which I glory most, And do my self with Reason boast, Beneath my shade the other day, Young Philocles and Cloris lay, Upon my Root she lean'd her head, } And where I grew, he made their Bed: } Whilst I the Canopy more largely spread. } Their trembling Limbs did gently press, The kind supporting yielding Grass: Ne'er half so blest as now, to bear A Swain so Young, a Nimph so fair: My Grateful Shade I kindly lent, And every aiding Bough I bent. So low, as sometimes had the blisse, To rob the Shepherd of a kiss, Whilst he in Pleasures far above The Sence of that degree of Love: Permitted every stealth I made, Unjealous of his Rival Shade. I saw 'em kindle to desire, Whilst with soft sighs they blew the fire; Saw the approaches of their joy, He growing more fierce, and she less Coy, Saw how they mingled melting Rays, Exchanging Love a thousand ways. Kind was the force on every side, } Her new desire she could not hide: } Nor wou'd the Shepherd be deny'd. } Impatient he waits no consent But what she gave by Languishment, The blessed Minute he pursu'd; And now transported in his Arms, Yeilds to the Conqueror all her Charmes, His panting Breast, to hers now join'd, They feast on Raptures unconfin'd; Vast and Luxuriant, such as prove The Immortality of Love. For who but a Divinitie, } Could mingle Souls to that Degree; } And melt 'em into Extasie? } Now like the Phenix, both Expire, } While from the Ashes of their Fire, } Sprung up a new, and soft desire. } Like Charmers, thrice they did invoke, The God! and thrice new vigor took. Nor had the Mysterie ended there, But Cloris reassum'd her fear, And chid the Swain, for having prest, What she alas wou'd not resist: Whilst he in whom Loves sacred flame, Before and after was the same, Fondly implor'd she wou'd forget A fault, which he wou'd yet repeat. From Active Joyes with some they hast, To a Reflexion on the past; A thousand times my Covert bless, That did secure their Happiness: Their Gratitude to every Tree They pay, but most to happy me; The Shepherdess my Bark carest, Whilst he my Root, Love's Pillow, kist; And did with sighs, their fate deplore, Since I must shelter them no more; And if before my Joyes were such, In having heard, and seen too much, My Grief must be as great and high, } When all abandon'd I shall be, } Doom'd to a silent Destinie. } No more the Charming strife to hear, The Shepherds Vows, the Virgins fear: No more a joyful looker on, Whilst Loves soft Battel's lost and won. With grief I bow'd my murmering Head, And all my Christal Dew I shed. Which did in Cloris Pity move, (Cloris whose Soul is made of Love;) She cut me down, and did translate, My being to a happier state. No Martyr for Religion di'd With half that Unconsidering Pride; My top was on that Altar laid. Where Love his softest Offerings paid: And was as fragrant Incense burn'd, My body into Busks was turn'd: Where I still guard the Sacred Store, And of Loves Temple keep the Door.

What doleful crys are these that fright my sence, Sad as the Groans of dying Innocence? The killing Accents now more near Aproach, And the Infectious Sound, Spreads and Inlarges all around; And does all Hearts with Grief and Wonder touch. The famous Grinhil dead! even he, That cou'd to us give Immortalitie; Is to the Eternal silent Groves withdrawn, Those sullen Groves of Everlasting Dawn; Youthful as Flowers, scarce blown, whose opening Leaves, A wond'rous and a fragrant Prospect gives, Of what it's Elder Beauties wou'd display, When they should flourish up to ripning May. Witty as Poets, warm'd with Love and Wine, Yet still spar'd Heaven and his Friend, For both to him were Sacred and Divine: Nor could he this no more then that offend. Fixt as a Martyr where he friendship paid, And Generous as a God, Distributing his Bounties all abroad; And soft and gentle as a Love-sick Maid.

Great Master of the Noblest Mysterie, That ever happy Knowledge did inspire; Sacred as that of Poetry, And which the wond'ring World does equally admire. Great Natures work we do contemn, When on his Glorious Births we meditate: The Face and Eies, more Darts receiv'd from him, Then all the Charms she can create. The Difference is, his Beauties do beget In the inamour'd Soul a Vertuous Heat: While Natures Grosser Pieces move, In the course road of Common Love: So bold, yet soft, his touches were; So round each part's so sweet and fair. That as his Pencil mov'd men thought it prest, The Lively imitating rising Breast, Which yield like Clouds, where little Angels rest: The Limbs all easy as his Temper was; Strong as his Mind, and manly too; Large as his Soul his fancy was, and new: And from himself he copyed every Grace, For he had all that cou'd adorn a Face, All that cou'd either Sex subdue.

Each Excellence he had that Youth has in its Pride, And all Experienc'd Age cou'd teach, At once the vigorous fire of this, And every vertue which that cou'd Express. In all the heights that both could reach; And yet alas, in this Perfection di'd. Dropt like a Blossom with the Northern blast, (When all the scatter'd Leaves abroad were cast;) As quick as if his fate had been in hast: So have I seen an unfixt Star, Out-shine the rest of all the Numerous Train, As bright as that which Guides the Marriner, Dart swiftly from its darken'd Sphere: And nere shall sight the World again.

