Amasia, or, The works of the muses a collection of poems : in three volumes / by John Hopkins.

AMASIA , OR , THE Works of the Muses .

A Collection OF POEMS .

In Three Volumes .

By Mr John Hopkins .

VOL. I.

Sunt bona , sunt quaedam mediocria , sunt mala plura , Quae legis hic , aliter non fit ( Avite ) liber .

LONDON , Printed by Tho. Warren for Bennet Banbury , at the Blue-Anchor in the Lower-Walk of the New-Exchange , 1700.

To her GRACE THE Dutchess of Grafton . MADAM ,

SHall I be guilty of Tautologies ? Shall I Name Grafton first , and say she 's Beautiful ? Or shall I say your Ladyship is most Beautiful , and need I then Name Grafton ?

What is it I feel inspiring me , while I address you ? What is it Transports my Senses and my Soul with Ravishment ? 'T is Grafton ; 't is the Dutchess of Grafton , Love's Goddess , and the Queen of Beauty .

I see your Ladyship in Idea , but ev'n the Idea represents not any form so Amiable .

The fancyful Poet's Mistress in imagination wears Charms Divinely shining , wears Beauties gloriously Aerial , yet far inferiour .

To whom but to your Grace should I present Amasia ? To you , the Mistress , the Amasia of the World .

O Paris ! O happy Son of Royal Priam ! Who saw three Goddesses at once , three Graftons ! Not Hellena , made both the bribe and the reward for the Golden prize which he decreed to Venus , knew any Charms , like Grafton's : Not Hellena ; Not Venus self ; no , not the three Goddesses could make up , with Charms united , Glories so exquisitely Celestial .

Had your Grace on Ida's Mount appear'd , 〈◊〉 you stood there a Candidate ; in vain , had Wisdom , in vain had Empire too , and the Fair , Fatal Charming Beauty 〈◊〉 all in vain been offer'd ; Justice had prevail'd o'er all .

O Grafton ! 'T is almost Impious for a Poet to approach you , not in Verse ; where is the incense I should offer at the Shrine of Beauty ? Where is the Praise , through which the Poet claims his Priviledge to adore ? Where are the Flights , the Raptures of Extatick Poetry ? Why soar they not ? Why ? 'T is because they Flag beneath you .

I cannot Praise you ; I will not then attempt it ; I have not Venus's sufficiently Divine , before me , to draw this Venus by . Scarce other Beauties are bright enough to be the shadows of your Picture ; I shall therefore resist the Torrents of my fancy , and withhold my Artless , my unable Pencil .

If sorrow in the Face of the Graecian Chief could be no otherwise exprest than by a Curtain drawn to vail it , how shall I presume to hope that the Superlative excess of Beauty can be describ'd which blooms in yours ! I too must draw the Curtain here , and rather choose to hide the Charming object , than , by exposing it in a faint , glimmering Light , to darken , and obscure it more .

'T is Elyzium , 't is the Kingdom of Love , which Courts your Grace's presence ; both Sylvius and Amasia Joyn'd ( but in a fancyful enjoyment , ) claim in this Poem the Tenant's right of doing Homage to your Ladyship , both Court your Grace to give a visit to their humble Groves , to that Elyzium which we can possess only in your Grace's Smiles , for wheresoe'er your Grace appears , Love sways , and fixes his unalterable Kingdom there .

I am , May it Please your Grace , Your Grace's most Obedient , and most Humbly Devoted Servant . J. Hopkins .

THE PREFACE .

SInce 't is inevitable that Books must be Publish'd , when Printed , 't is almost a necessary Conclusion that Prefaces must be written , whether they will be read or not . I have been in a thousand various Thoughts how to manage in a Point so very Nice ; sometimes I have inclin'd to attempt in some sort a Vindication , at least of some of the following Poems ; then , I have condemn'd them all , with Censures on my self , as severe , I am positive , as my Muses and I can meet with from the most rigidly-good Judgment of the most Malicious Critick : Again I thought to Muster up all the Poetical excuses the doubting Author swells with , Just before his Off-Spring comes to Light ; as the Juvenile Years in which I writ them ; ( which by the way , gives me Occasion to say , that on that account I call'd the Book the Works of the Muses , having a Notion that the Title bears in it an Air of Puerility . ) The undesigning the Publication of most of them , when written ; the Publishing them at last not thro' any vain Popular ends , but for Private necessary Reasons ; and the having destroy'd a larger Collection than I now Publish , I thought might be of weight enough for so light a thing as an excuse . The two last Reasons 〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉 my Approbation , for the one excuses me to my self , which I think most Material ; and the last of all will in a great measure excuse me to the World . I think it necessary only to say three or four Words more , and those partly in Vindication . I have writ several Copies on very 〈◊〉 Occasions ; Mr. Waller has writ some . There are several of Ovid's Stories which I have 〈◊〉 , many of them have been already attempted , some by several Hands ; and most of them have been very well perform'd by my Brother , and Publish'd some Years since ; mine were written in an other Kingdom before I knew of his . There is nothing now remains , for my own satisfaction to be said , but to assure the Ladies that they will meet with nothing in my Writings that need cause a Blush ; and so , humbly recommending my Book to their Protection , I am wholly indifferent , and shall be unconcern'd at what the Grave and the Precise shall say .

Pascitur in vivis livor : Post fata quiescit , Tunc suis ex merito quemque 〈◊〉 , honor . Ergo etiam cum me supremus adusserit ignis , Vivam : Parsque 〈◊〉 magna superstes erit .

THE CONTENTS . Vol. I. Book I. TO the God of Love . A Pindarick Page 3 Elyzium , or the Kingdom of Love , A Poem , ( Address'd to Amasia ) Containing 9 Passionate fondness 12 Despair 16 Admiration 19 Address 21 Parting 22 Absence 24 Jealousy 25 Platonick Love 26 Elyzium . 28 Book II. THE Mistress of Love , being some Copies , written on Occasions to Amasia , by her own Command . To Amasia , on her drawing her own Picture 39 To Amasia , holding a drawn Sword in her hand 40 To Amasia , tickling a Gentleman . 41 To Amasia , playing with a Clouded Fan 42 To Amasia , asking me if I slept well after so Tempestuous a Night as the last was , when we parted , and desiring me to describe it p. 43 To Amasia , speaking an Extempore Verse . 48 To Amasia , still promising to Sing , but never performing ibid. Meeting Amasia at a Young Lady's Funeral 50 To Amasia , on her recovery from a fall ibid. To Amasia , holding a Burning-glass in her Hand 51 To Amasia , looking at me , 〈◊〉 a Multiplying-Glass 52 To Amasia Singing , and sticking Pins in a Red-Silk-Pincushion 53 To Amasia , on her Correcting a line of Mr. Waller's , as she read it 54 To Amasia , troubled with a redness in her Eyes , on her saying she would Charm me with them 56 To Amasia , on the falling of her Terras-Walks 57 The Dream , beginning with the 〈◊〉 of Night , Written to Amasia 59 To Amasia , who , while I awfully admir'd her at her Window , withdrew , and sent 〈◊〉 Black in her Place 63 To Amasia , Dancing before a Looking-Glass 64 To Amasia , on the burning of her 〈◊〉 Muslin-Nightrail , which took Fire , while she was asleep , and 〈◊〉 she was her self unhurt 65 To Amasia , who having prick'd me with a Pin , for a subject to write on , accidentally 〈◊〉 her self with 〈◊〉 , when in my 〈◊〉 afterwards 68 〈◊〉 to a Painter to draw Amasia , with some 〈◊〉 on the Artist's skill , resolving to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my self , much better with my 〈◊〉 . 69 Book III. THE Address of Love . An Epistolary Poem . Written to Amasia , 79 Female Epistles of Love . Containing Deidamia to Achilles 95 A Lady to her Lover 99 Scylla to Minos . 110

TO SYLVIUS , ON HIS AMASIA . I Read ; and all your Works my wonder raise , Thou gav'st me Pleasure , and I 'll give thee Praise . With Wit so Charming thy soft Passions move , Minerva now should grow the Queen of Love . Sylvius — — — To thee a double Fame is due , Both as the Poet , and the Lover too . She too grows doubly fam'd , whom Sylvius wooes , Amasia , both the Mistress and the Muse. If thou hast Lov'd , and thy Complaints be Just , I pity thee , — and every Woman must . She 's dead — our Sex's glory , and their shame ; Could she be Mortal , yet despise thy Flame ! If thou hast Lov'd , but half as thou hast writ , ( But oh ! Who Loves , with such a World of Wit . ! ) The Maid , the Cruel Charming Maid you Sung , With darts by Death , not Cupid , should be stung . Death has 〈◊〉 thee of thy Constant vow ; 〈◊〉 the Maid , Fame be thy Mistress now . 〈◊〉 which you Court not , to your Arms will flee , 〈◊〉 World will give , but take it first from me . In vain — she gives you Fame , whom you adore , Your Passion gives you that , but gives no more . Such nat'ral turns in all your Numbers roll , Were there no sense , the strain would move the Soul . Their force is such as is in Musick found , We should be Charm'd , by the bare Power of sound . Tho' none can better write , do you write on , You can be only by your self outdone . All other Poets , reading thee , Despair , And grieve to think thou hast so vast a share . Asham'd of their own labours may they grow , Whilst from thy Pen whole Helicon does flow . Thy growing Laurels spread above us high , Spring thro' the Air , and mounting , reach the Sky . When Eccho'd from the Stars by sounding Fame , A lasting glory shall secure thy Name . Go on , and let thy thoughtful , 〈◊〉 Muse , Ravisht with Love , no other subject choose . Let thy soft numbers still 〈◊〉 thy Pen , Thy Muses Works surpass the Works of Men. In after Ages may thy glory 〈◊〉 , And may thy name great 〈◊〉 name survive . Thou dost our Souls with thy soft Passions move , Thou Art a Poet , like the 〈◊〉 of Love . You and the God of Love 〈◊〉 mourn , The God of Love and you are Poets born . Hold , I 'm your Friend , and I must need advise , Be wise , yet e'er it be too late , be wise . Nor from the Press , nor the ingrateful Stage , To your own ruine , Charm a thankless Age. Amasia's dead — some solid good pursue , Since every Muse has done a task for you ; Merit 〈◊〉 ever meets reward — Adieu . Yet hold ; if still you would your self excel , Leave off — so Wicherly did more than well .

AMASIA , OR , THE Works of the Muses . Containing ELYZIUM , OR , THE KINGDOM of LOVE . Vol. I. Book I. Non mihi mille placent ; nisi sum desertor amoris : Tu mihi ( si qua fides ) cura perennis cris .

TO THE GOD of LOVE . A PINDARICK . Sine Numine nihil . (1) SOme lose themselves to gain a lasting Name , of Fame : And shun those Rocks which bar the Coasts Art does the skilful Pilot sit , To guide in the full Sea of Wit , The Poet flies with fancy's Sails , Fame's wanton Breath affords him Gales , A mighty Voyage now he takes The Muses Indies must be sought , The choicest Oare must thence be brought , Whole Floods of Sense upon him rowl , Behold , what wondrous way he makes ! His course will soon be run , Tho' adverse Winds controul , And 〈◊〉 toss a while his Soul , He Sails about the World of thought , And Journies like the God of Wit , the Sun . Me Love shall guide , tho' Love be blind , To thee alone thy Poet flies , Thy Mother sprung from Seas we 〈◊〉 Thou , little , Infant God , behind , No Winds but gentle Sights shall rise , I 'll steer my course by my Amasia's Eyes , Amasia lies the Golden Coast , Which I shall reach at last , or in the Search be lost . (2) Fam'd by their Muses flights let others prove , While I am Born upon the Wings of Love . Some climb the Poets Hill with pain , Yet 〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉 arrive , Like Sysiphus his stone , in vain Roll'd up , to be thrown down again , When tir'd , at length , they cease to strive , And on the barren plain dejected lie and live , Me my Ambition only leads Beneath the Hill to seek out pleasing Groves , The Charming 〈◊〉 haunt the shades , And there in Lawrel Bow'rs I would reveal my Loves . Congreve , and 〈◊〉 are great , Upon Parnassus tops they 〈◊〉 , Not rais'd by 〈◊〉 , but by Fate , Their Praise is to their Merits late , They lord it o'er the World of Wit , The Mighty Dryden , o'er their Heads , Like a vast cloud appears , Gilt with late Sun-beams , wide he spreads , And grateful dew upon them sheds , Fruitful , yet shining too in Evening Years . His fancy still swift does in Light'nings fly , And loudly rowling Words run Thundring from his Sky . (3) Behold his Lawrels scatter'd from him far , Those Wreaths not proof against the Bolts of War . The Godlike , great Nassaw is Crown'd ; A while we Martial noises 〈◊〉 , Shrill The Branches that deck the Conqu'rour's brow , Made wet with Blood , still blooming grow , The Poet now that hopes to be renown'd , Should his Just Praise , loud as his Trumpets , Sound . Alcides , when an Infant , strove With Serpents which against him rose , His 〈◊〉 prov'd his claim to Jove , He smil'd to see them gayly move , And in their own bright Folds he chain'd the hissing Foes , His Praise by mighty labours came , In Paths of Glory still he trod , His weighty Club beat out the Road , His own great Pillars rais'd his Name , High , soaring Praise he drew From the Stymphalides he slew , Their gawdy Plumes Feather'd the Wings of Fame . His great Exploits such vast Applauses bore , The Lyon which he kill'd ne'er could so loudly roar . ( 4 Godlike Nassaw the bloody Field has won , Herculean labours have by him been done , No Club does this great Hero weild , Yet drives vast flying Legions far , He makes no Monsters skin his Shield , Himself 's the dreadful Thunderbolt of War . The giddy Goddess , Fortune Kneels , Fond of her Conqu'rour's Love , Joys in the Ravishment she feels , Secure upon her Chariot Wheels , Fixt with his weight of Glory , they want Power to move . The bliss of Heav'n no living Man can know , But Love to me , gives all the Joys below . In the loud Field nor Arts , nor Arms I use , I only Am'rous Battles fight , Thee , little Boy , my chief I choose , I live , and die in vast delight , The Gods gave me a Mistress , and a Muse. In Beauties Camp alone I lead , How sure of Triumph must I grow When taught to Conquer by the Maid Who is alone my Foe ? Love is my War , Love is the Train that lies To be blown fondly up by my Amasia's Eyes . (5) Proud as the Heav'ns , she sees us clouds below , We Weep , and drive , when e'er her Tempests blow , Her Smiles , like Radiant Sunshine , play , She makes our Days appear , Or Gloomy , or Serene and clear , Each Glance she gives , like Light'ning cuts her wa And , with 〈◊〉 Angry word , she does like Thunder , slay , Thou , God of Love , dost Merit Fame , Greatness , and Honours are but Toys , Compar'd with thy more real Joys , A while the Bubbles gay appear , Gaz'd at , they break , and scatter in the Air , They yeild but Smoak , while you give warmer Flame . The Thund'rer may unenvy'd sway , And rule his Powers above , As they his Laws , so he does thine obey . How truly great would be the name of Jove , If both the God of Thunder , and of Love ! Whene'er you Please to Smile or Frown , His Bolts fall to the pavement down , Your Flames more siercely than his light'nings fly , You make him quit his Heav'n , & lay his Godhead by . He has his Bolts , Sol has his Silver Bow , Nuptune is for his Trident fear'd , and for your Quiver , you .

ELYZIUM , OR , THE KINGDOM of LOVE . A POEM Address'd to AMASIA . You Wilds , and Plains , you Groves , and grateful Woods , You pleasing Streams , and you delightful Floods To your blest shades a Love-Sick Swain retires , Be you the Scenes of my neglected Fires . A gen'rous Friend till now possest my Soul , But now Amasia has usurpt it whole . A real Friendship our desires can move , Yet still there 's something more Divine in Love . Driv'n by her Scorn , and by my own despair , I seek your shades , yet she pursues me there . Her Beauteous Image in my Thoughts appears , And every Form , I think of , borrows her's . Wildly I run thro' all the Thickest Groves , And in despairing Accents tell my Loves . To Fair Amasia I am doom'd to pray , Though Deaf as Winds , and Raging as the Sea . Proud as the Heav'ns , and Brighter than the Sun , Like that , for Men to fix their wonder on . To Sing of War once Sylvius try'd in vain , His Numbers fail'd him , and his lofty strain . To peaceful Reeds his Martial Launces turn , It is the business of his Muse to Mourn . From Nassaw's Camps She Sings Amasia's Charms , Her Eyes , are Conqu'ring as the Hero's Arms. I with Amasia only wage my War , And only wish that I may Triumph there , The World be his , let me but Conquer her . She Wounds my Soul , yet can 't my Flames approve , She wont be bought with Poetry or Love . Here , Mourning here , then will I sadly Sing , And bless those Eyes from which my sorrows Spring . Here , all consum'd , all languishing I 'll lie , And speak of her in the sad honour I die . My latest Breath shall beg the Gods by pray'r , To make my Mistress their peculiar care . Not Delia shall , Amasia , vie with thee , You excel her , as Sacharissa , she . O that I now could write in moving strains , Soft as her Daphnis does , when he complains , His Charming Courtship so her Soul could fill , That she was pleas'd to hear him wooe her still . In after times your Praise shall Lovers move , With Fonder Passion than their present Love . Thro' eating Ages safe your Fame shall fly , Ne'er shall Amasia , nor her Sylvius dye . Both by my Poem shall immortal grow , I for my Love , as for your Beauty you . Whilst Wit and War give some a lasting Name , I from my Flames shall draw a brighter Fame . In glorious Arms the Thund'rer shines above , Caesar , and greater Nassaw come the next to Jove , I am the Caesar here — I am the Nassaw in the Field of Love . Tho' not my Verse , all shall my Passion praise , It is . 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that kill me , make me ever live . Mine shall be dies , have Eyes . While Swains have hearts , and Charming Maids In all my Lines they shall such softness see , That the whole World shall Learn to Love of me .

Passionate Fondness . MY Passion sure might be enough to move , The tend'rcst pity in the Queen of Love . But she her self , not ev'n she can know The racking Pains that I endure for you . My Flames are more than I my self believe , I know I Love , but know not if I live . My Passions far beyond my Thoughts extend , Soon shall my Life — But Oh! my 〈◊〉 Love shall never end . Pity your Sylvius , dear Amasia , do , That wretched Youth , whom you have render'd so . Oh! you can Cure me , who have Pow'r to kill , You must relent , my Fair , — I know , you will . Your Thoughts are soft , but I want Arts to Charm , I can't express how my desires are warm . Who speaks hisFlames shews they but faintly shine , His Love ne'er , flew to such excess as Mine , The Passion Sylvius feels Mounts all Divine . Oh! could you , but one Moment , know my Pain , Know all the tedious suff'rings of your Swain , Be well convinc'd how I sincerely Burn , Sure you at last would make me some Return . Reward your Sylvius with a Mutual Love , Both will be happy as the blest above . How does the thought thro' all my vitals run ! How does the very thought transport alone ! That were it self , but Oh! it hasts to flee , That were it self reward enough for me . For you I live , to you alone I pray , And your Lov'd Name is all that I can say . Thy Dear Idea still my fancy Frames , Thou art the Charming Phantom of my Dreams . Thro' Clouds of Night thy Beauteous Image flies , And wantons loosly where your Lover lies . You are my Dearer self , my Life , my Soul , Sylvius is only yours , you have him whole . When e'er you speak , my Senses wait your tongue . And they are all on each Dear accent hung . There lives a Charm in ev'ry thing you do , Whom e'er you hate , I hate extreamly too , And Love , with Passion , all belov'd by you . You are alone all I desire to see , For I have all the World in having thee . While you are safe , I no misfortunes know , Nor am I well , but when Amasia's so . You , you alone are all I wish to please , And when you die , shall Sylvius being cease . What mighty dangers could I brave for thee , If but thy pity the reward might be . What could I stand at , if desir'd by you ! What could not Sylvius for Amasia do . Inspir'd with Love , my Soul sits rais'd on high , And Burns with Noble rage , when you are by . From you my Thoughts , from you my Actions flow ' 'T is you create all I can think or do . 'T is you can give me an Eternal Name , And make it bright , and glorious as my Flame . With thee alone I would desire to live , Had I but thee , what could I more receive . In Sandy desarts I could dwell with thee , Blest , where no Creature ever stept , but we . Nor Woods , nor Wilds , nor Seas could make me fear , Where'er you are , there is a Tempe there . Lost in some Isle , where raving Oceans roar , And dash the rocks upon the barren shore . Where breaking Waves make all the place resound , And Eccho Thunder the whole Island round . Where Monstrous Fish thro' all the Surges play , With Voices louder than their Mother Sea . Where Billows Foam , lasht by the raging Tide , And nought but horrid Salvages reside . With thee , Amasia , I could there be blest , With thee , my Love , were I of thee possest . My great concern would be to guard thee there , To save my Mistress should be all my care . Secure from Storms , and every Beast of prey , Tho' thou art sure more cruel far than they . A Scene not very 〈◊〉 here I choose , A place Convenient for the Mourning Muse. To dark Recesses , and to Groves I run , But carry with me all I wish to shun , You shoot thro' Thickets , like the Noon-day Sun . Well might I fancy thee Divine to be , For thou art every where alike to me . O could I think that I were so to you , That I were always with Amasia too . Here , a long exile from my Love I bear . Repeated slights thus drive me to despair .

