Feav'rifh for want of Reft, I rofe, and walk'd,
And by the Moonshine to the Windows went ;
There thinking to exclude him from my Thoughts,
I caft my Eyes upon the neighb'ring Fields,
And e'er I was aware figh'd to my self,
There fought my Torrifmond.
I'm pleas'd and pain'd fince firft her Eyes I faw,
As I were ftung with fome Tarantula :
Arms and the dufty Field I lefs admire,
And foften ftrangely in fome new Defire;
Honour burns in me not fo fiercely bright,
But pale as Fires when master'd by the Light.
Ev'n while I fpeak and look, I change yet more,
And now am nothing that I was before.
I'm numb'd and fix'd, and fcarce my Eye-balls move;
I fear it is the Lethargy of Love!
'Tis he! I feel him now in ev'ry Part;
Like a new Lord he vaunts about my Heart;
Surveys in State each Corner of my Breaft:
And now I'm all o'er Love!
He'd got a Hurt
On th'Infide of a deadly fort,
By Cupid made, who took his Stand-
Upon a Widow's Jointure Land;
Drew home his Bow, and aiming right,
Let fly an Arrow at the Knight:
The Shaft against a Rib did glance,
And gall'd him in the Purtenance.
O Love! O cursed Boy!
Where art thou that torment'ft me thus unseen,
And rageft with thy Fires within my Breaft
With idle Purpose to inflame her Heart,
Which is as inacceffible and cold
As the proud Tops of thofe afpiring Hills
Whofe Heads are wrapt in everlasting Snow,
Tho' the hot Sun roul o'er 'em ev'ry Day:
And as his Beams, which only fhine above,
Scorch and confume in Regions round below;
So Love, which throws fuch Brightnefs thro' her Eyes,
Leaves her cold Heart, and burns me at her Feet.
My Tyrant, but her flatt'ring Slave thou art,
A Glory round her lovely Face, a Fire within my Heart. Rock.
That proud Dame for whom his Soul
Was burnt in's Belly to a Coal,
Us'd him fo like a bafe Rafcallion,
That old Pyg (what d'y' call him) malion,
That cut his Miftrefs out of Stone,
Had not fo hard a hearted one.
LOVE and OLD AGE.
Love, like a Shadow, while Youth fhines is fhown; But in old Age's Darkness there is none.
Mine was an Age when Love might be excus'd;
When kindly Warmth, and when my fpringing Youth
Made it a Debt to Nature: Yours in your declining Age;
When no more Heat was left but what you forc'd,
When all the Sap was needful for the Trunk;
When it went down, then you constrain'd the Course,
And robb'd from Nature to fupply Defire :
Oh! 'tis meer Dotage in you.
Dryd. All for Love.
The Bloom of Beauty other Years demands,
Nor will be gather'd with fuch wither'd Hands:
You importune us with a falfe Defire,
Which fparkles out, and makes no folid Fire.
This Impudence of Age, whence can it spring?
All you expect, and yet you nothing bring:
Eager to ask, when you are paft a Grant;
Nice in providing what you cannot want:
Have Confcience; give not her you love this Pain;
Solicit not your felf and her in vain :
All other Debts may Compenfation find,
But Love is ftri&t, and will be paid in kind.
You cannot love, nor Pleasure take nor give;
But Life begin when 'tis too late to live:
On a tir'd Courfer you purfue Delight;
Let flip your Morning, and fet out at Night.
PROTESTATIONS of LOVE.
While on Septimius panting Breaft,
Meaning nothing less than Reft,
Acme lean'd her loving Head,
Thus the pleas'd Septimius faid:
My dearest Acme! if I be
Once alive, and love not thee,
With a Paffion far above
All that e'er was called Love,
In a Lybian Defart may
I become fome Lion's Prey;
Let him, Acme! let him tear
My Breaft, when Acme is not there.
Acme, inflam'd with what he faid,
Rear'd her gently-bending Head;
And her purple Mouth with Joy
Stretching to the delicious Boy,
Twice (and twice could fcarce fuffice)
T 3
She kiss'd his drunken rowling Eyes:
My little Life! my all! faid the,
So may we ever Servants be
To this beft God, and ne'er retain
Our hated Liberty again:
So may thy Paffion laft for me,
As I a Paffion have for thee;
Greater and fiercer much than can
Be conceiv'd by thee, a Man.
Into my Marrow it is gone,
Fix'd and fettl'd in the Bone;
It reigns not only in my Heart,
But runs like Lifro' ev'ry Part.
Madam Is is my Duty,
Honour the Shadow of your Shoe-tie.
For your Love does lie
As near and as nigh
Unto my Heart within,
As my Eye to my Nofe,
My Leg to my Hofe,
My Love's fo violent, fo ftrong, fo fure,
As neither Age can change, nor Art can cure.
All conftant Loyers fhall in future Ages
Approve their Truth by Troilus: When their Verse,
Full of Proteft, and Oath, and big Compare,
Want Similes; as Turtles to their Mates,
As true as flowing Tides are to the Moon,
Earth to the Centre, Iron to Adamant:
At laft, when Truth is tir'd with Repetition,
As true as Troilus fhall crown the Verfe,
And fanctify the Numbers.