Ah why shou'd so much knowledge die! Or with his last kind breath, Why cou'd he not to some one friend bequeath The Mighty Legacie! But 'twas a knowledge given to him alone, That his eternis'd Name might be Admir'd to all Posteritie, By all to whom his grateful Name was known. Come all ye softer Beauties, come; Bring Wreaths of Flowers to deck his tomb; Mixt with the dismal Cypress and the Yew, For he still gave your Charmes their due: And from the injuries of Age and Time, Preserv'd the sweetness of your Prime: And best knew how t' adore that Sweetness too; Bring all your Mournful Tributes here, And let your Eyes a silent sorrow wear, Till every Virgin for a while become Sad as his Fate, and like his Picture's Dumb.

My Amoret, since you must know, The Grief you say my Eyes do show: Survey my Heart, where you shall find, More Love then for your self confin'd. And though you chide, you'll Pity too, A Passion which even Rivals you. Amyntas on a Holyday As fine as any Lord of May, Amongst the Nimphs, and jolly Swaines, That feed their Flocks upon the Plaines: Met in a Grove beneath whose shade, A Match of Dancing they had made. His Cassock was of Green, as trim As Grass upon a River brim; Untoucht or sullied with a spot, Unprest by either Lamb or Goat: And with the Air it loosely play'd, With every motion that he made. His Sleeves a-many Ribbons ties, Where one might read Love-Mysteries: As if that way he wou'd impart, To all, the Sentiments of his Heart, Whose Passions by those Colours known, He with a Charming Pride wou'd own. His Bonnet with the same was Ti'd, A Silver Scrip hung by his Side: His Buskins garnisht A-la-mode, Were grac'd by every step he Trod; Like Pan, a Majesty he took, And like Apollo when he spoke. His Hook a Wreath of Flowers Braid, The Present of some Love-sick Maid, Who all the morning had bestow'd, And to her Fancy now compos'd: Which fresher seem'd when near that place, To whom the Giver Captive was. His Eyes their best Attracts put on, Designing some should be undone; For he could at his pleasure move, The Nymphs he lik'd to fall in Love: Yet so he order'd every Glance, That still they seem'd but Wounds of Chance. He well cou'd feign an Innocence, And taught his Silence Eloquence; Each Smile he us'd, had got the force, To Conquer more than soft Discourse: Which when it serv'd his Ends he'd use, And subtilly thro' a heart infuse. His Wit was such it cou'd controul The Resolutions of a Soul; That a Religious Vow had made, By Love it nere wou'd be betra'd: For when he spoke he well cou'd prove Their Errors who dispute with Love. With all these Charms he did Address Himself to every Shepherdess: Until the Bag-pipes which did play, Began the Bus'ness of the day; And in the taking forth to Dance, The Lovely Swain became my Chance. To whom much Passion he did Vow, And much his Eyes and Sighs did show; And both imploy'd with so much Art, I strove in vain to guard my Heart; And ere the Night our Revels crost, I was intirely won and lost. Let me advise thee, Amoret, Fly from the Baits that he has set In every grace; which will betray All Beauties that but look that way: But thou hast Charms that will secure A Captive in this Conquerour.

Come, my fair Cloris, come away, Hast thou forgot 'tis Holyday? And lovely Silvia too make haste, The Sun is up, the day does waste: Do'st thou not hear the Musick loud, Mix'd with the murmur of the Crowd? How can thy active Feet be still, And hear the Bag-pipes chearful Trill?

Urania's drest as fine and gay, As if she meant t' out-shine the day; Or certain that no Victories Were to be gain'd but by her Eyes; Her Garment's white, her Garniture The springing Beauties of the Year, Which are in such nice Order plac'd, That Nature is by Art disgrac'd: Her natural Curling Ebon Hair, Does loosly wanton in the Air.

With her the young Alexis came, Whose Eyes dare only speak his Flame: Charming he is, as fair can be, Charming without Effeminacy; Only his Eyes are languishing, Caus'd by the Pain he feels within; Yet thou wilt say that Languishment Is a peculiar Ornament. Deck'd up he is with Pride and Care, All Rich and Gay, to please his Fair: The Price of Flocks h' has made a Prey To th' Usual Vanity of this day.

After them Damon Piping came, Who laughs at Cupid and his Flame; Swears, if the Boy should him approach, He'd burn his Wings with his own Torch: But he's too young for Love t' invade, Though for him languish many a Maid. His lovely Ayr, his chearful Face, Adorn'd with many a Youthful Grace, Beget more Sighs then if with Arts He should design to conquer Hearts: The Swains as well as Nymphs submit To's Charms of Beauty and of Wit. He'll sing, he'll dance, he'll pipe and play, And wanton out a Summer's day; And wheresoever Damon be, He's still the Soul o'th' Companie.