Despair . DIstracted now thro' every den I rove , Search each recess , and visit every Grove , Swift thro' confusion to sind out my Love . Thro' Woods , and Wilds , in Caves I Search in vain , To Heav'n I look , and thro' the Fields complain , But all unkindly answer not again . Next , to some Brook ; or shady Vale I fly , Thinking my fair may in some grotto lye . In vain ! alass ! my weary Limbs I bear , I only sind thou art a stranger there . Then , stung with Passion , and o'ercome with Pain . To Heav'n I loudly of my wrongs complain . The panting Beasts which 〈◊〉 ' the Forests rove , Have now no longer any Power to move , But stand amaz'd to hear my tale of Love . Then , all confusion , all despair , I rise , And throw my Arms to the regardless Skies . Thence to the Ocean 's Sandy banks I run , View both the rising , and declining Sun . Like that , my Thought a constant motion bears , And when I rest , I set in Seas of Tears . Rais'd with my griefs , and overcome with woes , I sadly sigh to every Wind that blows . Wild with despair , I view the Billows round , Thinking some wave may with my love be crown'd , While my complaints o'er all the shores resound . Tell me , I cry , ye Surges , tell me true , Is not Amasia hid in some of you ? No thought alas ! can my Mind's Storms appease , No second Venus will arise from Seas . Then , fierce as Whirlwinds on the strands I Walk , And loud as Thunder to my self I talk ; When from my Eyes I shed a gentle show'r , And lay those Tempests I had rais'd before . Rack'd with my gridfs , my Anxious Soul survives , Dash'd like a ship which with the Billows drives . Thence , to the plains my fainting Limbs I bear , Lost still in Love , and lost in Errour there . In a deep Vale , where a thick Covert grows , I fondly strive to be at soft repose . But there I find , nor Sea , nor Cave , nor Wood , Nor Stars , nor Heav'n it self can do me good . Wild Thoughts distract me in those grateful bow'rs ' I take each gentle Breeze's Voice for yours . Whilst by Succession day and night return , I , greatly curs'd , must never cease to mourn . Yet Groves like these did once the Joys improve , Of blest Adonis , and the Queen of Love . So might I rifle my Amasia's Charms , And clasp my Goddess in my burning Arms. How strangely blest might she her Sylvius see , And make her self more happy , blessing me . Securely close , and from all Cities far , Remote from tumults , and the noise of War . In secret shades she might my Passion crown ; There my Amasia might be all my own . As boist'rous Storms endear the distant shore : And hardship always shews our Joys the more . So should she make me Court her even there , And e'er she blest me , let me tast despair . Whilst peaceful silence Reigns thro' all the bow'rs , And ev'n no Whispers can be heard , but ours . There we shall ne'er fear any watchful Spies . None but the Moon sees where Amasia lies . Such Thought as these my waking wishes fly , Tho' none , Amasia loves so fixt as I. Ev'n tho' you hate me most , I Love you still , Nor would be cur'd of my Tormenting ill . My very pain yields me some pleasure now , I joy to smart , since 't is impos'd by you . A greater bless Lives in my deep despair , Than in the Smiles of any other Fair.

Admiration . FIrst when I saw you ! how all chang'd I grew ! My Blood thrill'd quick , and light'ning pierc'd me thro . I view'd , all ravishment , your Charming Pow'rs , When my Eyes dazzled with the sight of yours . 〈◊〉 I look'd on , and pleasingly was fir'd , 〈◊〉 , and gaz'd , and as I gaz'd , admir'd . My kindling Flames your sunny glances fed , And your each motion made them rage and spread . Strange , unknown Passions wrought my fancy high , Rais'd with desires , when I beheld you 〈◊〉 , I long'd extreamly , Charm'd at every view , While to excess my eager wishes flew . When e'er you stept , how brightly did you move ! You were all Charms , and made my Soul all Love . What Beauteous awe in all your form was seen ! And Oh! how Sweet , how taking was your mien ! No fancy'd Goddess does so brightly shine , Oh! you were all , all ravishing Divine . No Pencil here , were it a task assign'd , Could Paint your Face , no Pen describe your Mind . Believe your Swain , by thy Dear self 't is true , Thy self I Love , and I Love only you . I prize thee high as fancy'd Joys above , I would not quit thee for the Queen of Love . No , not to sway the Scepter of the Skies , For you can give me more than Monarchs Joys . In thee the Pow'rs made all their wonders shine , They made thy Form , they made thy Breast Divine , Could it but Pity all the Pains in mine . How hard alas ! is your lost Lover's Fate , How oft did I for your admittance wait ? Deny'd the freedom to reveal my ill , And shew the racking Tortures that I feel . To tell how much the wretched Sylvius burns , Fondly to tell , but meet no kind returns . To stand all languishing beside my fair , To move the truest , and the tend'rest Pray'r , Gently to press her hands , to melt , and swear .

Address . ONce at your Feet you saw your Sylvius Kneel , Unmov'd with anguish he was doom'd to feel . You hear'd his Sighs , you saw his Tears run down , You saw them all , but you return'd him none . How shall I now my swelling Passion tell , Which best my silence did ev'n then reveal ? Your Charming form kindles excessive Fires , And something wond'rous as it self inspires . In looks , and sighs , I faintly spoke my Soul , Nought but Possession could express it whole . While on your Knees the ruin'd Sylvius hung , Imperfect Words fell from his fault'ring Tongue In sighs and wishes lost , did Sylvius lye , And his sick Soul lay melting in his Eye . Fasten'd with longings on your Charming Face , And scarce he rose to the last dear embrace . In vain , in vain , was all his Passion mov'd , The wretched Swain must never , never be belov'd .

Parting . PArting I felt most Mortal pangs , and smart , I felt your scorn , and I resolv'd to part . Think ! think , Amasia , with what pains I strove My long fixt Eyes from thy dear Face to move . Not Men condemn'd with deadlier anguish go , To meet their fate , than I to part from you . Yes , I remember , too , too well I may , When my despair deny'd my longer stay , And urg'd me from my self , and thee more dear , away . With forward steps to seek my fair I ran , Resolv'd to part , resolv'd to part a Man . Resolv'd no more to be a Slave , and pine , But be my self , and be no longer thine . Onward in hast to thy abode I flew , To see , to leave , and not to Love thee too , But with dry Eyes to bid a long Adieu . To thy Apartment boldly now I came , And hop'd , and fancy'd that I felt no flame . Not as a Lover I approach'd thee near , Ask'd what Commands you had for me to bear . Scornful you Smil'd , and answer'd you had none , Then , sixt I stood , a perfect Lover grown . With silent Admiration there I gaz'd , The more I look'd , I grew the more amaz'd . My awful , trembling , wishing Eyes I drew , I took them off , but to look on anew . On thy dear Face fond glances still they cast , They look'd , to see when they should look their last . With wakeful Eyes so have I often lain , Expecting Sleep to case my Mortal pain , But Expectation made the blessing vain . Thus , he who sees thee , and expects to go , Stands still expecting , and may still do so . With wat'ry Eyes I strove in vain to see , Take the last sight , since that the last must be . That I no more must thy dear Beauties view , Made streaming Tears flow from my Eyes anew , Denying then the Pow'r of seeing too . Strait , stagg'ring on , as to Salute , I bow'd , And stumbled near you , and you laugh'd aloud . With slow approaches , to your Lips I came , While your Eyes sparkled with disdainful flame . A glance so fierce rob'd me of all my Sense , It did no Sun-shine on your Lips dispense , But blasted the dear Fruits I should have gather'd thence . Leaving no Kiss lodg'd on thy Lovely Face , I totter'd feebly from the wish'd Embrace . My Heart beat thick , and now alarm'd me whole , Alarm'd my Senses , and alarm'd my Soul . It 's motions rose , to call me thence away , But ah ! that very motion urg'd my stay . By slow degrees from thy lov'd sight I drew , I sigh'd , and stood , to take another veiw , Turn'd often back — And gaz'd , and gaz'd , but could not bid adieu .

Absence . LIke wretches banish'd where no Sun appears , Your hopeless Lover all his suff'rings bears . Darkness and horrours spread before my view , I knew no light , since here remov'd from you . Yet still thy Image in my Breast I bear , Spight of my Soul , I find you always there . Would to my Thoughts you might be absent too , 〈◊〉 Thoughts alas ! do all my Pangs renew . My fancy brings thee to my ravish'd Eyes , But ah ! thy form ev'n from my fancy flyes . O'twere some ease to all the pains I feel , If I knew when I could remove the ill . But to the damn'd revolving Ages prove A Hell of Absence , not a Heav'n of Love . Eternal Racks , and Tortures must I 〈◊〉 , And know no change , but to more deep despair . Unhappy Orpheus , of his Wife bereft , With sad remorse the gloomy Mansions left . Lethe's dark streams he did to light prefer , Yet , spight of Lethe , he remember'd her . On those sad Banks the tuneful Poet 〈◊〉 , And with regret back to the World return'd . Worse far than his my fated ills I find , 'T was Hell he 〈◊〉 , but I leave Heav'n behind .

Jealousy . GReat are the griefs which in my absence move , And still my Jealousy torments my Love . Tho' I my self must ne'er thy Charms possess , 'T is Death to think you should another bless . O let my Rival's flames be ne'er return'd , 'T is Hell enough that I in vain have burn'd , For envy rages in a Passion scorn'd . Now , now perhaps some fav'rite Youth is blest , And clasps thee panting to his ravish'd breast . Hark , how he speaks , and sighs ! — He Kneels , and Bows , and languishes the rest .

Platonick Love . HOW with Amasia could I wish to live ; The dearest blessing that the Gods could give . What Heav'n of Joys , what Raptures would be mine , Were you my darling , and were I but thine ! What vast delight your Passion would disclose , He , who with transport sees it , only knows . How sweet 's the Balm which from your Lips distills , The ravish'd Man , who gets the blessing , feels . Whose Love 's return'd , who hears your tender Sighs , And sees kind looks from your relenting Eyes . Who now no more must languish all in vain , But makes his pleasure what was once his pain . Receives vast bliss for his orerated Toils , Views all his Heav'n Serene , and drest in smiles . Secures you gently in his longing Arms , And is all Joys , as you are all o'er Charms . Presses your hand , and slowly steals a Kiss , To shew consent , you softly too press his . He hears ten thousand moving Words from you , You think , Amasia , his Words moving too . With oft repeated transports , you express , Great as his Passion is , yours is not less . Such tender things you speak , so much they move , His Soul lives yours , and ev'ry pulse beats Love . In vast Elyziums of delight he feeds , No other bliss , no other Heav'n he needs . He feels your fragrant Breath , surveys your Air , Views all the Charms of his transporting fair . Beholds the taking Beauties of your Face , And struggles inwards to a near Embrace . Rais'd by peculiar glories which surprize , With softest glances from your kinder Eyes . Such as you ne'er to any Mortal show , But him alone who is belov'd by you . Still new Delights , new Pleasures always Crown That Happy Man , whom you could call your own . What Heav'nly Joys , what vast , what Sacred bliss , Could be exprest , or thought of , more than this ! That is the point , where circling Pleasures move , When Happy Lovers have returns of Love . Such Sweets can scarcely be by Death destroy'd , Where , not the Body , but the Soul 's enjoy'd . Such blest delight I was not born to feel , For 〈◊〉 too truly , Love too well . Yet , when from hence , to darker Groves I go , And view the Shades , and Fragrant Bow'rs below . When griefs no more , but lasting Joys appear , There in some Grotto shall I sind my Fair. Freed from those pangs which long have rack'd my Breast , None shall be there more Happy , none more blest . Since here my Passion was all o'er Divine , My Lov'd Amasia will be only mine .

Elyzium . LOW in the thought that pleasant Kingdom lies , Which is o'erflown , and Hemm'd around with Joys . Bright , Silver Gates lead to it 's peaceful Lands , Round which a Wall of lofty Chrystal stands . The Happy Dwellers here are ever young , And flowing pleasures gently rowl along . No chilling Winter , no cold Frost is here , But Spring , and Summer make up all the Year . No Stormy Night show'rs gloomy Terrours down , Fair Morns and Ev'nings here are only known . Here Thousand Flow'rs of divers sorts are found , And Nature's hand paints all the Gawdy ground . The blushing Roses here for ever bloom , No hurtful Blasts to their soft Beauties come . But tender Winds their pleasing Odours bear , And breath them sweetly in the Fragrant Air. Thro' all the Meads clear , Liquid Chrystal Glides , And softly twines by the Banks flow'ry sides . Silent it runs , where it delights to stray , And gently cuts it's rich , enamel'd way . Here , the bright Field a Shining Harvest bears , The Corn has Silver stalks , and real Golden Ears . The glorious Trees a Sparkling Lustre show , With Glitt'ring Jewels , which they bear , they bow . Of these , the blest , bright Crowns and Bracelets wear , And every Lover Walks in transport there . Just o'er their Heads there hangs a Silver Sky , And painted Clouds above them slowly fly . Each Beauteous Maid does her Swain's flames approve , And all are Happy here in Poetry , and Love . Harmonious Musick plays thro' every Shade , O'er which their Wings Coerulean Turtles spread . To grateful Groves the blessed Pairs retire , With Charms still new , and ever sierce desire . In Shining bow'rs , which Silver leafs adorn , They reap those Joys , for which their flames were born . There , in those Mansions I shall shortly move , And Halcyon Days shall Crown my sated Love . All o'r in tansport shall I meet my Fair , And offer then another tender Pray'r . Sighing my flames , all prostrate shall I fall , And , kneeling to her , softly whisper all . 'Till forc'd , at length , for her own ease to tell , Since thro' her scorn the wretched Sylvius fell , She knew he Lov'd , and owns she Loves as well . Then , hand in hand , where'er our pleasure leads , We walk together thro' the flow'ry Meads . When both with heighten'd raptures full exprest . Vent all our Passion in each other's Breast . Then shall Amasia to her Swain declare Her Flames were here reserv'd , to shew them there . Such Love is subject to no Anxious fears , Too blest for troubles , too Serene for cares . There shall we all our tender Thoughts express , Her 's Will be wond'rous , nor can mine be less . Ravish'd with Joys , in Extasies we move , And think , and talk of nothing else but Love . Revolving Days shall Crown your Swain , and you , And both our pleasures shall seem always new . Whilst all the blest with Admiration see No pair so Happy in those Shades as we .

The End of the First Book .

AMASIA , OR , THE Works of the Muses . Containing the MISTRESS of LOVE . Vol. I. Book II. Est quoque carminibus meritas celebrare puellas Dos mea .

TO THE Right Honourable THE Lady SANDWICH . MADAM ,

AS your Great Father Reign'd our Monarch in Wit throughout all its Spacious Regions , but Resided most in the most Flowry Fields of Poetry , I , who am a Tenant , ( tho' a Poor one ) of the Muses land he sway'd , claim thence a Subject's right of throwing my self into your Ladyship's Protection . And as there is no Salique Law impos'd the Throne of Wit , permit me to salute your Ladyship the Muses Queen ; the Crown is yours by True Descent , and Just Succession ; but why should I , rais'd to no Eminency in Verse , pretend to make the Declaration , when the World already has Proclaim'd you so . Your Ladyship's Character of Wit sits Crown'd by the Universal Admiration , as well as the Universal Consent of Mankind . And had not this noble Empire of the Soul devolv'd on your Ladyship by Birth , Succession must have been excluded , and by Election you had been courted to receive the Scepter . But 't is your Ladyship's by Descent , as well as by Desert ; so equally by both , I find my self at a loss to determine , whether your Ladyship receives more glory by the World 's acknowledging the late , and ever admirable Earl of Rochester , your Father ; or his Memory , by the World 's boasting the incomparable Lady Sandwich his Daughter .

Thus , Madam , your Ladyship and your Father become Rivals in Fame : And indeed , none besides , can without Arrogance pretend any Claim , where such a Candidate as your Ladyship appears . Your Father sway'd the Heaven of Poetry , at once the awful and the Youthful Jove , his Judgement , and his Fancy , were the Light'ning and the Thunder which he brandish'd . Thus great he rul'd , — and all his Attributes are yours . Your Ladyship lives the Minerva , and seems the charming Off-spring of the very brain of Jove . 'T is your Ladyship's to be beauteous , but yet to be above it . Your Ladyship's Soul transcends all outward form , your Wit 's the truest Venus ; not like the light , fictitious Goddess , sprung from froth , but from the noblest Fountain , the very Helicon of Poesy . Your Ladyship thus deriv'd , I would insinuate thence the freedom of this Address , and turn my presumption to a Duty ; for every Poet stands oblig'd to approach , and to revere the Streams which flow immediate from the Muses Spring . 'T is part of the Muses Works I here presume to present your Ladyship , and if there shall be any offence to be conceiv'd at the present , it cannot be because I offer this , but because I withhold the rest , for all the Works of every Muse are yours . The Mistress of Love lies a suppliant at your Ladyship's Feet , at the Feet of the Mistress , and the Queen of Wit ; and , ( ever fond of his inseperable Amasia , ) with her , lies prostrate too ,

MADAM , Your Ladyship 's Most devoted Humble Servant .

THE MISTRESS of LOVE .

Being some Copies , written on Occasions , to Amasia by her own Command .

To Amasia , on her drawing her own Picture . SO just a form you to your Picture give , So like your own , that it appears to live . Your very shadow Charms beholders more , Than any real substance could before . O view it not , such is its Pow'r to move , Narcissus like , you may your Image love . So wond'rous lively is the shade you drew , That Heav'n alone could finer Painting shew , In one fair Piece , when it had finish'd you . In me your skill does fond desires create , And Painted fires , I find , can cause a heat . If to your draught my Passion life could give , I , like Pigmalion soon should make it live . Great as Prometh'us his , your Work appears , And from your Eyes it got the fires it bears . Justly you knew no other 's hands could draw , The killing Charms which in your Face you saw . Painting your light'nings , any else would prove , Like him , who flashing from his Bridge above , Fell by those arms which he assum'd from Jove . He will with Phaeton dire hazzards run , Who dares attempt the Chariot of the Sun . 'T is you alone have Pow'r to play with fire , And not like Mortal Semele expire . Her Lover , here , if in your paths he trod , Had been inflam'd , tho' the great thund'ring God . He , whilst attempting what by you is done , Would have felt light'nings fiercer than his own . This , like Saints pictures , with design I view , To raise my Zeal , when I would Worship you .

To Amasia , holding a drawn Sword in her Hand . THus like destroying Angels do you stand , Brandishing vengeance with your Charming hand . Thus with your flaming Sword do you appear To guard that Paradise Heav'n planted here . Thus are you like the Ruler of the Skies , With thunder in your hands , and light'ning in your Eyes . Attempting you , Man would worse rashness prove , Than Capan'us , who brav'd the mighty Jove . All Mortals sure must with this sight be charm'd , A Venus Naked , and a Pallas arm'd .

To Amasia , tickling a Gentleman . MEthinks , I see how the blest Swain was lay'd , While round his sides your nimble Fingers play'd With pleasing softness did they swiftly rove , Raising the Sweet , Delicious pangs of Love , While , at each touch , they made his Heart strings . move . As round his Breast , his ravish'd Breast they crow'd , We hear their Musick , when he laughs aloud . You ply him still , and as he melting lies , Act your soft Triumphs , while your Captive dies . Thus , he perceives , thou , Dearest , Charming Fair ! Without your Eyes , you can o'ercome him there . Thus too he shews what 's your unbounded skill , You please , and charm us , tho' at once you kill . Lodg'd in your Arms , he does in transport lie , While thro' his Veins the fancy'd light'nings fly , And , gush'd with vast delights , I see him hast to die .

To Amasia , playing with a Clouded Fan. WIth such resistless grace your Fan you weild , 'T is now your Sword , and 't is , when spread , your Sheild . In your Fair hand so great a Pow'r there 's found , You guard your self with what may others wound . This , your Fam'd Ensign , to the World does prove You Queen of War , as well as Queen of Love . Yet , by your charming skill , you make it show A greater force than is in Cupid's Bow . For , from your art my growing Passion came , And what cools you , has set your Slave on flame . That Windy Wing , on air it causes , flies , And wafts bright glories from your radiant Eyes . But should it now bestow me all its aid , It would but make those fires , it kindled , spread . To what excess must you Victorious grow , If , when you cool us , you can burn us so ! This Fan may you from the Sun's-Beams preserve , But 'gainst your Eyes no such slight shade can serve . Not all those Clouds the pitying Artist drew , Can bar those brighter rays , which dart from you . From your dear Face , as from a fairer Sky , Thro' the thick painted Fogs , swift , shining glances fly . So like true light'ning is the flashing flame , As if , from those dark Clouds , not from your Eyes it came . The fatal Sword , which Paradise did guard , With threat'ning fire Mankind from blessings barr'd . The dreadful Engine with hot Vengeance burn'd , And with wild Danger , as it flam'd , it turn'd . But from your Toy thick Clouds of smoak arise , While in the Cheat much a worse ruin lies , Hiding the flames of your destructive Eyes . In all things else , it does like that appear , And 't is a Cherub too that does this Weapon bear . Almost for the same ends they both were giv'n , To fence from Par'dise that , and this , from Heav'n .