If I am falfe, or fwerve from Truth and Love;
When Time is old, and has forgot it felf
In all things elfe, let it remember me;
And after all Comparisons of Falfhood,
To ftab the Heart of Perjury in Maids,
Let it be faid, as falfe as Creffida. Shak. & Dryd. Troil, & Creff.
Go bid the Needle his dear North forfake,
To which with trembling Rev'rence it does bend;
Go bid the Stones a Journey upward make;
Go bid th'ambitious Flame no more afcend:
And when thefe falfe to their old Motions prove,
Then will I ceafe thee, thee alone, to love.
Quoth he, to bid me not to love,
Is to forbid my Pulfe to move;
My Beard to grow, my Ears to prick up,
Or, when I'm in a Fit, to hickup;
Command me to pifs out the Moon,
And 'twill as easily be done.
That I do love you, O all you Host of Heav'n
Be Witness! That you are dear to me!
Dearer than Day to one whom Sight must leave,
Dearer than Life to one who fears to die;
O thou bright Pow'r be judge whom we adore,
Be witnefs of my Truth! be witnefs of my Love! Lee Mithrid.
If all my Heart and Soul be'n't thine,
May thy dear Body ne'er be mine.
O my Monimia, to my Soul thou'rt dear
As Honour to my Name; dear as the Light
To Eyes but juft reftor'd and heal'd of Blindness.
O dearer than the vital Air I breathe.
O fhe is dearer to my Soul than Reft
To weary Pilgrims, or to Mifers Gold,
To great Men Pow'r, or wealthy Cities Pride.
Dear as the vital Warmth that feeds my Life;
Dear as these Eyes that weep in fondnefs o'er thee.
Let me hafte to tell thee
What and how dear Monefes has been to me:
What has he not been! All the Names of Love,
Brothers or Fathers, Husbands, all are poor:
Monefes is my felf; in my fond Heart,
Ev'n in my vital Blood he lives and reigns:
The last dear Object of my parting Soul
Will be Monefes; the laft Breath that lingers
Within my panting Breaft, fhall figh Monefes.
Perdition catch my Soul, but I do love thee;
And when I love thee not, Ghaos is come again.
My Love's fo true,
That I can neither hide it where it is,
Nor fhew it where 'tis not.
Quoth he, my Faith as Adamantine,
As Chains of Destiny I'll maintain;
True as Apollo ever spoke,
Or Oracle from Heart of Oak.
Then shine upon me but benignly,
With that one and that other Pigineye;
The Sun and Day fhall fooner part,
Than Love or you shake off my Heart.
Witness ye Days, and Nights, and all your Hours,
That danc'd away with Down upon your Feet,
As all your Bus'nefs were to count my Paffion.
One Day pafs'd by, and nothing faw but Love;
Another came, and ftill 'twas only Love;
The Suns were wearied out with looking on,
And I untir'd with loving.
I faw you ev'ry Day, and all the Day,
And ev'ry Day was ftill but as the first,
So eager was I ftill to fee you more.
'Tis fhe, fhe only, that can make me bleft Empire and Wealth, and all fhe brings befide,
Are but the Train and Trappings of her Love. Dryd. Span. Fry.
Oh fhe's all Softnefs!
All melting mild, and calm as a rock'd Infant;
Nor can you wake her into Cries: By Heav'n
She is the Child of Love, and fhe was born in Smiles. Lee Alex.
And is it giv'n me thus to touch thy Hand,
And fold thy Body in my longing Arms!
To gaze upon thy Eyes, my happier Stars!
To tafte thy Lips and thy dear balmy Breath;
While ev'ry Sigh comes forth fo fraught with Sweets,
"Tis Incenfe to be offer'd to a God.
The vernal Bloom and Fragancy of Spices,
Wafted by gentle Winds, are not like thee?
From thee, as from the Cyprian Queen of Love,
Ambrofial Odours flow: My ev'ry Faculty.
Is charm'd by thee, and drinks immortal Pleafure.
By Heav'n, my Edith,
Thy Mother fed on Rofes when the bred thee!
The Sweetness of th' Arabian Wind still blowing
Upon the Treafures of Perfumes and Spices,
In all their Pride and Pleafures call thee Miftrefs. Beau. Rollo,
Sweet as the rofy Morn fhe breaks upon me;
And Sorrow, like the Night's unwholfom Shade,
Gives way before the golden Dawn fhe brings.
Not the Spring's Mouth, nor Breath of Jeffamin,
Nor Vi'lets Infant-fweets, nor op'ning Buds,"
Are half fo fweet as Alexander's Breaft!
From ev'y Pore of him a Perfume falis;
He kiffes fofter than a Southern Wind,
Curls like a Vine, and touches like a God!
Then he will talk! good Gods! how he will talk!
Ev'n when the Joy he figh'd for is poffefs'd,
Ev'n then he fpeaks fuch Words, and looks fuch things,
Vows with fo much Paifion, fwears with fo much Grace,
That 'tis a kind of Heav'n to be deluded by him.
If I but mention him, the Tears will fall:
Sure there is not a Letter in his Name,
Butis a Charm to melt a Woman's Eyes.".
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