Next Amoret, the true Delight Of all that do approach her sight: The Sun in all its Course ne'er met Ought Fair or Sweet like Amoret. Alone she came, her Eyes declin'd, In which you'll read her troubled Mind; Yes, Silvia, for she'l not deny She loves, as well as thou and I. 'Tis Philocles, that Proud Ingrate, That pays her Passion back with Hate; Whilst she does all but him despise, And clouds the lustre of her Eyes: But once to her he did address, And dying Passion too express; But soon the Amorous Heat was laid, He soon forgot the Vows he'd made; Whilst she in every Silent Grove, Bewails her easie Faith and Love. Numbers of Swains do her adore, But she has vow'd to love no more.

Next Jolly Thirsis came along, With many Beauties in a Throng.

With whom the young Amyntas came, The Author of my Sighs and Flame: For I'll confess that Truth to you, Which every Look of mine can show. Ah how unlike the rest he appears! With Majesty above his years! His Eyes so much of Sweetness dress, Such Wit, such Vigour too express; That 'twou'd a wonder be to say, I've seen the Youth, and brought my Heart away. Ah Cloris! Thou that never wert In danger yet to lose a Heart, Guard it severely now, for he Will startle all thy Constancy: For if by chance thou do'st escape Unwounded by his Lovely Shape, Tempt not thy Ruine, lest his Eyes Joyn with his Tongue to win the Prize: Such Softness in his Language dwells, And Tales of Love so well he tells, Should'st thou attend their Harmony, Thou'dst be Undone, as well as I; For sure no Nymph was ever free, That could Amyntas hear and see.

With him the lovely Philocless, His Beauty heightned by his Dress, If any thing can add a Grace To such a Shape, and such a Face, Whose Natural Ornaments impart Enough without the help of Art. His Shoulders cover'd with a Hair, The Sun-Beams are not half so fair; Of which the Virgins Bracelets make, And where for Philocless's sake: His Beauty such, that one would swear His face did never take the Air. On's Cheeks the blushing Roses show, The rest like whitest Daisies grow: His Lips, no Berries of the Field, Nor Cherries, such a Red do yield. His Eyes all Love, Soft'ning Smile; And when he speaks, he sighs the while: His Bashful Grace, with Blushes too, Gains more then Confidence can do. With all these Charms he does invade The Heart, which when he has betray'd, He slights the Trophies he has won, And weeps for those he has Undone; As if he never did intend His Charms for so severe an End. And all poor Amoret can gain, Is pitty from the Lovely Swain: And if Inconstancy can seem Agreeable, 'tis so in him. And when he meets Reproach for it, He does excuse it with his Wit.

Next hand in hand the smiling Pair, Martillo, and the Lovely Fair: A Bright-Ey'd Phillis, who they say, Ne'er knew what Love was till to day: Long has the Gen'rous Youth in vain Implor'd some Pity for his Pain. Early abroad he would be seen, To wait her coming on the Green, To be the first that t' her should pay The Tribute of the New-born Day; Presents her Bracelets with their Names, And Hooks carv'd out with Hearts and Flames. And when a stragling Lamb he saw, And she not by to give it Law, The pretty Fugitive he'd deck With Wreaths of Flowers around its Neck; And gave her ev'ry mark of Love, Before he could her Pity move. But now the Youth no more appears Clouded with Jealousies and Fears: Nor yet dares Phillis softer Brow Wear Unconcern, or Coldness now; But makes him just and kind Returns; And as He does, so now She burns.

Next Lysidas, that haughty Swain, With many Beauties in a Train, All sighing for the Swain, whilst he Barely returns Civility. Yet once to each much Love he Vowd, And strange Fantastique Passion show'd. Poor Doris, and Lucinda too, And many more whom thou dost know, Who had not power his Charms to shun, Too late do find themselves Undone. His Eyes are Black, and do transcend All Fancy e'er can comprehend; And yet no Softness in 'em move. They kill with Fierceness, not with Love: Yet he can dress 'em when he list, With Sweetness none can e'er resist. His Tongue no Amorous Parley makes, But with his Looks alone he speaks. And though he languish yet he'l hide, That grateful knowledge with his Pride; And thinks his Liberty is lost, Not in the Conquest, but the Boast. Nor will but Love enough impart, To gain and to secure a heart: Of which no sooner he is sure, And that its Wounds are past all Cure. But for New Victories he prepares, And leaves the Old to its Despairs: Success his Boldness does renew, And Boldness helps him Conquer too, He having gain'd more hearts than all Th' rest of the Pastoral Cabal.

With him Philander, who nere paid A Sigh or Tear to any Maid: So innocent and young he is, He cannot guess what Passion is. But all the Love he ever knew, On Lycidas he does bestow: Who pays his Tenderness again, Too Amorous for a Swain to a Swain. A softer Youth was never seen, His Beauty Maid; but Man, his Mein: And much more gay than all the rest; And but Alexis finest Dress'd. His Eyes towards Lycidas still turn, As sympathising Flowers to the Sun; Whilst Lycidas whose Eyes dispense No less a grateful Influence, Improves his Beauty, which still fresher grows: Who would not under two such Suns as those? Cloris you sigh, what Amorous grown? Pan grant you keep your heart a home: For I have often heard you Vow, If any cou'd your heart subdue, Though Lycidas you nere had seen, It must be him, or one like him: Alas I cannot yet forget, How we have with Amyntas sat Beneath the Boughs for Summer made, Our heated Flocks and Us to shade; Where thou wou'dst wond'rous Stories tell, Of this Agreeable Infidel. By what Devices, Charms and Arts, He us'd to gain and keep his Hearts: And whilst his Falsehood we wou'd Blame, Thou woud'st commend and praise the same. And did no greater pleasure take, Then when of Lycidas we spake; By this and many Sighs we know, Thou'rt sensible of Loving too. Come Cloris, come along with us, And try thy power with Lycidas; See if that Vertue which you prize, Be proof against those Conquering Eyes. That Heart that can no Love admit, Will hardly stand his shock of Wit; Come deck thee then in all that's fine, Perhaps the Conquest may be thine; They all attend, let's hast to do, What Love and Musick calls us to.