To Amasia asking me if I slept well , after so tempestuous a Night as the last was , when we parted , and desiring me to describe it . YES , Dear Amasia , I slept Heav'nly well , Not Poets raptures could my blessings tell . Not Jove himself slept more a God than I , Tho' at thy door I did dejected lie . He on a flying state-bed richly made , Rock'd by young thunder , is in transport lay'd , Where little Gods sit smiling o'er his head . A gawdy Cloud for his gay quilt he wears , With Sun-beams fring'd , and studded o'er withStars . A little Heaven his Canopy above , Where the pale Moon with her Attendants move . The watching lights in drowsy twinklings peep , And wink by turns , as if they wanted sleep . There , painted dreams round his lull'd temples Swarm And Cluster'd fancies break in Forms that Charm . Whilst profound silence fills the Heav'nly round , And the Night seems in it's own darkness drown'd . In purling streams the Chrystal Water flows , And by its murmurs seals his soft repose . Thus Jove lay , truly Jove — I had a dream , O most Coelestial sweet , Which but to think of , yields me transport yet : Mars in possession of the Paphian Queen , Felt no such Extasies as mine have been . Such heights of rapture but in thought can lie , There they will live , but would in Speeches die , And the glad Winds would with their accents fly . Not that I dream't I fought , or conqu'ring , rode In a Triumphant Chariot like an Earthly God . No , my Amasia , the big breath of Fame Could not puff me beyond what now I am . Soon as I found you could no longer stay , I walk'd near half the lonely Night away . The Night , which seem'd in gloomy shades to Mourn , And put on sadness till your bright return . With me , it seem'd your absence to deplore , When you , all sparkling lustre , shin'd no more . The Silver Moon , with Joy , while here you stay'd , ( As if from you her borrow'd stores she had , ) Shone at the full with more than usual Light , And , swell'd with Pride , reign'd Empress of the Night , O'er all Heaven's Vault she rode in Pompous show , As if she glory'd to be seen by you . But when thou , Fairest charming Sun , wert gone , She put her darkest , cloudy Mantles on ; No gawdy Star appear'd thro' all the Skies , But they wept dew , till they lost all their Eyes . Why should those lights remain , since after thee There is no object worth their while to see . From the scorch'd Heav'ns large flakes of light'nings flew , The very Heav'ns have suffer'd flames for you ; For on the Gods your Eyes have flashes thrown , More bright , and far more Conqu'ring than their own . Ev'n Jove himself for thy lost presence hurl'd His flaming Bolts o'er all the frighted World . Thus did He once for Semele deplore , And speak in thunder — She is now no more . In mildest flames he that lost Mistress Mourn'd , But in more fierce for bright Amasia burn'd . His Skies have twice a mighty hazzard run ; By one before , now by a brighter Sun . The sleeping flowers did their gay Beauties hide , As if their paint should be no more descry'd , And hung their heads , rob'd of their blooming Pride . The Mourning Spheres did with slow motions rowl , And groans of thunder ran from Pole to Pole . Themselves the Clouds with pangs of anguish tore , With their ripe Birth of Vengeance first they roar , Then fly , as frighted at what late they bore . The wondring Eccho from the hollow ground , In fearful Voice return'd the thund'ring sound . The angry Winds wrought up the Ocean so , The flashing Seas appear'd to lighten too , Where curling Clouds of roaring Billows drew . Then , while I lay , rock'd by the thund'ring Night , I soon beheld my Scene of vast delight . Thy dear Idea to thy Lover came , And I embrac'd thee in a Charming dream . Our blisses flew not in the Common road , You were all Heav'n , and Sylvius all a God . As when in trances ravish'd Infants lie , They see the boundless Blessings of the Sky , So , at that time , that happy time , did I. Alas ! how weak's their Judgment , and how poor , Who call Death sleep , but on a longer score , For I did ne'er so truly live before . Oh! that the Night could have for ever stay'd ! Ah! too , too soon it's fleeting glories fled ; When lovelier far , than was the Fairest Day , Her Shield of Clouds to pointed rays gave way , And on her Wings bore thee , and all my Joys away .

To Amasia speaking an Extempore Verse . YOU shoot such darts they cannot fail to hit , You Charm with Beauty , and you Charm with Wit . Thus by your Art you raise my envy more Than all your Charms could my desires before . Minerva's strife with the Fair Venus ends , Both join'd in you , the Goddesses grow Friends . Sweet is your form , and in your Verse we find , The lovely Notions of as Sweet a Mind . So softly smooth your Charming numbers flow , Scarce can your own Fair Bosom smoother show . You , like creative Heav'n your Labours Frame ; You spoke the Word , and at your Breath they came .

To Amasia , still promising to Sing , but never performing . ( 1. ) AMasia wrongs me of my Song , Yet is not much to blame , She knows my fate hangs on her Tongue , She knows her breath would spread my flame . ( 2. ) With sounds as pleasing as the Spheres , The lovely Fair denies , To Charm my Soul into my Ears , And sing the triumphs of her Eyes . ( 3. ) Mean tho' she thinks the prize she won , Her Slave not worthy of that Grace , Yet knows by what he was undone , An Angel's Voice , an Angel's Face . ( 4. ) Your every Breath does Musick bear , A Song from you might kill ; I only now desire to hear You sweetly thus deny me still

Meeting Amasia at a Young Lady's Funeral . YOU mourn the Nymph deceas'd , mourn Sylvius too , For since forgot , sure I am dead to you . These gloomy Torches , Hymen , hence remove , And from their fires light thy fair Lamps of Love .

To Amasia , on her Recovery from a fall . UNhurt , undaunted at the Impious ground , You only struck , that you might higher bound . The Am'rous Clay , that it might closer cleave , Sunk down so deep , that it appear'd a Grave . But long it could not the lov'd burthen bear , Not you , but it 's own hopes lay buried there . The ruder stones , with tremblings , looser grew , And felt a softness , when but touch'd by you . Oh! had you lay'n , soon all the Winds would Jar , And , making Love , they would have made a War . But your recov'ry , from the danger , shows , You fell like thunder , and like light'ning rose . No Atlas here of your lov'd weight is proud , This Heav'n can't fall , tho' it has lately bow'd .

To Amasia , holding a Burning-Glass in her Hand . WHilst in your hand this Chrystal Glass I view , It seems almost to be as bright as you . Whilst your Eyes dazling glories on it run , You make me fancy 't is another Sun . This Glass an Emblem of your coldness proves , For that encreases , and inflames my Loves . So , when on me your snowy hand you turn , The solid Ice you hold , boasts Pow'r to burn . I now believe the Sun in Oceans lies , Here , on a frozen Sea , we find Amasia's Eyes . Ah! charming Fair , you seem , while thus you stand , Like Heav'n's dread thund'er arm'd , with light'nings in your hand . Flashes from thence must vain , and useless prove , For , who but once sees you , feels fiercer flames in Love , The proud Salmon'us ne'er such light'nings threw , As from your Silver Cloud are cast by you . He had with that been thought a God below , But , had he your fair Eyes , he had been truly 〈◊〉 His Sky of brass had the vast Heav'ns excel'd , And the great thund'rer there , had been by him 〈◊〉 'T is he the real Deity would prove Thy Beauty's flashes would have kindled Love , And , worse than Jove did him , he would have blasted Jove .

To Amasia , looking , at me , thro' a Multiplying-Glass . BY the strange Pow'r , which in this Glass is shown , You view a thousand Slaves , yet all your own . Justly , so many Lovers do you see , For there is Love enough for all in me . Thus may you find , before your sight display'd , Almost as many , as your looks have made . No wonder still I lov'd those Eyes , before , By whose bright rays this Cloud is Silver'd o'er . Thus , by your Art , the World your Pow'r descrys , You make this Glass more Fair than others Eyes . Strange seems this Charming skill of yours to me , How can this Winter with your Spring agree ! What rigid Coldness in your Breast must lie , When all this Ice dwells solid at your Eye !

To Amasia , Singing , and sticking Pins in a Red Silk Pincushion . ( 1. ) AS the vex'd Tyrant , when for Blood design'd , Stabs the dull ground , and Murthers in his Mind So , Fair Amasia , with a Barb'rous skill , Piercing the Cushion , shews how she would kill . ( 2. ) All this you do , to prove what Pow'r you have , The Cushion seems to Bleed , such Wounds you gave ; Whilst I , in Emblem , all my tortures see , Your Pins pierce that , as your Eyes wounded me . ( 3. ) This flaming Mount with AEtna may compare , Here , Cupid's shafts , there are the Arms of War ; Sure then Love's AEtna must be only here , That , holds Jove's thunder , this , Amasia's Spear . ( 4. ) See now , with how small force her Launces fall ! Just with such carelesness , she wounds us all . To kill , not toil to her , the Tyrant Joys , And Syren like , she Sings , while she destroys . ( 5. ) Orpheus his lyre did Ancient Woods remove , None e'er , but you , with Musick set a Grove . Your Silver 〈◊〉 come dancing to your hand , And , where you place them , there they rooted stand .

To Amasia , on her correcting a line of Mr. Waller's , as she read it . IN reading Waller's , so your Wit is shown , That , what he wrote , is most esteem'd your own . If you should think , what might we hope from you , Who can so carelesly , such wonders do ! Just so , your Beauty 's shown in Charming ways ; You are admir'd , yet , take no pains to please . At once obliging , you at once offend , You spoil the Poet , and the Poem mend . If in his Age you had adorn'd the Isle , He had preferr'd you to his lov'd Carlisle . Carlisle and you had been in all he writ , For Beauty she , you fam'd for that , and Wit . Amphion like , from a disorder'd heap , You make harsh Words in Beauteous numbers leap . Your Work shall last , when his is wholly gone , More firm than that , tho' 't is compos'd of stone . High as his Theban Walls , your stile appears , Yet , like the Plains , a Fruitful crop it bears . Thro' confus'd letters so your fancy shines , Like the Sun's Rays , it lightens Waller's lines . His Sense , like some rude , unform'd Chaos lay , In gloomy Night till you Commanded day . From your creating Breath it's form it drew , His discord is made Harmony by you . So , jarring seeds , and undigested , came , By Heav'en's strange Pow'r , to an Harmonious frame . His happy Verses , tho' obscure a while , From your Fair Eyes put on new looks , and smile . Such Charming force in your each Glance I see , As they light them , they cause a heat in me . All must admire your Num'rous Pow'rs to move , The Queen of Wit , and yet the Queen of Love ! We , in your Verse transporting Beauties find , The Muses most to their own Sex are kind . Since Charming Daphne to a Laurel turn'd , For whom so long the young Apollo burn'd . When brighter Fires shot from her Radiant Eyes , Than those his Chariot bears thro' Summer Skies . E'er since that time , for none so much she grew , With bending boughs , as she does now for you .

To Amasia , troubled with a redness in her Eyes , on her saying , she would Charm me with them . ( 1. ) THose threats , which once I fear'd , will prove A Fatal truth , I see , Thy Eyes so scorch'd with flames of Love , Must quickly kindle me . Those Sp'rits , which chain'd to Circles , now I view , Will quite destroy me , when let loose by you . ( 2. ) By their own Radiant Glances fir'd , Your Charming Eyes themselves did wrong , But , when their light'nings are expir'd , Assume the thunder of the tongue . Now Cupid claims the Salamander's fame , Bask'd in your Eyes , he 's nourish'd so in flame . ( 3. ) But whilst you thus would others Charm , And make your Conquests full , Perillus like , your self you harm , And try , the first , your burning Bull. The wond'ring World , should you want sight , would find . The Queen of Love , like her fam'd Son , were blind .

To Amasia , on the falling of her Terras-Walks . SUch was Amphion , so his Airs could move , That the stones danc'd to his softSongs of Love . Could I like Pow'r in Charming Numbers use , ( Charming indeed , since you inspire my Muse , ) Soon should your lofty 〈◊〉 delight our view , Like their Fair Mistress , high , and pleasing 〈◊〉 Then should my Verse in softest measures flow , Soft as those streams which gently glide below . My Thoughts should like their Silver Fishes shine , With quick , bright glitterings thro'each moving line . Then might these Walks 〈◊〉 a Noble Theme . When like the lovely Paphian Queen you seem , Presiding here o'er your own Native stream . Then might I sing how from these Walls , afar Your Guns , and Eyes subdue in Love and War . Sing , how we might along your dreaded shore , Your light'nings view , and hear your thunder roar . How , like a Goddess , from these Walls on high , You see your Floods beneath spread out a watrySky . How justly those transcend the Silver Thames , How your bright Eyes play on them with their Beams , And so Love's Fires rise from the Silver streams . How they would ne'er flow o'er the flowry meads , Or any paths where their Fair Mistress treads . Thus might I sing what thoughts the prospect yields , Nymphs in the Rivers , Sylvans in the Fields ; Describe the flow'ry Banks , and spreading Groves ; Where Swains , and Virgins , tell their Mutual Loves . But that the Walks , fond of what once they bore , When they were Crown'd with your dear Feet no more , Fell , to complain along the murm'ring shore . And yet such greatness in their ruins lies , Their fall , methinks , but makes my fancy rise . So , when your Beauties ( if that time can come ) Shall lose the Sweetness of their present bloom , Ev'n your decays shall raise our wonder more , Their Ebbs shall show the vastness of their store , Which Charm'd Admirers Eyes who saw their tides before .

The Dream , beginning with the Description of Night . Written to Amasia . AN awful silence , like a full swol'n main , Does in deep Pomp o'er the Creation Reign . The quiet night it 's gloomy darkness spreads , O'er all the Plains , o'er all the flow'ry Meads , And sits in dismal triumph o'er the Shades . Dissolv'd in silence all the World appears , As if entranc'd for many thousand Years . The sullen Heav'n no dusky twilight yields , But thick , damp Fogs lie heavy on the Fields . Thro' all the Lawns no fleeting shadow flies , So drowzy now , they have not Pow'r to rise . No Golden drops of light the Skies adorn , Nor ruddy East displays a rising Morn . The gather'd Heaven it 's dull Creation Shrowds , And drooping Mountains lean their Heads on Clouds . The bending Trees with full grown Fruits appear , As so at first they had their being here . The Ripen'd Corn with it 's own burthen prest , No longer Nods , but seems unmov'd , to rest . The very Winds no further discord keep , For they have Sung , and sigh'd themselves asleep . The absent Moon seems now no Pow'r to know , Nor are the Oceans heard to Ebb or flow . No longer now the raving Billows roar , But softest Breezes lull them on the shore . The Brooks no more the Woods with Murmurs fill , But , husht with purlings , as their fish , are still . All this great Landskip of one Colour seems , As if the Shining Sun ne'er painted it with Beams . When rack'd with griefs , which from my pangs arose , I seek my Bed , expecting there repose . Methought , while Night thus kept her perfect Noon , And no faint light came from the watchful Moon , You , lov'd Amasia , blest your ravish'd Swain , You fill'd my Soul in a delightful Scene . On a calm , silent , Silver stream we rode , Whilst thousand Tritons on the Waters trod , You like a Venus , I , the Ocean's God . The River's Banks were with tall Mirtles crown'd , And spreading Groves , and Shades grew all around . The tuneful Birds their sweetest Voices rais'd , As if they knew whom their soft strains had pleas'd . And the tall trees did all their branches bow , Not with their weight , but with respect to you . Our guilded Barge was by Young Dolphins drawn , Just like a Chariot o'er the flowry Lawn . Trappings adorn'd with Pearls , and Gemms , appear , And Plumes of Coral their strong Heads did rear . Our painted Seats bright , shining Beauties bore , Which Gods might , ( if not Charm'd with thee ) adore . Our Silver Oars , 〈◊〉 , smiling Cupids held , While , fill'd with Pride , our Silken Topsails swell'd . The Iv'ry Masts sustain'd Coerulean Doves , Which coo'd , and murmur'd in transporting Loves . With wanton Gales blew Flags in furlings roll'd , And Scarlet streamers flew , wrought o'er with Gold . All o'er divine did the great Pomp appear , The Watry Gods on Shells were sounding there , And Sea-Nymphs dancing in soft measures here . All the Attendance , Charming bright , like these , The Paphian Queen has on her Mother Seas . At the rich stern we sat , and all the while , As if delighted , you appear'd to smile . I saw your Eyes fixt on the Chrystal stream , And with new longings mine were sixt on them . Trumpets Marine did at a distance sound , And all the Virgins softly Sung around , For then our Joys , Just then were to be Crown'd . The gentle Zephyrs in mild Breezes flew , And the waves danc'd , as they were joyful too . The stately Canopy above our head , Shone with the blaze which glowing Roses made . Strew'd all beneath , they in their blushes lay , Like setting Skies in a Fair Summer's day . When , O ye Gods ! You dear , You darling Fair , Look'd such kind looks as quite 〈◊〉 my care , All o'er in transport , with a gush of Joys , On me you cast your lovely , loving Eyes . Rush'd to my Arms , and did my Neck entwine , While I with Extasies hung fast on thine , And claspt thee closely , as a circling vine . O all ye Pow'rs ! our raptures were above The vastest heights of any Mortal Love . Not in the vulgar way did we enjoy Where short Fruition does the Sweets destroy . To a more Sacred height our wishes flew , And our Souls mixt , as others Bodies do .

To Amasia , who , while I awfully admir'd her at her Window , withdrew , and sent a Black in her place . (1) LOng stood I gazing where my Fair was plac't , While my bright Sun shone radiant in the East , And Beams Divine fir'd all my ravish'd breast . Then , like adoring Persians , often bow'd , But the gay Vision fled , the Sky was all a Cloud . ( 2. ) Persist not thus delusively severe , Let not for ever smoak pursue the Fair , Nor when Heaven vanishes , let Hell appear ; Whilst thus you vanquish me , your Conquests prove , You triumph here in horror , not in Love .

To Amasia , Dancing before a Looking-Glass . THus you in Num'rous measures sport , and play , Like the Sun dancing to it's Glass , the Sea . Strange ! how you move in Air ! if I have Eyes , If I have any Sense the fleet Amasia flies . All here subdu'd , your Glances now are hurl'd , To raise new Trophies in this Chrystal World , The fam'd Pellaean Conqu'rour bravely won All lands , and Seas by his bold Arms o'erun . The Spacious Globe he triumph'd nobly o'er , But , that suffic'd not , and he wept for more . Here , in this Icy Ocean he might view , What yet no Mortal Conqu'rour could subdue , Here he had wept again , o'ercome by you . A triumph here had added vastly more , To his loud Fame , than the whole World before . O'er all the Earth his spreading Laurels grew , But , were Amasia won , Heav'n had been Conquer'd too .

To Amasia , on the burning of her Flower'd Musling-Nightraile , which took fire , while she was asleep , and yet she was her self unhurt . ( 1. ) WHile gentle slumbers close your Eyes , As you all soft , and Charming lay , The Am'rous Flame towards you flies , And would around your Body play , But strait you wake , and as you view the 〈◊〉 , Your glancing Beams make it's weak light expire . ( 2. ) While Flames 〈◊〉 you about , And with their close embraces twine , Ah! who should strive to put them out , Since you 〈◊〉 , and nourish mine ? By their own light , these your Fair form have seen , Your form without , but ah ! none ever went 〈◊〉 . ( 3. ) The 〈◊〉 your Snowy hands surround , And seem to beg they might not go , And tho' your nimble Fingers wound , They kiss them still at ev'ry blow . Forc'd from your outworks , they at last retire , And in a sad , and gloomy smoak expire . ( 4. ) 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Fires they did appear , Nor did 〈◊〉 mean you any harm , 〈◊〉 as those which Lovers bear , 〈◊〉 would your tender Bosom warm . Posting from the Sky , , while the flames round you fly . ( 5. ) With all their Wings they soar'd above , And to your Beauteous Face they drew , 'Till near your radiant Eyes they move , And aim to get new light from you . As if they could , when they had lost their own , Like Vesta's Fire , draw lustre from the Sun . ( 6. ) Or else their tow'ring may declare , Their envy to you so appears , Seeing your Eyes Excessive fair , With brightness far surpassing theirs . But you , like Jove , saw your Skies round you fir'd , And shew'd no fear , but the rash act admir'd . ( 7. ) Whate'er your fancy pleas'd to yield , If Birds , or Beasts , or Trees you made , In your new planted , snowy field , Tho' wrought by you , they are decay'd . So , at the last , must the Creation burn , And what Heav'n form'd , to Dust and Ashes turn .

To Amasia , who having prick'd me with a Pin , for a Subject to write on , accidentally scratch'd her self with it , when in my hand afterwards . WHY , Cruel fair one , did you wound me so ? Too well o'er me your mighty Power you know . Thus sure you thought not to have Conquer'd more , Whom your Pin enter'd , your Eyes pierc'd before . Perhaps , you did it with design to see How small a touch of you prevails on me . Your harmless Weapon has your wonders shown , You wound our Sex with what adorns your own . This little Blood without a wrong you drew , For all I have I would expend for you . Yet here by chance , a full Revenge is found , And thus at least , you feel a Mutual wound . The Juster Spear against its Mistress turns , And points revenge for which the Actor mourns . Your Finger blushes for the wound it gave , Far deeper that which made me first your Slave . Your precious Blood with mine is justly paid , For my Heart bleeds for what my hands have made .

Instructions to a Painter to draw Amasia , with some reflections on the Artist's skill , resolving to describe her , my self , much better with my Pen. LEast future Ages should my Passion blame , And think my Mistress worthless of her fame ; Least daring Lovers should presume to raise Some other fair to my Amasia's , praise ; And with an impious boldness proudly boast Their Conqu'rour greatest , and her Charms the most ; Least of their Chains grown foud , they 〈◊〉 to prove That theirs excels my vast excess of Love ; Painter , exert your utmost Pow'r and Art , To draw Amasia just in every part , As she is drawn here in her Sylvius heart . Still in my Breast you may her image see , ( O would her Image could be truly She ! ) 〈◊〉 , in my Soul you may her Picture sind , Love drew it there , but drew it soft and kind , For Love Paints always best , tho Love is blind . The famous Artist , that his Work might move , That he might justly draw the Queen of Love , Had several Beauteous Nymphs before his view , And something Charming from each Feature drew ; But ah ! no Mortal can Amasia draw , Unless ten thousand Venus'es He saw . O that some God would Work his fancy o'er , To paint her Beauties true , he cannot paint them more . Not Phoebus self could draw her justly bright , Tho' for his Pencil he us'd rays of light . But you , good Artest , Summons all your skill , Her Charms will raise your Pow'r , I know they will . Draw her , ah ! draw her most Divinely Fair , Soft , Charming , Sweet , and with a taking Air ; Draw her all Heav'nly , Affable , and Free , Haughty , yet Courteous let her Carriage be , O draw her as she is , that all may know 't is She. Yet hold — For sure her Beauties would be lost in Paint ; My Pen must draw her , since the Pencil can't . — You are a Species , Lovely fair , alone , A Godlike something in your Face is known ; Which can't by Pencil , or by Pen be shown . Such are the Charms of your Attractive mien , They only are exprest by being seen . Gods ! how successful would that Painter be That could make Pictures look Divine like thee ! Who could those Eyes with all their motions draw ! Alas ! it cannot be — Unless , like thee , the very Picture saw . What Paint , what Image can with thee compare ? Ev'n our Idea shews not ought so fair . Could fancy bring some form before my view , All wond'rous bright , and charming sweet as you , I with that form would be Enamour'd too . What reason could I for my Passion give , Did any equal to Amasia live ? The World will own , all who your Beauties see , I am not blind as other Lovers be , For 't is the Fairest only that can Vanquish me . Believe , Amasia , since you Cruel prove , It is thy Beauty , 't is not thee I Love . Beauty , which , like the Vestal Fire , may boast , You the World's Empress , till it's flames are lost . Beauty , which I so lively will display , Mankind shall yield to your Imperial Sway , And every Am'rous Youth , like Sylvius shall Obey . So shall I Charm , by telling my desires , All shall feel Flames from the reflected Fires . And when the World thus shall your Picture see , Your Sex at once shall wonder at , and envy thee .