Amyntas led me to a Grove, Where all the Trees did shade us; The Sun it self, though it had Strove, It could not have betray'd us: The place secur'd from humane Eyes, No other fear allows, But when the Winds that gently rise, Doe Kiss the yeilding Boughs. Down there we satt upon the Moss, And did begin to play A Thousand Amorous Tricks, to pass The heat of all the day. A many kisses he did give: And I return'd the same Which made me willing to receive That which I dare not name. His Charming Eyes no Aid requir'd To tell their softning Tale; On her that was already fir'd, 'Twas Easy to prevaile. He did but Kiss and Clasp me round, Whilst those his thoughts Exprest: And lay'd me gently on the Ground; Ah who can guess the rest?

Love in Fantastique Triumph satt, Whilst Bleeding Hearts a round him flow'd, For whom Fresh paines he did Create, And strange Tryanick power he show'd; From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire, Which round about, in sport he hurl'd; But 'twas from mine he took desire, Enough to undo the Amorous World. From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his Pride and Crueltie; From me his Languishments and Feares, And every Killing Dart from thee; Thus thou and I, the God have arm'd, And sett him up a Deity; But my poor Heart alone is harm'd, Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.

Amyntas that true hearted Swaine, Upon a Rivers Banck was lay'd, Where to the Pittying streames he did Complaine On Silvia that false Charming Maid While shee was still regardless of his paine. Ah! Charming Silvia, would he cry; And what he said, the Echoes wou'd reply: Be kind or else I dy: Ech:—I dy. Be kind or else I dy: Ech:—I dy. Those smiles and Kisses which you give, Remember Silvia are my due; And all the Joyes my Rivall does receive, He ravishes from me not you: Ah Silvia! can I live and this believe? Insensibles are toucht to see My Languishments, and seem to pitty me: Which I demand of thee: Ech:—of thee. Which I demand of thee: Ech:—of thee.

Damon I cannot blame your will, 'Twas Chance and not Design did kill; For whilst you did prepare your Charmes, On purpose Silvia to subdue: I met the Arrows as they flew, And sav'd her from their harms. Alas she cannot make returnes, Who for a Swaine already Burnes; A Shepherd whom she does Caress: With all the softest marks of Love, And 'tis in vaine thou seek'st to move The cruel Shepherdess. Content thee with this Victory, Think me as faire and young as she: I'le make thee Garlands all the day, And in the Groves we'l sit and sing; I'le Crown thee with the pride o'th' Spring, When thou art Lord of May.

When Jemmy first began to Love, He was the Gayest Swaine That ever yet a Flock had drove, Or danc't upon the Plaine. T'was then that I, weys me poor Heart, My Freedom threw away; And finding sweets in every smart, I cou'd not say him nay. And ever when he talkt of Love, He wou'd his Eyes decline; And every sigh a Heart would move, Gued Faith and why not mine? He'd press my hand, and Kiss it oft, In silence spoke his Flame. And whilst he treated me thus soft, I wisht him more to Blame. Sometimes to feed my Flocks with him, My Jemmy wou'd invite me: Where he the Gayest Songs wou'd sing, On purpose to delight me. And Jemmy every Grace displayd, Which were enough I trow, To Conquer any Princely Maid, So did he me I Vow. But now for Jemmy must I mourn, Who to the Warrs must go; His Sheephook to a Sword must turne: Alack what shall I do? His Bag-pipe into War-like Sounds, Must now Exchanged bee: Instead of Braceletts, fearful Wounds; Then what becomes of me?

Thou great Young Man! Permit amongst the Crowd Of those that sing thy mighty Praises lowd, My humble Muse to bring its Tribute too. Inspir'd by thy vast flight of Verse, Methinks I should some wondrous thing rehearse, Worthy Divine Lucretius, and Diviner Thou. But I of Feebler Seeds design'd, Whilst the slow moving Atomes strove, With careless heed to form my Mind: Compos'd it all of Softer Love. In gentle Numbers all my Songs are Drest, And when I would thy Glories sing, What in strong manly Verse I would express, Turns all to Womannish Tenderness within, Whilst that which Admiration does inspire, In other Souls, kindles in mine a Fire. Let them admire thee on—Whilst I this newer way Pay thee yet more than they: For more I owe, since thou hast taught me more, Then all the mighty Bards that went before. Others long since have Pal'd the vast delight; In duller Greek and Latin satisfy'd the Appetite: But I unlearn'd in Schools, disdain that mine Should treated be at any Feast but thine. Till now, I curst my Birth, my Education, And more the scanted Customes of the Nation: Permitting not the Female Sex to tread, The mighty Paths of Learned Heroes dead. The God-like Virgil, and great Homers Verse, Like Divine Mysteries are conceal'd from us. We are forbid all grateful Theams, No ravishing thoughts approach our Ear, The Fulsom Gingle of the times, Is all we are allow'd to understand or hear. But as of old, when men unthinking lay, Ere Gods were worshipt, or ere Laws were fram'd The wiser Bard that taught 'em first t' obey, Was next to what he taught, ador'd and fam'd; Gentler they grew, their words and manners chang'd, And salvage now no more the Woods they rang'd. So thou by this Translation dost advance Our Knowledg from the State of Ignorance, And equals us to Man! Ah how can we, Enough Adore, or Sacrifice enough to thee. The Mystick Terms of Rough Philosophy, Thou dost so plain and easily express; Yet Deck'st them in so soft and gay a Dress: So intelligent to each Capacity, That they at once Instruct and Charm the Sense, With heights of Fancy, heights of Eloquence; And Reason over all Unfetter'd plays, Wanton and undisturb'd as Summers Breeze; That gliding murmurs o're the Trees: And no hard Notion meets or stops its way. It Pierces, Conquers and Compels, Beyond poor Feeble Faith's dull Oracles. Faith the despairing Souls content, Faith the Last Shift of Routed Argument. Hail Sacred Wadham! whom the Muses Grace And from the Rest of all the Reverend Pile; Of Noble Pallaces, design'd thy Space: Where they in soft retreat might dwell. They blest thy Fabrick, and said—Do thou, Our Darling Sons contain; We thee our Sacred Nursery Ordain, They said and blest, and it was so. And if of old the Fanes of Silvian Gods, Were worshipt as Divine Abodes; If Courts are held as Sacred Things, For being the Awful Seats of Kings. What Veneration should be paid, To thee that hast such wondrous Poets made. To Gods for fear, Devotion was design'd, And Safety made us bow to Majesty; Poets by Nature Aw and Charm the Mind, Are born not made by dull Religion or Necessity. The Learned Thirsis did to thee belong, Who Athens Plague has so divinely Sung. Thirsis to wit, as sacred friendship true, Paid Mighty Cowley's Memory its due. Thirsis who whilst a greater Plague did reign, Then that which Athens did Depopulate: Scattering Rebellious Fury o're the Plain, That threaten'd Ruine to the Church and State, Unmov'd he stood, and fear'd no Threats of Fate. That Loyal Champion for the Church and Crown, That Noble Ornament of the Sacred Gown, Still did his Soveraign's Cause Espouse, And was above the Thanks of the mad Senate-house. Strephon the Great, whom last you sent abroad, Who Writ, and Lov'd, and Lookt like any God; For whom the Muses mourn, the Love-sick Maids Are Languishing in Melancholly Shades. The Cupids flag their Wings, their Bows untie, And useless Quivers hang neglected by, And scatter'd Arrows all around 'em lye. By murmuring Brooks the careless Deities are laid, Weeping their rifled power now Noble Strephon's Dead. Ah Sacred Wadham! should'st thou never own But this delight of all Mankind and thine; For Ages past of Dulness, this alone, This Charming Hero would Attone. And make thee Glorious to succeeding time; But thou like Natures self disdain'st to be, Stinted to Singularity. Even as fast as she thou dost produce, And over all the Sacred Mystery infuse. No sooner was fam'd Strephon's Glory set, Strephon the Soft, the Lovely and the Great; But Daphnis rises like the Morning-Star, That guides the Wandring Traveller from afar. Daphnis whom every Grace, and Muse inspires, Scarce Strephons Ravishing Poetic Fires So kindly warm, or so divinely Cheer. Advance Young Daphnis, as thou hast begun, So let thy Mighty Race be run. Thou in thy large Poetick Chace, Begin'st where others end the Race. If now thy Grateful Numbers are so strong, If they so early can such Graces show, Like Beauty so surprizing, when so Young, What Daphnis will thy Riper Judgment do, When thy Unbounded Verse in their own Streams shall flow! What Wonder will they not produce, } When thy Immortal Fancy's loose; } Unfetter'd, Unconfin'd by any other Muse! } Advance Young Daphnis then, and mayst thou prove Still sacred in thy Poetry and Love. May all the Groves with Daphnis Songs be blest, Whilst every Bark is with thy Disticks drest. May Timerous Maids learn how to Love from thence And the Glad Shepherd Arts of Eloquence. And when to Solitude thou would'st Retreat, May their tun'd Pipes thy Welcome celebrate. And all the Nymphs strow Garlands at thy Feet. May all the Purling Streams that murmuring pass, The Shady Groves and Banks of Flowers, The kind reposing Beds of Grass, Contribute to their Softer Hours. Mayst thou thy Muse and Mistress there Caress, And may one heighten to 'thers Happiness. And whilst thou so divinely dost Converse, We are content to know and to admire thee in thy Sacred Verse.