The End of the Second Book .

AMASIA , OR , THE Works of the Muses . Containing the ADDRESS of LOVE . Vol. I. Book III. — Nil hic nisi triste videbis , Carmine temporibus conveniente suis.

TO THE Right Honourable THE Lady Mary Edgerton , Eldest Daughter TO THE EARL of Bridgwater . MADAM ,

THE Fair and the Young , the Poet and the Painter , are equally proud to draw ; the Pencil , or the Pen , may be happy in those Draughts ; but the Beauties of the Mind , not the Sun himself , whose light Paints the whole Scene of the Creation , ev'n with a Pencil made of Beams , can represent in their Meridian Lustre . The more they shine , the more they are perceiv'd , the less can they be shadow'd ; hence 't is the Poet finds his the harder task to describe your Ladyship's Vertues , than the Painter's to do you Justice in your Person ; yet , Madam , that Painter ( if any can ) who does you Justice in your Picture , plays there the Poet too ; for the Sweetness of your Temper , the Sweetness of your Face displays . Instead of the rude sketches of my Pen , your Ladyship's Picture , prefix'd to this Poem I present you , had been the most agreeable Dedication , for that would give the World the truest Image of your Character : But doing your Ladyship that imagry of Justice , the Patroness would be read more than the Poet ; the Reader would hold his Eyes 〈◊〉 there , and look no further for Amasia . There would he find both Love and Poetry , both Charming , both Divine , and never regard the Works of the Muses , but gaze with silent Admiration on the Fairest Muse. Your Ladyship , the bright Original , Nature in all her Blooming Colours has already 〈◊〉 she has not only giv'n your Ladyship Beauty , her common Gift to the Fair Sex , and that in an uncommon measure , but she has given you a Mind so Charming , that your Face is a true Emblem of your Soul , and thence it arises your Ladyship appears so every way agreeable . As Beauty is best exprest in being seen , Vertue is so too ; for tho' the Original can't be equal'd , your Ladyship may by your Conversation draw fair Copies in the Minds of others ; thus may your Affability , Generosity , and several other Graces , which your Ladyship is adorn'd with , and adorn , appear Conspicuous to the World , as the Splendor of the Sun ( tho' all Mankind is Conscious that it shines ) cannot in it self be view'd , but may however be Admir'd in those pieces of the skies it guilds .

I am , MADAM , Your Ladyship 's Most Obedient Humble Servant . Sylvius .

THE ADDRESS of LOVE AN Epistolary POEM . Written to AMASIA . YOU are surpriz'd , I know you blush , and frown , You tear the Paper , and you hurl it down . O blame not me , but your own Conqu'ring Eyes , For , from themselves their present troubles rise . Let them not then , thou dear , prevailing Maid , Blindly refuse what they have wrote to read . See here what always in my looks you see , And mark the Passion that I feel for thee . The Passion will not a description bear , Look in my 〈◊〉 , 't is fully written there . My press of 〈◊〉 no way for speech 〈◊〉 , It can't 〈◊〉〈◊〉 , and 〈◊〉 into Words . With no relation will it Justly hold , I tell it most , to say it can't be told . Verse after Verse will all but fruitless prove . Verse after Verse can ne'er declare my Love . Did I Love less , did I not Love so well , Then I , perhaps , might all my suff'rings tell ; But oh ! I burn to such a high degree , I scarce have Pow'r to beg a smile from thee . So , Zealous Men , when in their Souls sincere , From Meditation cannot fall to pray'r . Think of the Love I did already show , Think that the Love will be for ever so , Think , while I live , that I shall Love thee still , Think it ! Be sure ; for , by thy self , I will . Spight of your scorn , tho' you contemn my flame , Still shall I own that from your Eyes it came . Why need I tell you , since too well you know That I admire you , and must still do so . Spight of my Soul , spight of all Manly Pow'rs , Spight of my Self , I find that I am yours . Vain is all force , I must your Captive be , I must be thine , ev'n in despight of thee . 〈◊〉 this , you think of no return to make , 〈◊〉 I give , what you refuse to take . O still be harsh , the bliss no Man could bear , If you should grow as kind as you are fair ; If your disdain and scorn so much can move , How would you Charm with Transport , could you Love ! That would o'ercome me with surprize of bliss , Too great for Monarchs , by their Crowns , it is , Yet would I fain to dazling ruin run , Like the rash Youth , who dar'd attempt the Sun ; Daring as his , does my Ambition fly , Full of thy Fires , I would run o'er my Sky , Pursue my great attempt , tho' thunder'd till I Dye . Proud in the Spicy nest your Bosom frames , I , Phaenix like , would set in glorious flames . But you are great in Fortune , and will show Esteem for none , but who like you are so . Like the Sun's Beams , your radiant Glances hold , Fixt on no place , but what may 〈◊〉 to Gold . You have Estates , and I , you know , have none , I ask them not , they shall be still your own . They stand beneath the bent of my desires , For Gold's Reflection makes but seeming sires ; I 〈◊〉 all such as would for int'rest sue , My soaring wishes fly at nought but you , Believe — I Love your self , for , by your 〈◊〉 , I do . Relent then quickly , O thou Charming fair , And listen kindly to your Lover's Pray'r , For else — you Mad me , Kill me , with Despair . Forgive me , Fairest , for I must complain , How can a wretch , like me , forget his pain , And lose his torture , while he drags his Chain ? All the unhappy may have leave to grieve , Despair does in the deepest sorrow live . Fruitless my cries , fruitless are all my moans , Fruitless my rising sighs , and my distracted groans . In vain alas ! To move your Soul I try , In vain alas ! I Pine , and Bleed , and Die . Without redress I bear your proud disdain , Eccho and you return those Words — in vain . Can nought this coldness from thy Breast remove , Soften , and melt thee into warmer Love ! O if you felt my pangs , or if you knew But half those suff'rings which I bear for you , Sure , you would pity , and would Love me too . What pleasures then , what raptures shall I boast , If your Compassion be not wholly lost ! Believe me , Charmer , by thy self I swear , By thy dear self , and thou art all that 's dear , For thee alone I bear my sierce desires , And burn , and rave , wild with my raging Fires . How can true Passion , such as mine , be born ! How can I live , and you make no return ! No , — Scorn'd ! henceforth , I will not stoop to live , But slight that Life , which you deny to give . Yet , unreveng'd , I will not poorly fall , For then , my Rival would engross thee all . No , by my hopes of happy Joys above , No other Mortal shall possess thy Love , No meaner Soul deserves the mighty bliss , I boast a Spirit nobler far than his ; While he , should he possess thee , would be cloy'd , And slight those Charms which he had late enjoy'd , My Tides of Passion should for ever rowl , And with new springing floods o'erflow thy Soul . 'T is I alone should have the Pow'r to move , If Love be Merit in the claim to Love . O could the wretch but keep his wishes warm , And sigh , as long as you have ways to Charm , Such is my Passion , such my sacred flame , Could he but bless thee , I should quit my 〈◊〉 ; Full of thy image would I hast to go , Thoughtful of thee , to gloomy Groves below ; Still should my wishing Soul thy Charms pursue , Ev'n in Oblivion's shades rememb'ring you . But think , ah ! think , thy Charms by me possest , How we might both be to a wonder blest ! O could your Soul excessive fondness show , O could your Passion for me freely flow , Eternal Joys would every smile pursue , And you , while blessing me , should be transported too . Such are your Charms , such is your Pow'r to move , I Love you still , and still must urge my Love , The Passion grows no greater than before , For it was boundless , and could ne'er be more , Theirs that encreases , and can hourly flow , As well may Ebb , but mine can ne'er do so ; I , like a Watch , to a vast height am wound , In which no slow , no erring motion 's found , But while Life's Wheels shall last , they shall run ever round ; Still in one constant course of Passion move , From various Figures still to thee I 'll rove , But ne'er , I fear , point out the hour of Love . To thee I 'll write in everflowing strains , You shall be sung in all the Flow'ry Plains , And tender Maids , shall , where thy Fame is born , Admire thy Beauty much , but more , thy Scorn . Where any Wit in all my Verse shall shine , You are my Muse , and it is chiefly thine . When to a pitch my Tow'ring fancy flies , My Soul's Emotion with my stile must rise . And Judge , Amasia , by my fonder flight , That I feel all , and more than all I write . You cause soft Thoughts , and all their Charming Pow'rs , 'T is your brightRays produce those Blooming flow'rs ; Like Summer's Sun , thro' all my Clouds you shine , And with your Beams , enlighten every line ; You , by strange Pow'r , my young invention move , Thro' all my Verse there is an Air of Love ; That makes me write , and write alone of you , Yours is the Poem , and the Poet too . To you alone does my whole fancy rowl , You possess all the flowings of my Soul . Only by thee shall I acquire a name , While Love , Eternal Love , stands my continu'd Theme ; Thy wond'rous coldness , which my Passion blames , Still Fires me more than any other's Flames . Tho' I must ne'er possess the 〈◊〉 I see , I 'll smile on Fortune , while she frowns on me . I shall another wretched Midas 〈◊〉 , And turn what e'er I touch , to the rich Metal , Love . If I desir'd less fondly than I do , Then might I all that I have suffer'd shew , But to that height , that mighty height I burn , I cannot hope for any kind return . 'T is you alone urge my conceptions on , All but soft Notions from my Mind are gone . To you alone do all my fancies fly , Those scatter'd Wings which bore 〈◊〉 so high . Now all my flights but weak , and 〈◊〉 show . Not reaching you , they 〈◊〉 flag 〈◊〉 . Such are your Beauties , such 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Charm , Your Eyes burn Hearts , which 〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉 . I thro' my Love am so submissive 〈◊〉 , You call my Crime , what is my 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Unhappy Passion ! which my Soul 〈◊〉〈◊〉 , And makes me hated , where I would be lov'd . Now all my 〈◊〉 , fond , and humble show , My Eyes revolt , when Beauty is my foe , Rack'd with your scorn , let me no longer lie , Raise me to Life , or urge me on to die . You , my bright Sun of Beauty , light me here , Just as you make them , all my Days appear , Like you , when Clouded , or like you , when clear . For , still of lov'd Amasia shall I sing , With thy dear Name shall all the Vallies ring , To you alone shall all my Numbers flow , And all my Verse shall be adorn'd with you ; To you no Mortal can due Trophies raise , Above my Thoughts , much more above my praise ; You shall be fam'd , wherever Swains can read , In ev'ry City , ev'ry Flow'ry Mead , And you shall live , when many Ages dead ; Whilst I , my self , shall likewise deathless grow , Esteem'd for Love , Immortal Love of you ; For that alone I shall be nam'd aloud , For 't is thro' that , I rise above the Crowd . Me Fortune plac'd not with her wealthy heirs , Yet sure my Soul sits as Sublime as theirs . With bold Ambition I to greatness move , For only you shall e'er my flames approve , I am not poor , who have a World of Love . The haughty Tyrants , and the humble Swains , In ev'ry Court , and throughout all the Plains , Blest with my Verse , shall soft Emotions find , And every Beauteous Virgin shall be kind . With me no Man shall ever equal be , No Mortal Lover shall be great , like me . On Love's bright Throne I shall in Triumph sit , Like mighty Dryden on the Throne of Wit . O'er Earth and Seas our lasting praise shall fly , The greatest Poet , He , the greatest Lover , I. While Winds shall blow , & while the Seas shall roar , Whilst Billows beat against the foamy shore , Till Day , and Night , and all things are no more . While Heav'n and Earth shall last , while Stars shall shine , Thy constant Lover shall be ever thine . Such Love , so great , can't be by Mortal born , How then , Amasia , shall I bear your scorn ! Above all thought my wond'rous Passions move , Hear , good and gracious Pow'rs ! all Pow'rs above ! For I am Sick , quite Mad , and Lost in Love . When 〈◊〉 from thee my suff'ring Heart is giv'n , May I by Daemons to despair be driv'n , Dash't against Rocks , and struck with bolts from Heav'n . O thou Regardless , Happy , Charming fair , You can't imagine how belov'd you are , Nor know I how to tell you , but I know , I Love , as never Mortal Man lov'd so . I Love you , for ( by Love it self 't is true , ) Above what e'er Romantick Lovers knew , I Love you now , as I shall ever do . My Flames are such as to the Gods are giv'n , I Love Amasia as I Love my Heav'n . How could I wish you would Love Sylvius so ! That you would this return of Passion show , That you would Love him — Just as Heav'n Loves you . Oh! when you know but half my mighty ill , You may relent , Amasia , yes , you will . When once my racking griefs are understood , You will relieve me , for I know you good . When you but find what thro' your scorn I bear , You will the blessings of a Goddess share , You will be Heav'nly kind , as Heav'nly Fair. Then , you no more will use your Sylvius so , To doubt those truths , which , well as Heav'n , you know . No room for falshood my desire affords , You rule my Thoughts , then sure you rule my words . Speak , is my Passion unsincere believ'd , Or can you think you can be e'er deceiv'd ! You all my tender Declarations blame , And you deny that I have felt a flame , Deny at least , that from your Eyes it came . 'T is then decreed , that I must rack my Mind , To prove my Passion , when you prove unkind . Believe , Amasia , who does truly Love , Can't by expressions half his Passion prove . True Flames can never , never be exprest , He , who speaks most imperfect , speaks them best . How shall I , all my racks , and 〈◊〉 shew ? You know I Love you , and Love none but you ; Love you ! Like truth — I Love you Heavenly well , How , not my Tongue , no , nor my Eyes can tell : If it could be that Man could Love you more , Feel fiercer pangs than I have felt before , O I would spend an Age , to tell the story o'er . Heav'n Witness for me what my flights should be , All made of Love , and all adorn'd with thee , 'Till Ecchoing Hills proclaim that thou alone art She. As some poor Youth , who , by his Parents crost , Submits himself to be by Billows tost , Submits to all the threatnings of the Sea , For those , he knows , are less inrag'd than they : Howe'er , concern'd , he thinks on Friends behind , Weeps with each show'r , and sighs with ev'ry Wind ; His Native soil with sad remorse he leaves , A soil , less safe than the tumultuous Waves ; When first he hears the dreadful Oceans roar , And Tempests louder than he fear'd before , With wat'ry Eyes he views the less'ning shore . So , I , when urg'd by your unkind disdain , In absence hop'd to find a Calmer Main , But Storms of Thought thus drove me back 〈◊〉 Think ! How we parted , we did ne'er embrace , I spread no balmy Kisses o'er your Face . Prest not your hand , nor did I sigh , or swear , I did not speak , for oh ! You would not hear . I should have look'd , and gaz'd , and talk'd a while , Murmur'd , and Kist , and then receiv'd a 〈◊〉 I should have melted , when my silence broke , Farewel — farewel — with fonder looks have spoke . In softer Voice I should those Accents tell , And bid a thousand , thousand times , Farewel ; With trembling Lips I should have drawn from you , With trembling Lips , and with Eyes trembling too , Forc'd my 〈◊〉 feet , and groan'd a long Adeiu . Sure , lov'd Amasia will my Flames approve , Sure you will make me some returns of Love . How happy then must ravish'd Sylvius be , Who now is fill'd with Anxious Thoughts of thee ! Thy Beauteous form still dances in my sight , By day in Visions , and in Dreams by night . Oft my wild Thought thy darling Image frames , Oft do I see thee wanton on the streams . Where you look always so divinely Fair , Where , in such Charms you to my view appear , You seem a brighter Venus risen there ; O'er the calm Floods with Wings of Rays you fly , An Angel posting thro' a Cloudy Sky . My flames more raging from the Waters grow , And while I see the Dear , Deluding show , I bless my self that I could fancy so . Oft , when alone , and in my silent Bed , I think , Ah! whither is Amasia fled , Where is the Beauteous , Lovely , Fatal Maid . Then , thro' my Curtains , strait I see you come , And fill , with shinings , all the gloomy room . With airy flights , and with deluding Eyes , You loosly dance where your fond Lover lies , And I , to seize you , all in Transport rise . Then how I catch ! then , how I rave to find , That you could go , and leave me there behind , I spend my Breath , and rack my troubled Mind . Like swelling Waves , my Thoughts come raging on , A second rises , e'er the first is gone , They rowl , and dash me , when their rowling's done . Then , mad with all my Anxious griefs and pain , I lie dejected on my Bed again , And gaze to find you , but I gaze in vain . Then , do I strive , but no repose can take , For , Thoughts of you my short'ned slumbers break , And rack me equally as when awake . Restless I drag each tedious Minute there , For all my Joys are vanish'd with my Fair. 'T is too much Love has wrought my Rigid fate , And do I Love you ? Is that cause for hate ! Command me all things , and your lover prove , Command me all , — but to forbear my Love . That is the only thing I cannot do , And that alas ! is all requir'd by you . Believe , Amasia , Cruel fair believe , I shall die yours , since yours I cannot live , And this is all I ask you now to give . While glimmering Tapers light my Darken'd room , ` And my near Friends to see my end are come , While now , all pale , and in my pangs I lie , I beg , Amasia may sit Mourning by ; Ev'n then , my Passion will be Nobly great , My flames more raging , tho' in fainter heat , Not rising brighter , than they then shall set . I shall embrace you in my trembling Arms , And there admire your lovely , fatal Charms , Those Fairest Eyes , which I esteem Divine , Those Fatal Eyes , which do so brightly shine , And have such Pow'r to rule the looks of mine . All over Rapture , while all over pain , I 'll look , and sigh , and then I 'll look again , Still will I gaze , with ravishment , on thee , And thy dear , lovely Face shall be the last I see .

Female Epistles OF LOVE . Deidamia to Achilles . Epist. I. The ARGUMENT .

Achilles , having lain a long time disguis'd like a Woman , in the Court of Nicomedes , King of Bythinia , so carrying on the better his Amours with Deidamia , Nicomedes his Daughter , was at last by the subtilty of Ulysses , ( who put a Sword into his Hand , which he wielded too Dexterously for a Woman ) betray'd , and carry'd to the Trojan War , Greece having been warn'd by the Oracle , that Troy should never be taken , unless Achilles assisted at the Siege . Thus , while he continu'd in the Grecian Camp , Deidamia , impatient of his absence , Writes him the following Epistle .

READ this Achilles , and be griev'd to see How Deidamia Mourns , and Mourns for thee , Read , and then think who must the Author be . Who , but fond I , would the weak Passion tell ? Fond , foolish I , who Love you , too , too well . You seem to doubt , and in amaze you stand , Having my Heart , you needs must know my Hand . What here you find , my dear desires indite , Ah! kindly read , what I too kindly write . Nought but her tender wishes thus could move Thy Deidamia to confess her Love . Nor need I blush the noblest Flame to own , I boast I yielded , since to thee alone . To thee , whose Charms , wound tender Virgins far ; O may you so be prosp'rous in the War . May you Victorious , and Triumphant be , And Conquer all , as you have Conquer'd me ; But let no Laurel shades about you rise , To bar the glances of my longing Eyes , Their sacred wreaths can free from thunder live , But not from flashes Beauty 's light'nings give . I 'll think you not a Lover , while I sue , But call you Warriour , the Name 's dear to you . Ah! then , be gen'rous to the yielding Foe , I have surrender'd to your Arms , you know . Proud of submitting to Achilles , more Than all the Conquests I had gain'd before . When I was gaz'd at by a Noble Crowd , And other Princes with Submission bow'd . When , all around , far as my Eyes could see , There was no Youth but would my Captive be , Then , then it was , I gave my Heart to thee . I gave thee that , I gave thee all my Soul , Gave Deidamia , you possess'd her whole . My Virgin spoils I offer'd to thy Arms , The Thought alas ! My tender Bosom warms , You rifled all my Beauties , all my Charms . My dearest Treasures , and my Richest stores Were all your own , and I was wholly yours . To my lov'd Bed , full of a Vig'rous flame , Dress'd like a Woman , oft Achilles came . Your publick Gestures still did Female show , But , when in private , sure they were not so . My Maids of thee were in no sort afraid , For they believe thee , like themselves , a Maid . Think , in what sweet , what soft , and wanton play , Lock'd in my Arms , you past the Hours away ! Alas ! My Love , writing these tender Words , The very Thought some Extasies assords . Some faint Emotions of my Soul it frames , All our past Pleasures now appear but Dreams . Ah! Lovely Youth , oft in my Widow'd Bed , I think of you , and wonder why you fled ; Admire , that War should so delightful be , To make it's Horrours be prefer'd to me . I thought my Voice Breath'd far more pleasing Ayres , Than the shrill Trumpets could Proclaim in theirs . Why should you rashly Combat in the Field ? And slight such spoils as I would gladly yield . There you must hazard , and buy Conquest dear , When all your business was to triumph here . Ah! Come again , once more , my Life , return , To comfort me , who now extreamly Mourn . How should I Joy to hear what you have done , To hear of Battles by your Valour won ! To hear your self , in my Embraces , tell , How such a Hero in the onset fell . Then would I clasp thee closely to my Breast , And Sigh , and Kiss thee , more securely prest , And , still endearing , lull you so to rest . Hast then , Achilles , from the Battle flee , And join in Combat with no Foe , but me .