Enough kind Heaven! to purpose I have liv'd, And all my Sighs and Languishments surviv'd. My Stars in vain their sullen influence have shed, Round my till now Unlucky Head: I pardon all the Silent Hours I've griev'd, My Weary Nights, and Melancholy Days; When no Kind Power my Pain Reliev'd, I lose you all, ye sad Remembrancers, I lose you all in New-born Joys, Joys that will dissipate my Falling Tears. The Mighty Soul of Rochester's reviv'd, Enough Kind Heaven to purpose I have liv'd. I saw the Lovely Phantom, no Disguise, Veil'd the blest Vision from my Eyes, 'Twas all o're Rochester that pleas'd and did surprize. Sad as the Grave I sat by Glimmering Light, Such as attends Departing Souls by Night. Pensive as absent Lovers left alone, Or my poor Dove, when his Fond Mate was gone. Silent as Groves when only Whispering Gales, Sigh through the Rushing Leaves, As softly as a Bashful Shepherd Breaths, To his Lov'd Nymph his Amorous Tales. So dull I was, scarce Thought a Subject found, Dull as the Light that gloom'd around; When lo the Mighty Spirit appear'd, All Gay, all Charming to my sight; My Drooping Soul it Rais'd and Cheer'd, And cast about a Dazling Light. In every part there did appear, The Great, the God-like Rochester, His Softness all, his Sweetness everywhere. It did advance, and with a Generous Look, To me Addrest, to worthless me it spoke: With the same wonted Grace my Muse it prais'd, With the same Goodness did my Faults Correct; And careful of the Fame himself first rais'd, Obligingly it School'd my loose Neglect. The soft, the moving Accents soon I knew The gentle Voice made up of Harmony; Through the Known Paths of my glad Soul it flew; I knew it straight, it could no others be, 'Twas not Alied but very very he. So the All-Ravisht Swain that hears The wondrous Musick of the Sphears, For ever does the grateful Sound retain, Whilst all his Oaten Pipes and Reeds, The Rural Musick of the Groves and Meads, Strive to divert him from the Heavenly Song in vain. He hates their harsh and Untun'd Lays, Which now no more his Soul and Fancy raise. But if one Note of the remembred Air He chance again to hear, He starts, and in a transport cries,—'Tis there. He knows it all by that one little taste, And by that grateful Hint remembers all the rest. Great, Good, and Excellent, by what new way Shall I my humble Tribute pay, For this vast Glory you my Muse have done, For this great Condescension shown! So Gods of old sometimes laid by Their Awful Trains of Majesty, And chang'd ev'n Heav'n a while for Groves and Plains, And to their Fellow-Gods preferr'd the lowly Swains, And Beds of Flow'rs would oft compare To those of Downey Clouds, or yielding Air; At purling Streams would drink in homely Shells, Put off the God, to Revel it in Woods and Shepherds Cells; Would listen to their Rustick Songs, and show Such Divine Goodness in Commending too, Whilst the transported Swain the Honour pays With humble Adoration, humble Praise.

In vain I have labour'd the Victor to prove Of a Heart that can ne'er give Admittance to Love: So hard to be won That nothing so young Could e'er have resisted a Passion so long.

But nothing I left unattempted or said, To soften the Heart of the Pityless Maid; Yet still she was shy, And would blushing deny, Whilst her willinger Eyes gave her Language the Lye.

When before the Impregnable Fort I lay down, I resolv'd or to die, or to Purchase Renown, But how vain was the Boast! All the Glory I lost, And now vanquish'd and sham'd I've quitted my Post.

Amyntas, whilst you Have an Art to subdue, And can conquer a Heart with a Look or a Smile; You Pityless grow, And no Faith will allow; 'Tis the Glory you seek when you rifle the Spoil.

Your soft warring Eyes, When prepar'd for the Prize, Can laugh at the Aids of my feeble Disdain; You can humble the Foe, And soon make her to know Tho' she arms her with Pride, her Efforts are but vain.

But Shepherd beware, Though a Victor you are; A Tyrant was never secure in his Throne; Whilst proudly you aim New Conquests to gain, Some hard-hearted Nymph may return you your own.

Amyntas, if your Wit in Dreams Can furnish you with Theams, What must it do when your Soul looks abroad, Quick'nd with Agitations of the Sence, And dispossest of Sleeps dull heavy Load, When ev'ry Syllable has Eloquence? And if by Chance such Wounds you make, And in your Sleep such welcome Mischiefs do; What are your Pow'rs when you're awake, Directed by Design and Reason too? I slept, as duller Mortals use, Without the Musick of a Thought, When by a gentle Breath, soft as thy Muse, Thy Name to my glad Ear was brought: Amyntas! cry'd the Page—And at the Sound, My list'ning Soul unusual Pleasure found. So the Harmonius Spheres surprize, Whilst the All-Ravish'd Shepherd gazes round, And wonders whence the Charms should rise, That can at once both please and wound. Whilst trembling I unript the Seal Of what you'd sent, My Heart with an Impatient Zeal, Without my Eyes, would needs reveal Its Bus'ness and Intent. But so beyond the Sence they were Of ev'ry scribling Lovers common Art, That now I find an equal share Of Love and Admiration in my Heart. And while I read, in vain I strove To hide the Pleasure which I took; Bellario saw in ev'ry Look My smiling Joy and blushing Love. Soft ev'ry word, easie each Line, and true; Brisk, witty, manly, strong and gay; The Thoughts are tender all, and new, And Fancy ev'ry where does gently play, Amyntas, if you thus go on, Like an unwearied Conqueror day and night, The World at last must be undone. You do not only kill at sight, But like a Parthian in your flight, Whether you Rally or Retreat, You still have Arrows for Defeat.