A Lady to her Lover . Epist. II. The ARGUMENT .

A Lady , forsaken by her Lover , to whom she had not deny'd even the last favours , having been newly recover'd out of a Violent Sickness , which , 't was believ'd , he occasion'd , and hearing he was gone to be Marry'd to another , and to take Shipping soon after in the North , having with him her Fortune , which she had intrusted him withal , according to the various transports of her Passion , Writes him this following Epistle .

TO you , ( false Man ) I make my suff'rings known , Whom once I thought I' could have call'd my own . 'T is only you , who should these lines receive . Who us'd to Mourn , when I had cause to grieve . Scarce can my Life of this sad change allow , When you torment , who shall redress me now ? How many Lovers have I scorn'd for thee , And is your falshood my reward ? — Speak , thou ingrateful Man ! — It cannot be . When you at first your greater Rivals knew , And how the meanest far exceeded you , Full of Despair , lay'd Prostrate at my Feet , You cry'd , ah ! Can you , Can you Love me yet ? No , you will Titles , and their Lords receive , An honest Love is all that I can give . The great are false , but I sincerely true , Ah! Treach'rous Man ! Who is so false as you ? Who could have thought this wond'rous change to see , How can you live so far apart from me ! Here , my Companions think my Mourning strange , And wonder whence proceeds the dismal change . Hiding my Sorrows , they their cause explore , So , by concealing , I reveal them more . How do they rage , when they the story know ; Yet then , ev'n then , I speak excusing you . I first Condemn you , call you false , and then I fondly plead in your behalf again . Thus arguing for you , I impeach you more , And make your guilt seem Blacker than before . Then , in my Soul strange wild disorders move , With anxious struglings between grief and Love . A new Confusion in my looks appears , And , Naming you , I strait dissolve to Tears . My swimming Eyes can then no object view , What should they look at , since depriv'd of you ! Since to the North from all your Vows you flee , And left the City , but to hast from me . To that cold Air you fled with just design , A place most fit for such a Breast as thine . It 's Chilling coldness I unjustly blame , And fear it's Frost less than a New-Born flame . Ye Northern Beauties , his Embraces shun , Or yield , like me , to be , like me , undone . Laugh at his Sighs , and tell the Cheat he lies , Curse his false Tongue , and his deluding Eyes . Too late alas ! We our Misfortunes see , There are no Oaths he has not Sworn to me , Ye heedless Maids , I charge ye , ne'er believe , He makes it all his business to deceive . Least my Misfortunes other Virgins prove , O let them ne'er confess Excessive Love . My self I blame that I did e'er believe , For in all Ages your whole Sex deceive . The Treach'rous Jason , basely perjur'd , fled , From the Fair Mistress , whom he first did Wed , And left her's falsly , for Medea's Bed . Spight of the Winds , which bore his Sails away , He was more Faithless in his Flight than they . The injur'd Princess , who first shar'd his Love , Should by her Rival's Death her wrongs remove , And to Medea a Medea prove . She , by her spells , did the fierce Serpents tame , And still her Charms for Triumph were the same , She Conquer'd him , as he the Bulls o'ercame . But soon , from her did the inconstant run , She found her self , spight of her Arts , undone ; She could the Dragons baleful Fires asswage , But Fires more fatal in her Breast did rage , With Poppies Juice in vain she steeps her Eyes , In vain those spells , which made them sleep , she tries , All case , all quiet with her Lover flies . Proud , and Triumphant , he forsook the shore , A monster , worse than those he slew before . The wand'rer next was by Creusa fir'd , Like thee , false Jason to new Flames aspir'd ; With his rich prize the Villain falsly fled , And scorn'd Medea's , for Creusa's Bed . So , am I left abandon'd to despair , And your Creusa is your present Fair. He , bore a glorious purchase from the Coast , But of what Golden Fleece have you to boast ? In vain you with my slender Fortunes flee , Alas ! I lost them all , in losing thee . Gemms I despise , I can such trifles scorn , But 't is my much priz'd honour that I mourn , For that 's a Jewel thou can'st ne'er return . O may no Virgin be o'ercome by Love ; Man , should he strive , can never Constant prove . More than I ought , I would thy shame rebate , And lay my wrongs , not upon you , but fate . Fame speaks of Nymphs by their false Lovers lost , Men first submit , but after , Triumph most . I could an hundred instances renew Of Treach'rous Men , but none so base as you . With Vows Achilles did Briseis please , But Vows as Faithless as his Mother Seas . While Phaon to hot AEtna's Mount retires , His Sappho wasted with as scorching fires . Fair Dejanira of her Lord complains , Griev'd that the Victor wore his Captive's Chains . Alcides once put Women's Garments on , When his vast Club he to a distaff spun ; The Lyon's rugged skin his Mistress wore , She Conquer'd him , as he the Beast before . 〈◊〉 , sure , from Rocks , or Oceans came , His Breast so cold , it could not feel a flame ; By the false Wretch fond Dido was undone ; Love's Mother could not sure bear such a Son : In vain to Cupid did the Queen complain , She pray'd him pierce his Brother's Heart in vain : Got by a Tempest , and on Billows born , He would , in hast , to his Lov'd Seas return . False Men should fear 〈◊〉 loud , insulting 〈◊〉 , The Queen of Love rose thence , and there 〈◊〉 . Why should his Gods , as 〈◊〉 by curs'd 〈◊〉 , In 〈◊〉 sink , when 〈◊〉 the 〈◊〉 got free ? He had a Deity to guide his way , The same , no doubt , that steer'd him on the Sea . With that pretence , he left her slighted Coast , But of what guiding God have you 〈◊〉 Boast ? Yes , 't was a mighty Pow'r your will controul'd , A Pow'r which Reigns o'er Men , Immortal Gold . And now another Virgin you have won , That other Nymph must be , like me , undone . I wish my Rival could foresee her fate , Alas ! She will repent , when 't is too late , So much I pity her , I cannot hate . She soon , ( Poor Innocence ! ) by scorn opprest , Will grow as Wretched , as she now seems blest . Soon will you leave the Sighing Maid behind , Her Sighs , alas ! will but encrease the Wind. Methinks , I see you fly with Treach'rous Gales , Loos'ning your Vows , Just as you loose your Sails , You , the proud Sun of Love , a while Shine bright , Then , set in Seas , and leave behind you Night . But , Ah! beware what watry Course you Steer , Shun Scylla's Rocks , nor dare to venture near , Ingrateful Men should still her Vengeance fear . And let me warn you , ( for the time is nigh , ) When you shall falsly from my Rival fly , Take leave at least , nor use your treach'rous tongue , Just as you did , when round my Neck you hung , And long-breath'd Kisses meant your staying long . Tell her how lost she is , your flight declare , Be honest once , and tell how false you are . Tell her she never can from care be free'd , Never , Ah! never , that 's Despair indeed . Oh! Could you know , false Man , what I have born , Tho' Man you be , you would at last return ; In want , and Sickness I have spent my days , Not Heav'n , or Earth , but you can give me ease . In a hot , raging Feaver have I lain , But why , unkind ! should I to thee complain ! Thou wilt rejoice , and Triumph in my pain . The 〈◊〉 desease Burn't me with scorching Heat , It was thy coldness did it's Fires Create . Yet not so Wild were the last Flames I bore , As those you kindled in my Breast before . My Am'rous Fires , spight of your scorn , could lay Their Sicklier rage , and make their warmth decay . Where were you then ? Where was my Lover fled ? Who should have sat all pensive by my Bed , And in my Bosom lay'd his Mournful head . His Weeping Eyes should pour such Constant streams , As should have force to quench the inward Flames , Feeling my Pulse , you , Languishing , and Pin'd , Should have from thence of your own Health Divin'd . Like me , Cydippe in a Feaver burn'd , But her's rag'd less , for she had ne'er been scorn'd . Her Beauteous Cheeks consum'd , and livid grew , Her Colour such , as she before did view In the Fair Apple , which her Lover threw . Ah! Could it be , that you could Faithful prove , I should no Feaver know — but that of Love . And could I find where my dear Traytor flies , My flames should dart like light'ning thro' my eyes , And melt the Ice , which round your Bosom lies . So far at least I know my Charms could move , That I could force you to Dissemble Love . But now , alas ! no more must I receive Those flowing Joys , which you so well could give . No more my bliss , no more my Life I boast , When I lost thee , all that was dear I lost . Where any Nymph becomes so curs'd as I The only business of her Life 's to die . About my Neck I 'll cast a Silken twine , That Neck , oft clasp'd by those dear Arms of thine . My lofty Posts my Wretched weight shall bear , For thee I 'll offer up my latest pray'r , And hang the Trophie of thy Conquest there . Yet , I should live , for if my Doom were past , Heav'n would show'r Vengeance on thy Head at last . Ah! Perjur'd Man ! my ease , my Peace restore , Give me my Heart , and I demand no more . Return my own , I shall not vainly sue To be again belov'd , and dear to you . Yet , know ( false Wretch ! ) if e'er you dare to wed , My Ghost shall haunt you in your Nuptial Bed . No other Fair one shall a sharer be , Of that dear bliss you once enjoy'd with me ; Tho' you all Love , and she all over Charms , You ne'er shall clasp her in your Burning Arms. Whilst Vengeance Prompts me , its effects I 'll shew , Great as the wrongs I have receiv'd of you . And sure those Pow'rs which heard you falsly Swear , Will now redress me , when I make my pray'r ; Their Names prophan'd , what Mischiefs may you dread ! 〈◊〉 , while alive , they will torment you dead . Should I avert the Justice they design , It were my pity , no desert of thine . Ah! Lovely Traytor ! should you yet be true , I could , methinks , bear an Esteem for you . One Look , one Sigh , would yet my Passion move , And Fan the faint , expiring Sparks of Love . Ah! Where 's the hope ? I am to write forbid , Your self forbid me , it was you that did . Void of a tender Sense to know the pain . Of absent Lovers , when they wait in vain , And all their Anxious Thoughts , till met again . Thy latest Words , hence ( thou ingrateful ! ) know ; Yours I depart , to return ever so . Nay more , you Wept , by Heav'ns , the haughty you , Whlist round my Neck your Treach'rous Arms you threw , And Wip'd my Eyes , for I was Weeping too . Think on those things , those tender things you said , Those Oaths you Swore , to Cheat an easy Maid . When , all the Night , lock'd in my Arms you lay . And past , in transports , the short Hours away . Base , Sordid Soul ! Which nought that 's soft could move , No dear Remembrance can recall your Love . When , for Heav'n's sake , you beg'd me Crown your Flame , I was not sure , despis'd , as now I am . How many Curses did you wish for then , If you could ever think one fair again ! When at that time ( you perjur'd slave ! ) I hear , You had , and lov'd a Mistress , where you are . One , by whose Gold your Heart is made her prize , Nor are her Slaves the Trophies of her Eyes . 'T was Gold that did your sordid Soul subdue , And that , which hires her Servants , Conquer'd you . Whilst I , more Nobly , scorn'd such Empty gain , Nor Sold my Love for less than Love again . I thought I did so , but too late I know , I both am Cheated , and despis'd by you . My right you give to her you now adore , And Swear again what oft to me you Swore . She too , like me , will soon complain of you , The same , ingrateful Man will make her Wretched too . Then , tell of all the Conquests you have won , Speak to the wond'ring Crowd , where'er you run , And name two tender Maids , by your damn'd Wiles undone . But tell not how they slight , and hate thee too , And , if they live , will be reveng'd on you . No Fiend in Hell can such a Fury prove , As a wrong'd Woman , one that 's wrong'd in Love .

Scylla to Minos . Epist. III. The ARGUMENT .

Minos , to Revenge the Death of his Son , landed on the Coast of Lelegia , where he lay'd Siege to a Fortress held by Nisus , Scylla , Daughter to Nisus , falls in Love with Minos , during the time of the Siege , and writes him the following Epistle .

HEnce Triumph , Warrior , hence new Conquests see , Tho' not our Forts , yet , you have Vanquish'd me . I am subdu'd by Minos Godlike Charms , And you may Triumph in your Captive's Arms. It is my fate to Love my Father's Foe , I had not known him , had he not been so . Oft have I seen you Marching from afar , Wielding your Sword , then resting on your Spear , While your Cask's Noding Feathers threatned War . Oft I beheld you in the dusty Field , And was alas ! with every Gesture kill'd . On our High Walls oft do I wishing stand , And bless the Launce Grasp'd in your vig'rous hand . Your shining Arms the longing Scylla views , And likes and praises all that Minos does . Well might your Mother's Charms a God subdue , If she knew ever how to Charm like you . The Thund'rer sure had his Europa won , Had he but seem'd like her too Beauteous Son , By whose dear Eyes poor Scylla is undone . Oft , as I sat on our fam'd Tow'rs on high , Often , My Lord , has Scylla wish'd to fly To your dear Arms , when I beheld you nigh . How , How alas ! shall I be e'er restor'd ? Or how shall Scylla e'er enjoy her Lord ? Mad with desires , I think in what disguise Shall I find out the Tent , where Minos lies ; How meet the dear disturber of my ease , And tell the Charmer whom his Beauties please . Fain would I now betray the Gates to you , And yield my Country to a potent foe ; Alas ! Poor Scylla knows not what to do . I fear in War dear Minos should be slain , For , Oh! I doubt he has not Pow'r to gain . Our Brazen Gates will all his glories bar , Not to be storm'd 〈◊〉 by the God of War . Oft have I wish'd I were your Captive made , Aud the dear Bribe for your Alliance paid . Then might rough War , and barb'rous slaughter cease , Minos be blest with Scylla , and with Peace . But ah ! too much , I doubt , my Hero dares , Nor fears Misfortunes in revengeful Wars , Oh! tho' he does not , yet his Scylla fears . Tell me , My Lord , my dearest Minos , tell , Declare to me , who Love you too , too well , If , for my Country , for my Virgin-Bed , My Father's Hair , Nay , for my Father's Head , For Shrines , for Temples , tho' the seats of Jove , Will you , Dear , Charming Minos , Crown my Love ?

FINIS .

AMASIA , OR , THE Works of the Muses .

A Collection OF POEMS .

In Three Volumes .

By Mr John Hopkins .

VOL. II.

Adde manus in vinela meas ( meruere catenas ) Dum furor omnis abest , si quis amicus ades .

LONDON , Printed by 〈◊〉 , 〈◊〉 for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 , at the Blue-Anchor in the Lower-Walk of the New Exchange , 1700.

To her GRACE THE Dutchess of BOLTON . May it Please your Grace ,

THE Poet in Addressing your Ladyship feels all the Poet's ravishment and transport ; Your every Charm Fires every Thought so fast , the labouring fancy struggles for a Passage . Your Youth , your Beauty , Affability and Wit , when seperately consider'd , seem each to be the greatest Excellence , 't is impossible any Writer can determine which of those Rivals boast the Preference ; but every Writer may thus far be certain , that all of them excel . Shall I say ( and yet speak properly ) I am lost in a Cloud of Beauty ? But 't is a Glorious , 't is a Golden Cloud , made Lustrous by the Soul which shines within . Can I , without growing old before my task 's Accomplish'd , undertake to describe your Youth in its full Springing Bloom ? Should I not grow proud of my own Performance , could I display you at the height to which you rise by your Courteous , Condescending Affability ? Or shall I dare to think that I have Wit enough to venture on the praise of yours ? No , Madam , all my Muses can perform no Works like these . Thinking on your Grace's Endowments , I find my self bewilder'd in a maze of Vertues ; lost , like fam'd Theseus , in a Labyrinth ; a Labyrinth , whence no thread of thought can free my wand'ring sense . Strange ! that Perfection should seem as intricate as Errour ! But Night with over-shadowing Darkness scarce blinds the Eyes so much , as an insufferable Flood of Light . With all submission , Madam , I must own I incline voluntarily , ( tho' guiltless ) to make a Confession , which yet no guilty Poet ever made . I would flatter your Ladyship , if possibly I could , and boast the Glory of a Work so exquisitely difficult ; but 't is impossible : All Art falls 〈◊〉 short of Nature here : Were it not so , the ravishing Charms which Fire me now to think I should attempt it , would then seem less , and Consequently cool me from the Enterprize . Long may your Grace stand thus sublimely Admirable , Long may your Vertues soar beyond the tow'ring Muses reach , — Long , till at last , ( and may it then be late ) they mount yet higher , to their Native Skies , and shine a Constellation there .

I am ( May it Please your Grace ) Your Grace's most Devoted , and most Obedient , Humble Servant . J. Hopkins .

THE PREFACE .

SOME Readers turn over Prefaces , as things impertinent ; those few who serve not this after the like manner , I fear , will be impertinent Readers . I scribble at present , more for the sake of Fashion , than any thing else , and I think all who write Prefaces , do so . If the World is pleas'd to like a Book 't will scarce find fault with the want of a Preface , and if the World is pleas'd not to like a Book , the best Preface in the World will never recommend it . A Poem and a Preface may be liken'd to a Face , and fine Cloaths ; a good Face , 't is said , needs none , and a bad one deserves none , but some now , perhaps , may say I have set my Simile with the heels up , for they would have it , by all means , that the Preface must be the Face of the Book , but in Answer to such , they who will be positive in that Opinion are such as are apt to make Faces . I thought in this to have said something of the Original Occasion of writing these Poems , and so to have touch'd a little on the discovery of the real Person meant by Amasia , but I consider my Book will expose Me sufficiently , without my exposing Her — and a certain Verse which I have read in honest Martial ( who knew the fleering Malice of Mankind ) deters me from it .

Et pueri Nafum Rhinocerotis habent —

THE CONTENTS . Vol. II. Book I. HEro , Priestess of Venus . A Poem , Paraphrastically imitated from the Greek of Musaeus . Page 1 Book II. THE Forest of Love . Being some Copies written to Amasia , on particular Occasions . To Amasia , who made a present of a Studying-Cap variously Beautified with Trees and Flowers of Needle-Work 43 To Amasia , on her filling a Glass with Water , whereon she bad Painted Stags , and Birds and Trees 44 To Amasia , invested with a Muslin Nightrail , variously beautified with Birds and Beasts of Needle-Work 46 To Amasia , wearing a Muslin Apron wrought with Trees and Beast of Needle-Work 47 To Amasia , on the beautifying the Lining of her Gown , with Trees and Groves in Needle-Work 48 To Amasia , sticking Gardens cut in Paper , on a large Glass 49 Poems on several Occasions . To three Ladies who presented me their Verses written in praise of one another , and , in return for my Judgment , told my Fortune 50 On a Fly that flew into a Lady's Eye , and there buried in a Tear p. 51 To a Lady , desiring a Visit 54 Seeing a fair , young Lady Just a dying . 〈◊〉 A Dialogue between a living Nymph and a Youth who was Drown'd . Written thus at the request of a Lady 〈◊〉 To Amasia , who Commanded me to avoid her presence whenever she appear'd 58 The Description of the Palace of the Sun , and Conflagration of the World , partly imitated from Ovid 〈◊〉 To the Lord Sy—ney , Created Lieutenant of Ireland , about the time his Majesty went to Flanders 63 To a Lady , Lamenting her Lover , who was drown'd 64 On a Bee inclos'd in Amber 68 On a China Cup fill'd with Water , round the sides of which were Painted Trees , and at the bottom a Naked Woman Weeping ibid. The Description of a Tempest and a Fight at Sea 69 To a Lady , who presented me an Orange 72 To a Lady , presenting her a Box of Patches 73 To the same Lady having found a Silver Penny , the first thing she touch'd , among the Patches , I presented her 74 To Amasia , off'ring me a branch of gilded Laurel ibid. To a very Charming Lady , with an unpleasing Name 75 To a Lady , whose Maid , having given her a 〈◊〉 , I sent her , and being ask'd from whom she receiv'd it , reply'd — from the Conjurer himself , she thought 76 To a Lady saying she knew I Lov'd hor 77 To a Lady , who , ( while endeavouring to tye up some Linnen with a Ribbond , a little of the shortest ) being ask'd how she would menage , if she Lov'd a Gentleman without a Fortune , reply'd , I 'll show you — ( and so drawing harder ) made the ends meet p. 77 To a Lady Singing frequently these Words , Youth and Beauty 78 To a Lady , who , with a Charming Air of Negligence , frequently , when spoken to , reply'd — Yes , Sir , 79 To Amasia , having dreamt of me ibid. To Amasia , on the accidental falling of her loose Garments , which discover'd to my view her Breasts 81 To the admir'd Mrs Cr — fts 82 To a Lady having lost three Kisses on a Wager with me , and refusing to pay them 84 Reflections on the Picture of Cupid , imitated from Propertius 86 To Amasia . 87 Book III. LEtters of Love To Amasia , 1. 97 To Amasia , 2. 99 To Amasia , 3. 101 To Amasia , 4. 103 To Amasia , 5. 106 To Amasia , 6. 108 To Amasia , 7. 110 To Amasia , 8. 113 To Amasia , 9. 115 To Amasia , 10. 117 To Amasia , 11. 119 To Amasia , 12. 122 To Amasia , 13. 125 To Amasia , 14. 128 To Amasia , 15. 130 To Amasia , 16. 133 To Amasia , 17. 135 To Amasia , 18. 138 To Amasia , 19. 140 To Amasia , 20. 142

HERO , Priestess of Venus . MUse , Sing the Torch which did so useful prove , To Light the Lover on his way to Love , That Friendly Torch , which o'er the Billows shone , And nourish'd Fires , far brighter than its own . Sing him , who purchas'd an Immortal fame , And boldly ventur'd o'er the swelling Stream , Nor could it's rowling Surges quench his Flame . Thro' the rough Seas , and rising Waves he goes , To Joys tumultuous , and as high as those . Exalted Joys , which can no Ebbings know , But in vast Tides of mighty Raptures flow , And where no Winds , but Am'rous breezes blow . He need not tremble when the Tempest 's near , Nor the loud threatnings of the Ocean fear , Who knows Love's Beauteous Goddess ris'n there . And Venus surely will Propitious be , To such fierce Flames as can o'ercome the Sea . Methinks , Leander now is swimming fast , Methinks , I sce him o'er the Billows hast ; Now , now he cuts his proud , Triumphant way , Where Crowding Waves around his Body play . There he is lifted o'er the Tow'ring Flood , And Seas are flashing from the breaking Cloud . Methinks , the Torch upon the Tow'r I see , By Hero plac'd , and almost bright as She. Blown by rude Winds , I hear it's flaring Light , Which sputt'ring , Sparkles in the Gloomy Night ; That Torch , the Burning Emblem of their Love , Which the Immortals should from thence remove , To shine like Stars , and be a Star above . Where it will more than usual kindness show , In guiding Lovers , and their Loves below . Such was it here , 'till the rough Winds arose , For tender Sighs , Ah! Too unequal Foes , For Am'rous murmurs , and soft Gales as those . Fiercely they rag'd , and soon they overcame That of the Torch , and then Leander's Flame . Two Neighb'ring Towns , tho' small , are greatly fam'd , Abydos one , the other Cestus nam'd . Each had the view of the Adjacent Lands , Opposite plac'd upon the lonely Strands . The Ocean's Waves between them Foam , and Roar , Washing the Borders of the Patient shore . But Love , Bold Love , will no such Bars allow , When ev'n for Gold , the raving Seas we Plow . Rarely , Ah! Too , too rarely is it prov'd , That Maids will Love as they have been belov'd ; But here a Beauteous , Charming Fair we sind , Was wond'rous Conqu'ring , yet was wond'rous kind . Leander's Praises thro' Abydos rung , He was alone the talk of every Tongue . That was the Place , was blest with his abode , Renown'd as much as he had been some God , For Men who can like him such Passion show , Are sure Divine , and must Immortal grow . Near Cestus Hero liv'd , from thence she came , From her Leander , did receive his Flame . Thus she the greatness of her Pow'r display'd , Who at such distance such a Wound had made . From a long Line of Noble Blood she Sprung , And Venus Priestess , in her Temple Sung . Closely retir'd , and near the Boist'rous Sea , In a tall Tower that other Venus lay . It s Stately Ruines may as yet be seen , Which shew Spectatours what it once has been . On it 's High Top with her bright Torch she stood , To Guide her Lover thro' the Obvious Flood . The Waters now roll Mournful to the shore , And , as they did Leander's Fate deplore , They curl their Melancholy Brows , and Roar . The Beauteous Maid all wanton Sports deny'd , Extreamly modest , yet untoucht with Pride . To publick Balls , and Masques she would not go , Reserv'd her self , and thought all others so . She did the wits , and cens'ring Beauties shun , Would from fond Youths , and from their Courtship run , If she were Lov'd , she thought she were undone . With earnest care , and pure desires she strove , To please her Goddess , and her Son to move . Now would she Songs of her Adonis sing , And odo'rous Wreaths of blushing Roses bring . With those she oft the hov'ring Cupids Crown'd , And strew'd fresh Flow'rs along the Painted ground . In vain she thought to make the God grow kind , For guifts are lost , where the receiver's blind . Now was the time when Venus Yearly Feasts , For her dead Lover summon'd all the Guests . A grateful time , when every Charming Fair , And Am'rous Youth does to her Shrine repair . Drawn to that place by an uncertain Fame , All of each Sex from Thrace , and Cyprus came . Cythera then scarce could one Virgin boast , All it 's Young Men Abydos too had lost . On Venus Altar they their Off'rings lay , But their chief Vows to the bright Ladies pay . A Pow'r there is which every Soul beguiles , In killing Eyes , and 〈◊〉 seducing Smiles . Of all the shining Beauties , not a Maid , Not one there was , that in the Temple stay'd , But was more pray'd to , than her self had pray'd . Before each Charmer's Feet sad Hearts were found , In their own Bleedings panting on the ground , For the blind God there gave each Youth a Wound . He near his Mother's Image laughing stands , And shoots , and Wounds , with his unerring hands , But now bright Hero thro' the Fane appear'd , Whom all the Youth at once both Lov'd and fear'd . New rising Passion in their Breasts began , Their Eyes , their Hearts , their Souls on Hero 〈◊〉 . Soft , tender Sighs from their warm Bosoms flew , And from each look a pleasing pain they drew . They came , they saw , and they were there undone , O'er her dear Face their eager Eyes would run , They wish'd , and gaz'd , and sigh'd , still wishing on . Richly attir'd , in sparkling Garments gay , Fit for the Duties of the Pompous Day . Glorious she past through the admiring Crowd , Each gave her way , and as she stept , they bow'd . An air Majestick in her Face did shine , Her Cloaths , her Dress did with her looks combine , Her Mien was Sweet , and she was all Divine . Her Beauties darted many Thousand ways , As the Noon-Sun which all his Beams displays , She with her Glances warms , and he , his rays . While all the Maids , ( in other places Fair ) Seem'd but like Clouds which she had Silver'd there . The Ancient Lovers but three Graces knew , But Hero's Face did many Thousands shew , From her each look , and every Glance they flew . In wanton play around her Conqu'ring Eyes , A guilded 〈◊〉 of hovering Graces flies . O Lovely 〈◊〉 , who so much can move ! Extreamly worthy of 〈◊〉 Queen of Love ! You who can thus each ravish'd Youth subdue , May seem the Priestess , and the Goddess too . With boundless Charms you Conquer every Heart , And Maid to Venus , thou a Venus Art . The Captiv'd Youths upon her Beauties gaze , She both Fires them , and makes the incense blaze . Whilst the Lov'd 〈◊〉 at the Altar stands , She Acts her Conquests with Triumphant Hands . The fond Spectators Worship her , much more , Than she the Queen , whom she does there adore . For her they Burn with purer Flames by far Than those she offers to her Goddess are . In vain the Love-Sick Wretches check their Eyes , In vain alas ! They would their pain disguise . From her dear Charms , and her Attractive Mien , They turn their sight , yet strait gaze on again . Her dear Idea every Lover drew , For with their Souls , their very Souls they view . Each glance from her their raging Flames did aid , And every motion fann'd the Fires she made . While one of all the wond'ring Crouds around , Thus spoke his Passion , and declar'd his Wound . O'er Sparta , fam'd for Beauties , did I rove , Yet still , 'till now , I was untouch't with Love . Like Hero ne'er did any Charmer Shine , Never did Mortal seem before Divine , The Graces only are at Venus shrine , In her alone do all perfections meet , So wond'rous awful , and so wond'rous Sweet ! Long have I gaz'd , yet wish to gaze again , At once delighted , yet at once in pain . On her I look , and 't is with 〈◊〉 still , The Sight of her , like 〈◊〉 , Allures my will . 〈◊〉 I could Smile , and thousand Tortures 〈◊〉 , Could I at last enjoy this Conqu'ring Fair. In Hero's 〈◊〉 let me in transport 〈◊〉 , And then good Gods ! I shall all ills desie , Give me but her , and I shall never die . Would she but favour my Ambitious Flame , I were exalted from what now I am . 〈◊〉 I but her safe at my own abode , 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not lose her to be made a God . 〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉 would I my Joys Forego , 〈◊〉〈◊〉 possess a real Heaven below . But you , 〈◊〉〈◊〉 , do not my suff'rings see , 〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉 be enjoy'd by me . 〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉 Youth with more prevailing Charms , . Some Happy Swain , who shall 〈◊〉 prove , Of all thy Beauties , and of all thy Love 〈◊〉 me , O Venus , this is all my pray'r , Since of thy 〈◊〉 Priestess I Despair . Grant me some other Fair one to 〈◊〉 , Some Loving Nymph that may resemble her . Thus spoke the Youth , thus made his Passion known , And stirr'd new Flames , while he reveal'd his own , For ev'ry hearer was his Rival grown . And now some other , who a Wound sustain'd , Thought to declare the Conquest she had gain'd . In doubts , and fears the Youth had strugled long , But had not Courage to unlock his Tongue . Close in the Crowd his fond desires he bore , And hidden Fires rage ever more , and more . At last , Leander did the Virgin see , None 〈◊〉 there , none Loving more than 〈◊〉 Oft had he heard of Am'rous griefs and 〈◊〉 , As oft been told of Woman's coy disdain , He therefore Vow'd , he would not only 〈◊〉 His 〈◊〉 Pangs , and his Tormenting 〈◊〉 Vow'd , he would 〈◊〉 urge his 〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉 would not fondly , and in silence 〈◊〉 Like simple Swains , who haughty Nymphs adore , Content with that , and never sue for more . He , with soft Murmurs , and submissive Sighs , Would tell her where her greatest Conquest lies , And shew the spoils of her Victorious Eyes . Declare the wounds , which with her looks were made , Those Wounds , which she , and only she must aid . Bravely the Youth with such resolves was fill'd , But Oh! How little are true Lovers skill'd ! One Glance from her would his late Thoughts confound , Turn his weak , sickly resolutions round , And cast his Eyes all bashful on the ground . In hopes , and doubts the Anxious Youth remains , In pleasing Joys , yet in perplexing pains . Unusual Symptoms in his Face appear , Of new disorders , and of growing fear . Shame , and amaze do there confus'dly move , The sure Effects of that strong Poyson , Love . Now Dark , sad Thoughts obscure his Cloudy Mind , No Glimpse of Joy can any entrance sind . In hideous forms they lie revolving there , Dreadful they seem , and he grows all despair . Then , in his Breast feels Infant light begin To cast bright rays , and cherish all within . Then , glorious Images of Bliss he frames , Vast Floods of pleasures in Immortal streams , And Swims to Heav'n in fancy's Golden dreams . Ravish'd all o'er with the Transporting tides , On Tow'ring Seas of Extasies he rides . In ev'ry Vein a Liquid Fire does Glow , And swift desires in mighty Torrents flow . Now , with a seeming boldness does he press , To ease his Griefs , and make his suff'rings less . Thro' Crowds of gazing Rivals he appears , But as he comes to Hero's sight , he fears . With looks astonish'd , and with folded Arms , He views his Mistress in her shining Charms , She sees him too , and as she sees , she warms . With wishing Glances , and with longing Sighs , He meets the glories of her Conqu'ring Eyes ; Perceives them darting wand'ring Beams that way , Gliding by him did their swift Sun-shine play , As if they wish'd , but were afraid to stay . He , all the while , stands silent on the place , And Feasts his Eyes all o'er her Beauteous Face . Sometimes , themselves they would in pain withdraw . For Oh! he fear'd least she should know he saw . Yet he looks on , all ravish'd with the view , Fresh Thoughts , fresh Doubts , and fresh Desires pursue , He 's more inflam'd , and then he Sighs anew . Now the Glad Maid Leander's suff'rings sees , And all his Torments do the Virgin please . A secret Joy the Charming Tyrant moves , She Veils her Beauties , Since she knows he Loves . For what strange ends are Souls of Women made ! They grieve for Lovers in Romances dead ; But a true Passion , and a real pain , Mects only coldness , and their harsh disdain ; No more that Female softness will they show , Their scornful Eyes enjoy the killing woe . They are all mov'd , when painted Flames they see , Yet burning Lovers shall unpity'd be . This Charming Fair , howe'er , her Mind betray'd , Leander found vast kindness from the Maid . Swift , tow'rds him oft a wand'ring Glance she sent , A mighty gain , tho' but a Moment lent . Then , on a suddain , snatch'd her Eyes away , Ah! Too , too modest , for they wish'd to stay , Such cruel kindness do the Skies allow , Which Lighten'd lately , and grow Darker now . Yet the fond Youth conceives an inward bliss , And hopes her Fires will rise , sublime as his . Now , as he wish'd , the Grateful Ev'ning came , And he resolv'd he would reveal his Flame . The scatter'd Crowds to their abodes repair , And leave the Virgin , and her Lover there . All Venus off'rings , and her Feasts were done , And he beholds his Goddess left alone . The growing Darkness does his Courage aid , And now he ventures to address the Maid ; First , bowing low , submissively he stands , Then look'd , and sigh'd , and gently prest her hands . She at the first , dissembled all her Mind , Forc'd to grow Angry , least she should grow kind . She made no Answer , but in scorn she flew , And from his hold her Lovely Hands withdrew , Yet look'd so fond , she made him hope anew . With Loving Eyes she did invite his stay , And all Resentments , which were feign'd , betray . To the glad Youth her wav'ring Thoughts were known . As well he knew them , as he knew his own . Half frowning now , she all her weakness shows , For now she smiles , and more Serene she grows . The Tortur'd Lover all Despair appears , Dejected seems , and sheds unmanly Tears . No wonder Waters of such sort distil , When raging Fires his Breast with burnings fill . Fondly again he does approach his Fair , With hated force both to himself , and her . Seizes her Hand with a more eager press , And now Conducts her to a close recess . The trembling Virgin seem'd , at first , affraid , And an unwilling , Faint resistance made . She seem'd to 〈◊〉 him , nor was silent long , And ask'd him why he offer'd such a wrong . Pray'd him desist , and give his rudeness o're , Strugling with him , but with her self much more . How , Sir , she cry'd , can you such boldness show , Is this your Passion , this the Love you owe ? How do you dare to use a Virgin so ? A spotless Maid should not be thus pursu'd , But with pure Words , and awful Homage woo'd . Be gone , reply not , but from hence repair , All your rash Acts , and loose desires 〈◊〉 , Such Crimes my Kinsmen are too Just to spare . I thought my Office , and my Goddess Shrine Might have deterr'd you from your soul design . But if you 〈◊〉 should 〈◊〉 your Passion on , I shall 〈◊〉 out , and 〈◊〉 you to be gone . Such Words as these did not Leander move , He hopes such threats are the effects of Love . Maids are like Soldiers in beleaguer'd Towns , With Warlike Pomp they show their Bulwark'd grounds . They sound their Trumpets , and they beat the Drum , And to the Ramparts all their forces come . Fiercely they Fire on the prevailing Field , But if they find this fail them , then they yield . The Lover now did all his Loves unfold , Fond were his Thoughts , which he as fondly told . A thousand things he spoke to move his Fair , With pleasing Voice , and with a taking air . Deeply he sigh'd , and by the Gods he Swore , By all the Gods that he did e'er adore , He Worship'd them , but her he Worship'd more . In Words like these , he did his griefs explain , With wishing looks told all his Anxious pain , He Vow'd , and sigh'd , and then he gaz'd again . Goddess , he says ( for thou art sure Divine ) No Mortal e'er had any Charms like thine . Forgive this Passion , which your Beauty moves , For none can see you , but of force , he Loves . And if you would not be reputed dear , Your only way is , you must ne'er appear . Whate'er my Actions , and my Gestures be , They all are caus'd by my desires for thee . 〈◊〉〈◊〉 have 〈◊〉 , from you my error sprung , You guide my Heart , as my Heart guides my Tongue . And 〈◊〉 your goodness will not Vengeance show , And Damn the Sinner , when you made him 〈◊〉 . Your Office too in my behalf I move , Who are the Priestess to the Queen of Love . You cannot Duty to your Goddess pay , Nor , while a Virgin , her Commands obey . 〈◊〉 , and Maid , a Contradiction cause , You are not her's , till you perform her Laws . If you for Venus any honour have , You shew it most , when you admit a Slave . For your own sake , I beg a soft return , You may provoke her with a further scorn . 〈◊〉 Atalanta was unkind , like you , 〈◊〉 still deny'd to hear her Lovers sue , But the 〈◊〉 Goddess , for her haughty Pride , Took 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for all the Youths that dy'd . Pity me , Hero , nor my Flames despise , Flames , that were kindled at your Radiant Eyes . So high they blaze , with such a pure desire , Brightly they shine , as Elemental Fire . By Nature always do they upwards move , A Just excuse for my Ambitious Love . Beneath the Concave of the 〈◊〉 they lie , But mine , more bold , disdain the lower Sky , To you , my Sun , from whence they came , they fly . Still Tow'ring up , they somewhat great pursue , And aim at nothing less than Heav'n , or you . Hot , Fiery bolts will by the Gods be hurl'd , And wond'rous burning will consume the World ; At that dread time , when all the Seas shall roar , With scorchings , louder than with Winds before . Ev'n then , my Fair , the Earth more ease shall find . Than there is now in my Tormented Mind . Believe me , Charmer , by your self I swear , You fill my Mind , and you are all my care . While Life shall last , while I have any Pow'rs , Your true Adorer shall be always yours . Honours , nor Empires , nor the Joys above , Shall thy dear Image from my Breast remove , The highest bliss that is in Heav'n is Love . For thee , my Passion is excessive great , I suffer more than Man e'er suffer'd yet . I love you , Fairest Maid , to that degree , I cannot live , unless possess 't of thee . This , and much more in pleasing Terms he spoke , And all the Virgin 's resolutions broke . With bashful Eyes , fixt on the Earth , she stands , And now , uncheck'd , she lets him Grasp her hands . His eager presses run thro' every Vein , Which she almost wish'd to return again . A conscious Blush her Beautcous Face o'er-spread , Which shew'd her Coyness , and her scorn were fled . White Flags hang out , when Warlike places yield , But 't is the Red surrenders Beauty's Field . Leander's Words possess her ravish'd Ears , And every accent all anew she hears . Charm'd with his Voice , and it's bewitching sound , Each Word he speaks does all her senses Wound . Soft , pleasing pains , and gentle heat she feels , They fill her Breast , and she perceives their ills . Her vertue now , that Frozen Snake , does move , Warm'd by the Fires of a new glowing Love . Her fonder Passions , and her doubts engage , Confus'dly met in an Intestine rage . Her Hopes , and Fears , her Thoughts , and Wishes Jar , And fiercely strive in an uncertain War . By diff'rent gusts of an unsetled Mind , Like a Poor Ship tost by each threatning Wind , Now to this point , and now to that inclin'd . By each Tempestuous blast she 's wildly tost , Dasht by each Wave , and in an Ocean lost . One while , she thinks of Honour , and of Fame , And the Priz'd blessing of a spotless Name . Then , she contemns what she before desir'd , For the Sweet Youth again the Virgin Fir'd , She saw his shape , and as she saw admir'd ; Was with his Gestures , and behaviour mov'd , And pity'd kindly , and now kindly Lov'd . Her pain renews , and every Glance he gives , Augments his own , and her dear Flames revives . Each sigh Exasperates her fond desire , Whispers soft Thoughts , and Fans the raging Fire . Thus , Love and Vertue did divide the Maid , He saw the War , and for the Conquest pray'd . While now all bashful , and in strange surprize , Fast on the ground she cast her wishing Eyes . His in vast transport , wond'rous pleasures felt , For , on her Neck , her Beauteous Neck they dwelt . Then the blest Epicures had Richer Feasts , They saw the risings of her swelling Breasts . Seated , like Gods , upon those Snowy Hills , They sport , and play , at their own wanton Wills , And every look the ravish'd Lover Kills . They Swim in Pleasures , which in Torrents run , But ah ! How soon is the short Ever gone ! The Virgin 's Love all further bars denies , ( And Flames by Nature still will highest rise . ) Soft , fond Emotions had o'ercome the Maid , A sweet Confusion o'er her Face was spread , And all in Blushes these kind Words she said . Who , ah ! who taught you this great skill in Love ? Such Charms as these the very Rocks might move ; The coldest Rocks , dasht by the roaring Seas , Might sure be warm'd , with such bright Flames as these . Such cunning Arts , and taking ways you show , Too well , I fear , how to deceive you know . You are a stranger , and are learnt to cheat , And now would Practise but some new deceit . Alas ! ( and then she blush'd ) why came you here ? I cannot Love , and you are lost , — I fear . Would you had never seen me , O ye Power 's ! Not seen my Face , nor I have look'd on yours . Suppose , Sweet Youth , I should return your Flame , I must be still the same , as now I am . My Parents will not grant that I should wed , And so you never can enjoy my Bed . And secret Pleasures I will ne'er allow , Against stol'n Joys I made a solemn Vow . And should I grant them , it would soon be known In every Village , and Censorious Town . Tho' Fame flies swifter than the Eastern Wind , She leaves no story , no report behind . But gathers something , whereso'er she goes , And oft tells more , than what she Justly knows . Howe'er , your Name , and your 〈◊〉 declare , Tho' not soft Passion , I can Pity bear . In yonder Tow'r , with my old Maid I lie , None else inhabit there but she , and I. The Foaming Waves beneath its 〈◊〉 flow . They are the only Visitants we know . The Whistling Winds do with the Waters Jar , And with loud noise Proclaim a dreadful War . No Nymphs , or Youths do to our Borders come , We live all Friendless , and alone at home . No sound of Musick does my slumbers break , The roaring Billows all my Musick make . No People Travel our deserted ways , No Neighbours near us , but the Neighbouring Seas . Thus when she said , the Maid again withdrew , And hid her Face from her Leander's view , Which now with Blushes was o'erspread anew . She thinks she too much fondness has exprest , And fears her Language has her Flames confest , For , much she told her self , and Blushes told the rest . Each Word she spoke her tender Lover mov'd , Her every look declar'd how well she Lov'd . And now the ravish'd Youth , with longing Eyes , By slow degrees , Charms still , and thus replies . Thus , with Attractive Mien , his silence broke , And , humbly bowing , languish'd , as he spoke . Shall Airy nothings our Delights o'erthrow , Without the forces of a real Foe ? Let Fame , and Honour unregarded be , Those Shaddows never should discourage me , Who with my Flames dare venture thro' the Sea . Not Heaven's bright Flashes o'er the Waves shall fly , With greater safety , or more swift than I. Tho' big with dangers every Billow swell , And tumble down to a low depth , like hell . Tho' the whole Ocean with loud tempests roar , And Barks lie scatter'd on the foamy shore , I ne'er shall meet with any dreadful harms , Steering my Course to those Lov'd , happy Arms. The hardship only will encrease the bliss , ( If ought encreases what Immortal is . ) I would scorn Joys got in the common road , For thee , my Heav'n , I would outdare a God . Yes , every Night , I will Abydos leave , And all the Terrours of the Ocean brave , Outface each Wind , and every faithless Wave . But this ( O Life of Love ! ) you needs must grant ; ( For 't is a kindness I shall greatly want . ) Let a bright Torch shine from your Tow'r afar , While I , Love's bark , make that my guiding Star . For you , my Fair , the Hellespont I 'll Plow , With his own Arms shall your bold Lover Row . For you I burn with such a fierce desire , That I would swim to thee thro' Seas of Fire . I need not beg you of the storms beware , For , if you Love , you will extreamly fear , And who , Ah! who would lose the blessing near ! Now , dearest Maid , since you my Name would know , It is Leander that adores you so . These , and ten Thousand other things he said , Soft moving things , which melted down the Maid . 'Till Hero's Flames to such a height were grown , She says alas ! She is no more her own . In conscious Blushes her consent appears , In rising sighs , and in new falling Tears . Whilst the fond Youth drank up the trickling dew , To all her Conquests still she added new . Close to her glowing Cheeks his own he prest , How happy then , how greatly was he blest ! She tells him now , she will a Torch prepare , And Crys , dear Youth , ah ! Dearest Youth , beware . Not her own Life will she more safely guard , For Oh! Her Life is not to his prefer'd . With taking fondness , and in softest ways , The Lovers languish , and each other please . To him her grant did rising Joys afford , He 〈◊〉 , and stopt her at each broken Word . In tender Murmurs he declar'd his bliss . While their Souls met , at every eager Kiss . Ten thousand now o'er all her Face he spread , He Kiss'd , and Mark't her , with his Kisses , red . With willing Lips she the Embrace allows , And ravisht , he grows lavish of his Vows . Oft by the Sea , which he must trust , he Swore , Oft by the Goddess , whom the Ocean bore , And wish'd , if false , he might not reach the shore . Without repulse , he would enjoy the Maid , But with endearments she his suit declay'd . With interfering Kisses , which she gave , His bliss was such , he could no greater crave . Such are the taking ways , which Women shew , They make their Charming fondness always new , And that , which raises , can appease us too . With cunning Arts , our ful-spread Fires they blow , We inward burn , and a pure brightness show . His high desires could not have e'er been born , Had she repay'd them with a killing scorn . Such rigid coldness would inrage him most , We feel worst scorchings in the hardest Frost . But she , kind Beauty ! Made a sit return , And with like Passion , as himself , did burn . Whene'er the Youth her hand with presses warm'd , She grew all ravish'd , all o'er-joy'd , and Charm'd . Vast were Pleasures , nor could his be less , She gave him Kiss for Kiss , and press for press . Thus took they earnest of the wish'd delight , Which she defer'd , till the next happy Night . Often they sigh'd , and many looks they cast , Each one of which they did design their last . Another still did the fond Lovers crave , Another yet , and yet another last they gave . Gazing he went , and took a distant view , Then stepping short , look'd back , and gaz'd anew . Till in fond wand'rings from her sight he stray'd , Then , in Idea he beheld the Maid . Frequent remarks he on the ways did make , Least the next Night he should the road mistake . And now on Board , he saw the Active Oars Plow the rough deep , as they remov'd the shores . That tedious Night he at Abydos lies , And fancies Hero still before his Eyes . In broken slumbers now he Clasps his Fair , In Dreams he Courts her , and Embraces there . Thus the Night flies , on slow-Wing'd Clouds away , But oft he curses the long , ling'ring Day . The Sun stands still to him , nor does he know , How to divert himself , or where to go . With folded Arms , he wanders up and down , Then , finds Acquaintance in his Native Town . He , thoughtful still , no talk to Friends affords , And hears , unnotic'd , all their Pleasant Words . Whate'er he did , or whatsoe'er he said , His Mind still ran upon the Charming Maid . But now the Night it 's usual Darkness spreads , O'er all the Seas , and o'er the flow'ry Meads . Each Breast it did with Pleasing Calmness 〈◊〉 , Which was a stranger to Leander still . And now he Walks , upon the stormy shore , Slights all the Billows , when he hears them roar , Impatent grown , and longs to venture o'er . Fancies , he now has stemm'd the furious tide , And is already at the farther side . Fancies , his Hero on the Strands appears , Conceives , the Marks her tender Passion wears , And meets her smiling , yet all o'er in Tears . Again he doubts she may be grown unkind , Or fears to trust him to the Faithless Wind. A thousand wild Conjectures does he make , And still the old one , for some new , forsake . But now the Maid , who could not brook delay , Lights the bright guide , to call her Love away . Now , to the Tow'r his longing Eyes he cast , And sees the Torch , his Nuptial Star , at last . To him , it seems Just from the Seas to rise , Appearing sixt in the far distant Skies . The grateful object did new Thoughts Create , And Planet like , as well as light , shot heat . It made his Extasie of pain the more , And now , his Veins in boiling 〈◊〉 o'er . In other things , whatever Stars may do , The Stars of Love , 't is sure , vast Pow'r can shew . Howe'er , concern'd , the roaring Waves he hears , The winds raise them , and with them , rise his fears , And each sunk Sea , like a deep grave appears . Between two ills did the fond Lover move , The Ocean's storms , and the worse storms of Love . Which shall he chose , of these two sad extreams , To die by Waters , or to die by Flames ? Flames , which the fury of the Floods survive , The Floods but serv'd to keep the Flames alive . He calls on Venus , and repeats her Name , Venus , he knew , from the rough Ocean came ; Venus , the Goddess who had heard his Vow , To her he prays , and begs her succour now . Then , bravely Naked , he the Waves divides , With Manly force , stemms the opposing tides , And in proud State , like a Sea-God he rides . His Arms his Oars , he Plow'd the swelling Flood , While his dear Hero on the Turret stood . Tost with her doubts , and trembling with her fears , His mighty toil but small to her's appears . She watch'd the Wind , and its inconstant blasts , And her rich Robe round the bright Torch she casts . Her Robe , which like some Beauteous Streamer flew , And Born out from her , with cach Wind that blew , Flutter'd , and seem'd , as it was trembling too . Now the glad Youth had reach'd the Sestian Coast , While the fond Virgin in her Thoughts was lost . But soon she fees him on the nearer shore , She hasts , and meets , and bids him welcome o'er , And round him casts the Mantle which she wore . Now , now she clasps him , and with kind Embrace , She spreads warm Kisses o'er his watry Face , And brings new Vigour , and new heat apace . While the cold Youth stood wet , and shiv'ring there , The trickling drops fell from his flowing Hair . Strait , was he thence to her own Chamber brought , Furnish'd with Works , which her fair hands had wrought . She there provides sweet Essences , and Oyls , Fit to refresh him , after all his Toils . Scarce yet recover'd , on the Bed he 's lay'd , And his strong Limbs surpriz'd the ravish'd Maid , Which she with silent , eager Joy survey'd . Then , all desire , into his Arms she flew , And did ten Thousand Marks of kindness shew , In such fond ways as made him wish anew . With taking Air she did beside him lie , While Words , like these , from her dear Lips did fly ; Life's Death without thee , with thee , Life to die . For me , my Love , what wonders have you done ! Into what Deaths , what Dangers have you run ! Had you been lost , I too had been undone . To such vast heights no Flames , but yours , e'er flew , None , none alive so nobly dar'd as you , A Love , as boundless as the Seas , you shew . Repose , dear Youth , your weary'd Spirits here , Upon these Breasts , if any Charms they bear . These Breasts , — which soon as she had sweetly said , With a close Kiss her further speech he stay'd . Thus flows the dearest , softest Night away , In close enjoyments , and in wanton play , While she says fondly he shall ever stay . Sporting they lie , and look , and sigh a while , Then snatch a kiss , and at each other smile . No dull , untimely Mirth , or solemn State , Or dance , or Musick , on their Nuptials wait . No Barb'rous Fool tells here his loathsom Jests , Such as are usual at the Marriage Feasts . Nor , while the Bride by her dear Lover sighs , Impertinently vex her , where she lies . No glaring Torches here destroy the Night , But a still Lamp affords a glimm'ring light . These stealths were seen but by the Stars alone , The hasty Sun still found Leander gone . He , with regret does from his Hero go , How dreadful then do all the Surges show ! When her dear Arms must now no longer please , Still with his own he seems to climb the Seas . By day , she always led a Virgin 's Life , And was , by Night , more blest than any Wife . So oft Leander did the Ocean Plow , That he was known to every Dolphin now . Thus they a while with secret Joys were Crown'd , With all the Joys successful Love e'er found . The changing Moon a waining visage wore , Yet found them constant , and their Flames still more . The flowing tides , which swell'd the rising Main , Embrac'd those Strands , which they forsook again . But still no Ebb was in their Passion known , The Sea of Love was still the greater grown . But Oh! How faithless Fortune's gifts appear ! He 's rashly fond , who values blessings here . Now Winter hasts , and dreadful Tempests brings , And raging Storms on it's fierce , Windy Wings , Impetuous blasts o'er all the Surges Reign , And wond'rous outrages infest the Main ; ( The Lovers wish for Halcyon Days in vain . ) On the cold shores the Sea-men trembling stand , And scarce believe they are secure , at land . But Oh! no danger does Leander Mind , Love on this score may well be counted blind . No Jarring Seas or Winds his Soul can move , Their discord seems but Harmony for Love . His fierce desire does on his Mind impose , And nearer much the fatal Turret shows . He sees the Torch , and he must hast away , Tho' the loud blasts seem'd to Commands his stay . In spight of Storms , in spight of Winds , and Rain , He forces Waves , which dash him back again . Oft , tho' repuls'd , with all his utmost Pow'rs , He cuts this Billow , and o'er that he Tow'rs . Hero , methinks , should grant some respit now , And tedious absence for a while allow . The tempting Torch should have more cautious been , When not one Star dare in the Heav'ns be seen . It 's tender Mistress did no danger know , For her hard fate alas ! had order'd so . The gloomy Night a double darkness spread , As if it Mourn'd the black Decrees were made . Yet oft the light'nings in swift Flashes flew , Which did the horrors of the Night renew . While Peals of rowling thunder loudly roar , And the big Ocean seem'd to thunder more . Braving Heaven's threats , the breaking Billows fly , Like dashing Clouds , when Bolts have shook the Sky . While the fierce Winds , and the rough Surges Jar , Threat'ning destruction with their dreadful War . The Poor Leander now , all hopeless , strove , To make the Sestian shore , and reach his Love . Here , swelling Seas , like mighty Mountains , show , There , Vallies Gape , deep , wond'rous deep below . His frequent Pray'rs the Youth directs , in vain , To all the Pow'rs presiding o'er the Main . In vain , to Neptune , whom the Flood obeys , In vain , to Venus , oft in vain he prays , Venus , much deafer than her Mother Seas . In such distress what could complaints perform ? They serv'd alas ! But to encrease the storm . Yet , the rough Boreas he did most asswage , Orythia nam'd , he could no longer rage . The stubb'orn Wind did mild , and gentle grow , And but in Murmurs , and in sighs could blow . But now the Youth , while strugling with the tide , Fails of his strength , nor can the Waves divide . He breaks the Seas no more with Manly toil , In Triumph , down they bear their wretched spoil . The Tempest still grows louder in the Sky , While the tost Floods with angry Pride run high . And now , a blast , an envious blast takes flight , Prevailing still on the well guarded Light . The storm 's loud Malice , with success it Crowns , The Torch goes out , and now Leander Drowns . Dash'd with the Ocean 's rude insulting streams , Which fill his Throat , as he his Hero Names . She , all the While , dreads his unusual stay , Restless , and list'ning , as awake she lay . Oft , her Wild fears his real Dangers shew , Then , she hopes fondly they are all untrue . A fair pretence does oft our sense deceive , For , what we wish , we can with ease believe . She thinks that then he would not venture o'er , For new delights , and Joys unknown before . But soon she Starts , while her Thoughts strangely rove , And rising cries , then are you come , my Love ? But disappointed , she more fearful grew , And fancy'd dismal , hideous things anew : What cannot fancy , help'd by Darkness , do ! Her Sickly Mind shews her Leander come , Shews him all wet , and shiv'ring in the Room . Dropping , and Pale , he stands beside her Bed , With folded Arms , and with dejected Head ; To Tempt him still with Thousand Charms she tries ; The pleasing Image her Embraces flies . She , still perplext such by delusions , lay , Till the approach of the sad , conscious Day . Mournful she rose , and Clouded as the Skies , And views the dreadful Sea , with Cautious Eyes . While her fond fancy , to divert her fear , Shews him now wand'ring there , now wand'ring 〈◊〉 But ah ! no more it can such visions shew , It brings false things , but never hides the true . The bruis'd , torn Body she beholds at last , Which , some kind Wave beneath the Tower had cast . The killing object was too quickly known , And with a sudden Shriek , she leapt all headlong down .