As when a Conqu'rour does in Triumph come, And proudly leads the vanquish'd Captives home, The Joyful People croud in ev'ry Street, And with loud shouts of Praise the Victor greet; While some whom Chance or Fortune kept away, Desire at least the Story of the Day; How brave the Prince, how gay the Chariot was, How beautiful he look'd, with what a Grace; Whether upon his Head he Plumes did wear; Or if a Wreath of Bays adorn'd his Hair: They hear 'tis wondrous fine, and long much more To see the Hero then they did before. So when the Marvels by Report I knew, Of how much Beauty, Cloris, dwelt in you; How many Slaves your Conqu'ring Eyes had won, And how the gazing Crowd admiring throng: I wish'd to see, and much a Lover grew Of so much Beauty, though my Rivals too. I came and saw, and blest my Destiny; I found it Just you should out-Rival me. 'Twas at the Altar, where more Hearts were giv'n To you that day, then were address'd to Heav'n. The Rev'rend Man whose Age and Mystery Had rendred Youth and Beauty Vanity, By fatal Chance casting his Eyes your way, } Mistook the duller Bus'ness of the Day, } Forgot the Gospel, and began to Pray. } Whilst the Enamour'd Crowd that near you prest, } Receiving Darts which none could e'er resist, } Neglected the Mistake o'th' Love-sick Priest. } Ev'n my Devotion, Cloris, you betray'd, And I to Heaven no other Petition made, But that you might all other Nymphs out-do In Cruelty as well as Beauty too. I call'd Amyntas Faithless Swain before, But now I find 'tis Just he should Adore. Not to love you, a wonder sure would be, Greater then all his Perjuries to me. And whilst I Blame him, I Excuse him too; Who would not venture Heav'n to purchase you? But Charming Cloris, you too meanly prize The more deserving Glories of your Eyes, If you permit him on an Amorous score, To be your Slave, who was my Slave before. He oft has Fetters worn, and can with ease Admit 'em or dismiss 'em when he please. A Virgin-Heart you merit, that ne'er found It could receive, till from your Eyes, the Wound; A Heart that nothing but your Force can fear, And own a Soul as Great as you are Fair.

Ceres, Great Goddess of the bounteous Year, Who load'st the Teeming Earth with Gold and Grain, Blessing the Labours of th' Industrious Swain, And to their Plaints inclin'st thy gracious Ear: Behold two fair Cicilian Lovers lie Prostrate before thy Deity; Imploring thou wilt grant the Just Desires Of two Chaste Hearts that burn with equal Fires.

Amyntas he, brave, generous and young; Whom yet no Vice his Youth has e'er betray'd: And Chaste Urania is the Lovely Maid; His Daughter who has serv'd thy Altars long, As thy High Priest: A Dowry he demands At the young Amorous Shepherds hands: Say, gentle Goddess, what the Youth must give, E'er the Bright Maid he can from thee receive.

Pan, grant that I may never prove So great a Slave to fall in love, And to an Unknown Deity Resign my happy Liberty: I love to see the Amorous Swains Unto my Scorn their Hearts resign: With Pride I see the Meads and Plains Throng'd all with Slaves, and they all mine: Whilst I the whining Fools despise, That pay their Homage to my Eyes.

One day the Amorous Lysander By an impatient Passion sway'd, Surpriz'd fair Cloris, that lov'd Maid, Who could defend her self no longer. All things did with his Love conspire; The gilded Planet of the Day, In his gay Chariot drawn by Fire, Was now descending to the Sea, And left no Light to guide the World, But what from Cloris Brighter Eyes was hurld.

In a lone Thicket made for Love, Silent as yielding Maids Consent, She with a Charming Languishment, Permits his Force, yet gently strove; Her Hands his Bosom softly meet, But not to put him back design'd, Rather to draw 'em on inclin'd: Whilst he lay trembling at her Feet, Resistance 'tis in vain to show; She wants the pow'r to say—Ah! What d'ye do?

Her Bright Eyes sweet, and yet severe, Where Love and Shame confus'dly strive, Fresh Vigor to Lysander give; And breathing faintly in his Ear, She cry'd—Cease, Cease—your vain Desire, Or I'll call out—What would you do? My Dearer Honour ev'n to You I cannot, must not give—Retire, Or take this Life, whose chiefest part I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart.