The End of the First Book .

AMASIA , OR , THE Works of the Muses . Containing the FOREST of LOVE . Vol. II. Book II. Nos tibi blanda Venus , puerique potentibus armis Plaudimus : inceptis annue Diva meis .

TO THE Right Honourable THE Lady Olympia Roberts . MADAM ,

AFter having been a considerable time in Town , deficient all the while in my duty of waiting on your Ladyship ; like a true Poet , I flatter my self , that I may make my Book my excuse ; not presuming to think it worthy to be called a Present . How this may pass with your Ladyship , I know not , but am apt to fear , it will , at best , be thought but a Poetical excuse for so great an Omission . However , if it may be allow'd to be truly Poetical , some hopes of your Ladyship's Pardon must still remain , when I consider you , as you are , a Favourer of Poetry . While the Muse introduces me to your Ladyship , I pass securely , like AEneas conducted by the Sybil , to Elyzium . The Golden Bough , that Hero brandish'd , intitled him to visit all the shady Groves , but here my Pen must fail , and I shall perhaps , be left without a Guide in Darkness , since I can hardly boast That for a Golden Branch . But to ascend more to the light ; part of the Muses Works , Madam , are lay'd here at your Ladyship's Feet ; and I am sensible , such is your quick , and Judicious Penetration , you need not be at pains to stoop , to take them up ; scarce can they be read so fast , as your Ladyship can both find their Beauties , ( if they have any ) and their faults ; but so fustly your Candour Rivals your Judgment , 't will be hard to determine , whether you will see the former more readily , than you will Wink at the latter . Your Ladyship's Father , the late Earl of Radnor , when Governour of Ireland , was the kind Patron to mine , he rais'd him to the first steps , by which he afterwards ascended to the Dignities he bore , to those , which render'd his Labours more conspicuous , and set , in a more advantagious light , those living Merits , which now make his Memory belov'd . These , and yet greater Temporal Honours , your Family heap'd on him , by making , even me , in some sort related , and ally'd to you , by his Inter-Marriage with your Sister , the Lady Araminta . How imprudent a Vanity is it in me to boasts a Father so Meritorious ! How may I be asham'd to prove my self his Son , by Poetry , that only qualification , which he so much excell'd in , but yet esteem'd no Excellence . I bring but a bad proof of Birth , laying my claim in that only thing he would not own . These are , however , Madam , but the Products of Immaturer Years ; and riper Age , may , I hope , bring forth more solid Works . In the mean time , such as they are , they Court your Ladyship's Acceptance .

I am , Madam , Your Ladyship 's most Dutiful , and Most Obedient Humble Servant , Sylvius .

THE FOREST of LOVE .

Being some Copies Written to Amasia , on particular Occasions .

To Amasia , who made me a present of a Studying-Cap , variously Beautified with Trees and Flow'rs of Needle-Work . HOW great 's your skill , that you can here restore What your Dear Sex lost all the World before ! Not readier , Chaos the strange Word Obey'd ; You wave your Hand , and Paradise is made . Your suddain Plants , at first Appearance , bloom , And all is Spring , where'er your Fingers come . Only that sad Narcissus fades away , As if Self-Love made ev'n the Flower decay . Your lofty Cedars at full growth appear ; Not sooner Planted , than they Flourish here . You Charm with Beauty , and you Charm with worth , Your Needle ne'er Points to a Frozen North. Where'er I Walk , thro' Pleasant Groves I go , And I am blest with their dear Shades below . Your grateful Bow'r diverting Thoughts inspires , And my strong fancy with New notions Fires . As , while the Sybills on the Tripos stood , They grew inspir'd with their Prophetick God . So , while my Head your Sacred present wears , I boast a Knowledge , as Divine as theirs . In polish'd Numbers all my Thoughts shall flow , And ( you my Muse ) I shall Immortal grow . While all those 〈◊〉 , spreeding Trees I see , Planted by your fair Fingers , seem to be Still-blooming Laurels , in it , Crowning me .

To Amasia , on her filling a Glass with Water , whereon she had Painted Stags , and Birds , and Trees . BY this , you prove your Pow'r is truly great , You Kill at Pleasure , and you here Create . Some of the Herd , which you so lively drew , Neglect all Food , and Joy to gaze at you . While others bow to Drink , and bend so near , We wonder still to see the Water there . Actaeon chang'd , had not been here pursu'd , He had escap'd , secure among the Crowd ; In a fair Spring , by chance , he once descry'd A Heav'nly Beauty , and transform'd , he dy'd . And in this place , he might with wonder view As bright a Goddess , and as fatal too ; In his own shape , he must have dy'd for you . Your stately Stags rear high their lofty Heads , Tall as the Trees , in thick , and fruitful Shades , And a vast Grove above each Forehead spreads . They , and your Forests , with each other vie , Nor can I tell which seems more proudly high . The Trees , fresh Life , from your late Bounty , drew , As from the Fountain , which you pour'd , they grew , Became more Green , and Flourish'd all anew . One Phaenix lives , and that is sprung from Fire , But many seem to rise from Water here . Whilst all your sporting Birds prepare to fly , And cut with gawdy Wings , a strange , unusual Sky .

To Amasia , invested with a Muslin-Nightraile , variously Beautified with Birds , and Beasts of Needle-Work . THE wond'rous Rod set the Red Sea aside , And here , your Finger can this white divide . What you created , your invention saves , You lead your Creatures thro' the Foaming Waves . Tho' when you please , you make them Ebb , and Flow , And stand on heaps , at the least touch of you . A Head must be , whence all this Ocean rose , Sure , from your Breasts this Beauteous deluge Flows . Ambitious Waters once o'et-spread the ground , Here , in a Sea of Milk the World is drown'd . The wond'ring Flocks all Wisely here withdrew ; What better Ark could they desire , than you ? In all this Flood , give me the blest Command , To be the Turtle , to find out the land . I shall , I know , a happy soil descry , A Heav'n lies hid , within this Silver Sky . None here can err , none here can ever stray , He 's sure of bliss , that comes this Milky way .

To Amasia , wearing a Muslin-Apron , wrought with Trees and Beasts of Needle-Work . 'T IS said indeed , Achilles Launce could Wound , And what it hurt , again could render found . Your pointed Spear here Acts , with wonder , more , And thus Creates — these had no form before . Nor , could the Pen so well describe this Field , That , and the Sword , must to the Needle yield . Your Wolf is here Cloath'd in a spotless skin , 'T is pure without , and 't is all soft within . Your Pow'rful dart can make all Creatures tame , That may , it self , be Shepherd to the Lamb. Thro' all your Woods , the Dogs pursue the Hare , Thro' all those Trees , you made so strangely Fair , To bloom , and spread , and so much Winter here ! I track their Feet , for sure I think they run , And hope to see them seize their Game anon . I only fear , whilst thro' this Field they go , The dropping Blood should Paint it 's purer Snow .

To Amasia , on her Beautifying the Lining of her Gown , with Trees , and Groves in Needle-Work . NOT Juno's Bird can brighter glories shew , That , Nature painted , this is drawn by you . Where'er you Walk , the Airy People fly , And , for your Groves , forsake the Silver Sky . With doubled Force they hasten from above , And wonder thus to see your Forests move . Aim , to light fast on your deluding Gown , And flutt'ring fall , with strange amazement down . So , Xeuxis Birds snatch'd at false Grapes in vain , And , fill'd with wonder , they return'd again . Greater than his , your Charming skill we see , For , with the Fruit he tempted , you , the Tree . Like that of Eden , your Plantation spreads , And Groves , Just set , rear high their stately Heads . All the fair Draught does such exactness bear , So wond'rous Curious does the Work appear , I dread , methinks , a real Serpent here . This is a glorious Paradise in show , But the true Paradise is only you .