But he as much unus'd to Fear, As he was capable of Love, The blessed minutes to improve, Kisses her Mouth, her Neck, her Hair; Each Touch her new Desire Alarms, His burning trembling Hand he prest Upon her swelling Snowy Brest, While she lay panting in his Arms. All her Unguarded Beauties lie The Spoils and Trophies of the Enemy.

And now without Respect or Fear, He seeks the Object of his Vows, (His Love no Modesty allows) By swift degrees advancing—where His daring Hand that Altar seiz'd, Where Gods of Love do sacrifice: That Awful Throne, that Paradice Where Rage is calm'd, and Anger pleas'd; That Fountain where Delight still flows, And gives the Universal World Repose.

Her Balmy Lips encount'ring his, Their Bodies, as their Souls, are joyn'd; Where both in Transports Unconfin'd Extend themselves upon the Moss. Cloris half dead and breathless lay; Her soft Eyes cast a Humid Light, Such as divides the Day and Night; Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay: And now no signs of Life she shows, But what in short-breath'd Sighs returns and goes.

He saw how at her Length she lay; He saw her rising Bosom bare; Her loose thin Robes, through which appear A Shape design'd for Love and Play; Abandon'd by her Pride and Shame. She does her softest Joys dispence, Off'ring her Virgin-Innocence A Victim to Loves Sacred Flame; While the o'er-Ravish'd Shepherd lies Unable to perform the Sacrifice.

Ready to taste a thousand Joys, The too transported hapless Swain Found the vast Pleasure turn'd to Pain; Pleasure which too much Love destroys The willing Garments by he laid, And Heaven all open'd to his view. Mad to possess, himself he threw On the Defenceless Lovely Maid. But Oh what envying God conspires To snatch his Power, yet leave him the Desire!

Nature's Support, (without whose Aid She can no Humane Being give) It self now wants the Art to live; Faintness its slack'ned Nerves invade: In vain th' inraged Youth essay'd To call its fleeting Vigor back, No motion 'twill from Motion take; Excess of Love his Love betray'd: In vain he Toils, in vain Commands The Insensible fell weeping in his Hand.

In this so Amorous Cruel Strife, Where Love and Fate were too severe, The poor Lysander in despair Renounc'd his Reason with his Life: Now all the brisk and active Fire That should the Nobler Part inflame, Serv'd to increase his Rage and Shame, And left no Spark for New Desire: Not all her Naked Charms cou'd move Or calm that Rage that had debauch'd his Love.

Cloris returning from the Trance Which Love and soft Desire had bred, Her timerous Hand she gently laid (Or guided by Design or Chance) Upon that Fabulous Priapus; That Potent God, as Poets feign; But never did young Shepherdess, Gath'ring of Fern upon the Plain, More nimbly draw her Fingers back, Finding beneath the verdant Leaves a Snake:

Than Cloris her fair Hand withdrew, Finding that God of her Desires Disarm'd of all his Awful Fires, And Cold as Flow'rs bath'd in the Morning Dew. Who can the Nymph's Confusion guess? The Blood forsook the hinder Place, And strew'd with Blushes all her Face, Which both Disdain and Shame exprest: And from Lysander's Arms she fled, Leaving him fainting on the Gloomy Bed.

Like Lightning through the Grove she hies, Or Daphne from the Delphick God, No Print upon the grassey Road She leaves, t' instruct Pursuing Eyes. The Wind that wanton'd in her Hair, And with her Ruffled Garments plaid, Discover'd in the Flying Maid All that the Gods e'er made, if Fair. So Venus, when her Love was slain, With Fear and Haste flew o'er the Fatal Plain.

The Nymph's Resentments none but I Can well Imagine or Condole: But none can guess Lysander's Soul, But those who sway'd his Destiny. His silent Griefs swell up to Storms, And not one God his Fury spares; He curs'd his Birth, his Fate, his Stars; But more the Shepherdess's Charms, Whose soft bewitching Influence Had Damn'd him to the Hell of Impotence.

What means this Knot, in Mystick Order Ty'd, And which no Humane Knowledge can divide? Not the Great Conqu'rours Sword can this undo Whose very Beauty would divert the Blow. Bright Relique! Shrouded in a Shrine of Gold! Less Myst'ry made a Deity of Old. Fair Charmer! Tell me by what pow'rful Spell You into this Confused Order fell? If Magick could be wrought on things Divine, Some Amorous Sybil did thy Form design In some soft hour, which the Prophetick Maid In Nobler Mysteries of Love employ'd. Wrought thee a Hieroglyphick, to express The wanton God in all his Tenderness; Thus shaded, and thus all adorn'd with Charms, Harmless, Unfletch'd, without Offensive Arms, He us'd of Old in shady Groves to Play, } E'er Swains broke Vows, or Nymphs were vain and coy, } Or Love himself had Wings to fly away. } Or was it (his Almighty Pow'r to prove) Design'd a Quiver for the God of Love? And all these shining Hairs which th'inspir'd Maid Has with such strange Mysterious Fancy laid, Are meant his Shafts; the subt'lest surest Darts That ever Conqu'red or Secur'd his Hearts; Darts that such tender Passions do convey, Not the young Wounder is more soft than they. 'Tis so; the Riddle I at last have learn'd: But found it when I was too far concern'd.