To Amasia , sticking Gardens cut in Paper , on a large Glass . WE see your Actions here are wond'rous all , Your fruit Trees spread along this Chrystal Wall . You make me fancy ( they are all so fair ) A sweet Elyzium in this clearer Air. Your Sissers , far the Pruninghooks outdo , Those lop off Boughs , but these make Branches grow , And , if our Eyes deceive not , Blossom too . Rooted in Ice , your Beauteous Gardens stand , And shew the wonders of your Pow'rful Hand . O may no Winter to your Beauties come , But may they ever , like your Orchards , Bloom .

POEMS ON Several Occasions . To Three Ladies who presented me their Verses Written in praise of one another , and in return for my Judgment , told my Fortune . PARIS his Beauties must , asham'd , give way , I Judge three Goddesses , more bright than they . My bliss beyond what he could boast , has been , He view'd without , but I have seen within . Which here excell'd , not Phaebus self could know , Each seems a Venus , and Minerva too . The first I like , and I admire the rest , Still as I read , I think the present , best . Not any one can the whole Trophie bear , The Apple , sure , must be divided here . Let all hereafter on your Beauties gaze , But none demean them , with a future praise . Thus , you should all your own perfections tell , As there is none so fair , there 's none can write so well . The Nine no more shall be ador'd by me , Henceforth , the Muses shall be only three . You , our Fair Parcae , know our Fortunes too , For , all Mankind receive their doom from you . This Pow'r of yours , by it's own greatness stands , You read our Hearts , Just as you read our hands . A knowledge thence , let none hereafter prize , But look their fates in your Illustrious Eyes .

On a Fly , that flew into a Lady's Eye , and there lay buried in a Tear . ( 1. ) ABout those Eyes , since I could move , I flutter'd still , and flew , And always to play there did Love , Yet more despis'd than you . I die each hour , yet all the ills I bear , Ne'er made her shed for me a pitying 〈◊〉 . ( 2. ) Yet 't was her Pride I do believe , Not pity , made thee fall , Presumptuous Wretch ! you could not live , She Loves to ruine all . Her Tyrant pleasure does no Laws obey , She stoops , Domitian like , to any prey . ( 3. ) The patient Taper's sparkling light , You might ( Poor insect ) view , But ah ! her Eyes shine much too bright To be beheld by you . The Daring Fool , burnt by the blazing Sun , Fell , from a less attempt , with ruine , down . ( 4. ) By this , we see , deluded Flie , Your high , Ambitious aim , You , like the Phaenix , thought to die , And perish in a Flame , How different alas ! your fate is found ! Strange ! that you should amidst such Fires be drown'd ! ( 5. ) Like Icarus , too high you flew , And cut your yielding , trackless way , Your Wings destroy'd by Sunbeams too , You fell into a faithless Sea . The Sun , I know , did often Flies beget , But ne'er , till now , has it destroy'd them yet . ( 6. ) So sweetly here you rest , So rich a Tomb you have , And like an Epicure so blest , All are not Stoicks in the Grave . Your Death bids Lovers live prepar'd for theirs , When so much Cruelty is found in Tears .

To a Lady , desiring a Visit. I Am unwel , and my Desease you know , For who could e'er see you , and not be so ? Like light'ning Flashes your bright glances flew , To blast my Sight , when I but look'd at you . Yet wonder not that I should now desire To see again , and so renew the Fire . Thus , Men in Feavers , scorch'd , and raving lie , And beg for Drink , tho' if they Drink , they die . Thus , the Rash Semele entreated Jove , For Flames , much fiercer than the Flames of Love , Yet , like Achilles Launce , your Eyes are found , For , they can cure , what they themselves did wound . Come then , fair Charmer , like the breaking Day , And drive my ills , those Cloudy mists away . All pains , — but Love's , will from thy Presence run , Like flying shades , from the approaching Sun .

Seeing a fair Young Lady , just a dying . SEE how the Virgin Fades , like sweetest Flow'rs , Pluckt in their Bloom from their delightful bow'rs . Behold her Eyes , so Charming , and so Young ! See how they Dart their Glimm'ring Beams along . In Beauteous Blushes now they set to rest , Like Suns dismounting in the Golden West . Their sparkling Lights Death's gloomy darkness Shrouds . O'ercast by their bright lids , like Silver Clouds . With pointed Lustre on her Cheeks they play , Like Evening rays , which shine themselves away . Those Lovely Cheeks , whose wonted Glory 's fled , Are now streakt over with a fainting Red. The flying shadows hover to , and fro , Now , fast they Fleet , now quite away they go . Who can enough this fatal loss deplore , The more I look alas ! I feel it more . In this alone , I some repose can find , This only thought can ease my troubled Mind ; She will be Happy wheresoe'er she treads , In all Death's Mansions , where her fancy leads , In Fragrant Grots , and pleasant , flowry Meads . Some Royal shade the chief of all below , In those blest Lands , where she made hast to go . The noblest far , in the Elyzian Groves , The greatest Hero , fam'd for greatest Loves . Who at their Chrystal , wide , expecting Gates , With folded Arms , and longing wishes waits ; Impatient still for her arival there , To see this wond'rous Celebrated fair ; Now , in his Breast , feels rising Joys begin , And now , all transport , when she first is seen , With airy Bows , receives , and leads her in . Whilst all the Joyful happy dwellers smile , And gaze , all ravisht , on her , all the while . They Paint her way , with strewing Fragrant Flow'rs , And glide admiring thro' their silent Bow'rs . To those bright , grateful Groves , where she must dwell , And that she 's come — In pleasing Whispers , to each other tell .

A Dialogue between a living Nymph , and a Youth who was drown'd . Written thus at the Request of a Lady . Nymph . ( 1. ) TELL me , Dear Youth , why hence you ( fled ? Why shunn'd you mine for Thetis Bed ? Youth . For me she spreads her Liquid Charms , I wanton in her Chrystal Arms , And she , the watry Nymph , burns for me dead . Nymph . ( 2. ) Ah! why would you not stay with me ? Am I not yielding soft as she ? My Love , as flowing too appears , As in its highest tides is her's ; Nor shall it ever know an Ebb for thee . ( 3. ) Tho' now she seems so melting kind , You will her Ice , and coldness find . She to the Sun , at Night , will flow , Tho' not so vigorous , as you , Ah! not so glorious , as when here you shin'd . ( 4. ) To him too she will Faithless prove , For the Moon 's changes change her Love . She Loves you not so well as I , Who to no Arms , but yours , will fly , For as both liv'd in Eires , in Waters both should Dye . ( 5. ) Not all the Coral she can show , Or Jewels ought to Alter you , Youth . Not all her Treasures , and her Gold , In mighty summs , which can't be told ; Nay , should she give the Sun , which makes them too .

To Amasia , who Commanded me to avoid her presence , whenever she appear'd . A strange Command I Have receiv'd of you , You bid me sly , and yet you still pursue , Where'er I go , or whatsoe'er I do , For in my Breast , you , dear prevailing fair , Have got possession , since you Conquer'd there . You bid me fly , and yet too well you know , That , while I live , I cannot e'er do so ; Sylvius as well may fly himself , as you . Since I am vanquish'd , 't is alas ! too late To think of safety by a forc'd retreat . I wish to shun thee , but my Love denies , I have a Heart , and you have Charming Eyes , Nay , when you kill me , for that soon must be , My Ghost shall haunt you , for your wrongs to me . How shall I fly , how from thy Presence run ? I am the Fog , You , my attracting Sun . As well the Needle from it's North might move , For I , my fair , do with like tremblings Love . Could I avoid thee , I should baseness show , A mean , poor fear , and undeserving you . So fly the Clouds , when by the light'nings torn , And so fly Phantoms from the rising Morn .

The Description of the Palace of the Sun , and Constagration of the World , partly imitated from Ovid. ON lofty Pillars Sol's high Palace stands , And shews the Pow'r of it's Creatour's Hands . The two leav'd Doors were of bright Silver made , Which the Sun's-Beams with equal Beams repaid . On them were Carv'd , the Heavens , the Earth , and Floods , Vast Cities , Rivers , Mountains , Plains , and Woods . Large , flowry Fields , with straying Flocks appear , Here , twining Streams , and Nymphs , and Fawns seen there , And the fair Doris drying , on the Rocks , her Hair . Tritons , with Shells , here , sounding on the Sea , While , the blew Gods o'er all the Billows play . Far above these , Heav'ns radiant Image shines , Deckt on each side , with six refulgent Signs . The Iv'ry roof shone bright with burnish'd Gold , Clearer than Flames , when Circled round with cold The Chrystal Floor supports a glorious Throne , Which is around with hallow'd Light o'erflown . Sol , Cloath'd in Purple , here in State appears , And a bright Crown of pointed rays he wears . His Seat's rich Stones a sparkling Lustre raise , The Emraulds shine , and to the Eye they Blaze . Beneath this Throne , plac'd most profoundly low , That vast , and boundless , Sea , Eternity , does flow . On this , the Sun his fiercest Beams displays , Ages begetting , with his Vital rays . Well may the Poets Fiction be allow'd , Here Phaebus sets , in this unfathom'd Flood . Thus he , at first , did the twin Seasons get , Cold was their Mother , and their Father , Heat . From Sol's bright rays , the shining Day to come , And Night , from deep Eternity's dark , gloomy Womb. Hence Time's vast River swiftly glides along , Floating to which , the Cluster'd Ages throng . The rip'ning Years , from the thick Clusters break , From them , the Months , and Days , their Motion take . Thence , spring the hours , which on time's surface play , And in soft incest , wear their Lives away . On her loose Bosom , they all sporting lie , Begetting Minutes , shorter liv'd , than they . Which soon as wing'd ; with the Sun's Fleeting Light , Thence nimbly take their Everlasting flight . Till the World Ends , thus shall their Motions show , Then shall Time's River Start , and backwards flow , And all it 's Whirling Years sink in the gulf below . Now to his steeds the Glorious Phaebus came , Which from their Mouths , and Nostrils vomit Flame . Swiftly , by them , his shining Chariot's 〈◊〉 Whose Harness , Jewels , and rich Gemms adorn . On Chrystal spokes the Silver Fillies roll'd , And the large Beam was made of Massie Gold . The fiery Steeds of their rich Burthen proud , Inflame the AEther , as they Neigh aloud . The Obvious Clouds they cut with flying Feet , And with their thund'ring Hoofs the Barriers beat . Now swiftly Traverse all the roaded Sky , And Chace the Night , o'er every path they fly . Fiercely they now thro' unknown Regions run , And the sad Earth , with tremblings , views the Sun . Whilst light'ning's hurl'd from Jove's Imperial throne , Who grasps his Flaming Bolts , and Thunders down . Now the whole Heav'ns , in Man's destruction join , And all the Clouds , like dreadful Comets , shine . From their scorch'd Wombs , they pour out all their Rain , Which Show'rs in Fire , down on despairing Men. Trees feed the Flame which to their ruine turns , And Corn , by that , which first produc'd it , burns . Loud AEtna roars , with more than usual Fires , And high Parnassus bears two Flaming Spires . Large Fields of Sand no swelling Seas infold , Yet Tagus now flows with dissolving Gold . The Alps appear no longer Cloath'd in Snow , And Mountains tops in Cinders mourn below .

To the Lord Sy—ney , Created Lieutenant of Ireland , about the time his Majesty went to Flanders . AS when the Sun hastes to renew his Toils , And sets in glories , to return in Smiles . He lies in Seas , and rises thence more fair , As if he got new Fires , new brightness there . So , the great Nassaw , when thro' Waves he goes , Renews his Terrors on his trembling Foes . With Joy he Fights , of every Laurel sure , While , what he Conquers , you alone secure . Sacred to him the Gods that Tree shall own , It shall dread Nassaw , not Apollo Crown , And he shall , e'er his mighty course is run , Ride round the Globe , — Triumphant , like the Sun . Janus , his Gates , no more shall open stand , Their Keys lie safe , in your securer hand . Hibernia free from tumults , and from fears ; No danger there but Luxury appears . Soon William's Arms shall round the Earth be hurld , And You deputed o'er the Conquer'd World . Whilst all Fame's thousand Trumpets Sound afar . You , Prince of Peace , and Nassaw , God of War .

To a Lady Lamenting her Lover , who was Drown'd . NOR Pen , nor Pencil , can describe thy Woe , Scarce thy Dear Eyes can their own sorrows show . Such Floods of Tears from their fair Springs run o'er , In such vast streams you pour your Liquid store , As might have drown'd the Swain , had he escap'd before . Those Gales of sighs , which thus your Bosom fill'd , Cause vaster blasts , than what your Lover kill'd . Yet sure those show'rs , which o'er your Cheeks we sind , Might be of force to have suppress'd the Wind. Those Sunny smiles which late adorn'd your form , Are now Eclips'd , and you are all a storm . Sad , gloomy Clouds spread o'er your Lovely Eyes , So fell the Youth , by Just such angry Skies . Thus , while those Tempests in your looks appear , A harder fate , than what he felt , we bear , And with worse Deaths , you wreck beholders here . Since once the Seas o'er all the Lands did flow , And the Waves roll'd , wherever Winds could blow , Blaming Jove's Promise , your complains are found , For , in his loss , you think the World is drown'd . This may consistent with your Notions be , For the Lov'd Youth was all the World to thee . But while your Eyes spread all your Face with rain , Not Earth , but Heav'n endures the Deluge then . For you , the Youth bore such a gen'rous Fire , As nought but Oceans could have made expire . His height of Passion , like Leander's , flew , And he would cross a Hellespont for you . Instead of Lamps to guide him in the Night , With your fair Eyes you should have shown him light , So had he safely thro' the Billows rode , To his Dear Hero's more secure abode . As in the Floods he drew his Liquid Death , Thy name he utter'd with his latest Breath . Love's Mother first is said from Seas to rise , And now the Son of Love in the rough Oceans lies . How , ah ! how wretched did the Lover prove , Tho' he was blest with kind returns of Love ! Since he is drown'd , you scorn our fond desires , His Waters so have quench'd all other's Fires . Hibernia's Seas may now insult their Coast , Their swelling . Billows may their Trophies boast , By them , was your 〈◊〉〈◊〉 — By them , to me , was my Amasia lost . Thus , only thus , Lov'd Youth , thy fall could come , thy Doom . Nought but rude Winds would have Proclaim'd rear ! Alas ! what pity can rough Oceans bear , Which dash those Creatures which themselves did What tender softness can vast rocks receive ! The Flames of Love will not in Surges live . The sweet Endowments of thy gen'rous Mind , Boundless , and flowing as the Floods we find , Free as the Air thy Wit , and Fleeting as the Wind. In all the ills you suffer'd , all the while , Your Soul was Calm , and you appear'd to smile . No Tempest shook your Courage , pleas'd within , Your Conscience rais'd no rowling Waves of Sin , Your Death was gentle , as your Life had been . In that loud storm to have so husht a Mind , Shew'd Pow'r almost as great — As it has been , to have appeas'd the Wind. Thy Vertues mounted to so vast a score , As all the Waves could hardly number o'er . For thy vast loss the Seas outragious grow , They chafe with Foam , while the blasts fiercly blow , And swell'd with griefs , in wond'rous weeping flow . Ev'n in the Calmest Seasons of the Year , The Billows heave their Breasts , and panting they appear . But you , fair Nymph , Lament in such a strain , As might have Power to make him live again . You , Orpheus like , for , sure you Charm as well , Might raise the Youth , from his low , watry Hell . So much you Mourn him , he is envy'd more , Now in his Death , than in his Life before . Your Passion for him , our despair did move , But ah ! your Sorrow melts us into Love . Who would not hast to visit shades below , Could he but hope you would Lament him so ? Those Tears you shed , you think are all his due , To him you gave the Eyes , which shed them too . All my desires but from your Sorrows came , Strange ! that those Waters should produce a Flame ! Thus prove those Floods , which issue at your Eyes , That Love at first did from the Surges rise .

On a Bee inclos'd in Amber . SEE this strange Wretch , struck , by this Amber , Dead , He seems as if in his own Honey lay'd . As o'er the Banks of Erydane he flew , And with its Mourning Poplars sorrow'd too . A fatal drop , loaded with Death , they sent ; So fell the Youth , for whom those Trees Lament . Thus , since his fall , his Sisters Act it o'er , With fiercer Light'nings than he felt before . But he , alone , was beat by Thunder down , This seems at once the Chariot , and the Sun . Lost by Feign'd grief the wond'rous Bee appears , Such weight , such hardness is not found in Tears . Soon shall this Bead ( a grateful gift ) be hung , On some fair Neck , which once it's Venom stung .

On a China Cup fill'd with Water , round the sides of which were painted Trees , and at the bottom , a Naked Woman Weeping . HOw fair does sorrow in her Courts appear ! What tempting Charms does sad Affliction wear ! See , her weak hands support her fainting Head , See her fair Eyes , what Silver streams they shed ! She Bathes in Oceans which her Tears have made . And in this comely Posture seems to be A Venus rising from a Chrystal Sea . See , how , in vain the Beauteous Image strives , Like Naked Eve , to hide her self with Leaves . Fain would she move , to what , in show she sees . But these alas ! are all forbidden Trees . The Artist's self could not this Picture view , Unmov'd with a worse Passion , than he drew . Unhappy he , a New Narcissus proves , And the fair shadow , which he made , he Loves . Here , that fond Youth indeed might Justly err , Nor had his Flames been for himself , but her . Whilst in her Nile she would her Slaves survey , And like the Crocodile , Lament her prey .

The Description of a Tempest , and a Fight at Sea . NOW , deep in Night , the rowling Surges rise , And swelling Seas presage Tempestuous Skies . With angry Foam the raving Billows roar , And , white with Chasing , make their fury more . Thro' the thick air each Wave his Waters hurls , And in thick Clouds Wrap their fierce , foaming curls . The tossing Seas now proudly mount on high , And Tow'r still up , as if to scale the Sky . Whilst the rough Winds encrease the boist'rous War , And drive on Troops of Billows from afar . Now raging less , two Rival Vessels meet , And each , behind them , left a shatter'd Fleet. From Mount'nous heights they were with horrour thrown , Into a Hell of Waters tumbled down . Now both at once , in all their danger struck , And each believ'd that he had forc'd a Rock . Toss'd by the storm , they both are Mounted up , And view each other from the Billows top . Inrag'd , they now are for the War prepar'd , Their Foe both scorn , nor is the Tempest fear'd . Bold Sons of Mortals , who no Laws obey ! Their rage grows fiercer than the Winds , or Sea . Now both the Fleets are met , and louder roar Than the mad Floods , and all the storm before . The Voice of War thro' all the Ships had made , A mighty Tempest , tho' the Winds were lay'd . From their rude sides so fierce a Flame was thrown , None dreaded now , or could expect to drown . Each is desirous here his Life to lose , And Deaths , far worse , than what they shunn'd they choose . A desp'rate Courage from their danger grows , They fall content among their slaughter'd Foes . Just so , one Wave does o'er the former Tow'r , And on it's Head with all his Forces pour . Each spends it self to dash the other down , And with his ruines , he involves his own . Now , in vast sheets the curling light'ning flies , As if the Guns had set on Fire the Skies . Dread Jove storms high , and thunders loudly down , He fears the Victors should invade his throne . The Sons of Earth dar'd once attempt his Sky , And these Sea-Gyants sure , are vast as they . With all their spreading Wings they fly afar , And every Word they utter , threatens War . Thick Clouds of smoak from their loud Guns arise , And in large , gloomy rolls , mount , and obscure the Skies . So roar the Cannons on the Noisy Main , The Thunder does but Eccho them again . Here , the proud Seas so vastly large appear , A Squadron Fires , and dreads a Navy there . 〈◊〉 by Waves , each fears his party gone , And thinks he Fights with the whole Fleet alone . Now , in Confusion they would leave the fray , Thro' watry Walls , they fly , and Plow the Sea , For he 's the Conq'rour , who can hast away .

To a Lady , who presented me an Orange . HOW does the Gift with the fair giver suit ! The fairest hand presents the fairest Fruit ; Had this been thrown , when Atalanta turn'd , The rolling Gold had by the Maid been spurn'd . In vain , Acontius his device had try'd , Had this fair Fruit roll'd by Cydippe's side ; By any Youth this Charming Bribe display'd , Without her Vow , he might have claim'd the Maid . With yours , no tempting , Rival Charm be nam'd ; Mankind was never by an Apple Damn'd . Whilst you , our fairest Tree of Knowledge , stand , I tast the Fruit of your inviting hand ; And while your Branching Fingers stretch'd I see , I long to Circle round the Charming Tree . Deluding Maid ! tho' at so near a view , Like Eden's Plant , thou art forbidden too . The ravisht Youth , whom thou shalt Love , may boast As true a Paradise , as once was lost .

To a Lady , presenting her a Box of Patches . GO , envy'd present , and those Charms improve , Those killing Charms , which I am doom'd to Love . Ill thus I lavish Sacred Beauty's store , To Arm the foe , that vanquish'd me before ; Why should I wing those Shafts , by which I bleed ? And paint the Poyson , when 't is Death to feed ? Tho' thy least patch shall brighter glories hide , Than shine in any other Face descry'd ; Such are thy wond'rous Charms , Victorious Maid ! The more I hide them , they are more display'd . So , the Sun's rays , shine , when allay'd with Clouds ; That shows them fairer , which their glory shrowds . Thus , dying Stars Deck gay the Spangled Morn , And with mild Light , the infant dawn adorn . To Diamonds , thus , their foil does Lustre give , And thus , the shade makes the fair Picture live . While thy dear Face these Cluster'd Patches wears , Thy Charming Face Loves Galaxy appears . Soft does that Skin , without those Patches , show , Soft , as the softest Silk , which makes them so . Thus deckt , tho' Charms , almost Divine , you boast , Yet wert thou naked , thou would'st ravish most . Art thus , with Nature is conspiring found ; You wear the Patch , but 't is I feel the Wound .

To the same Lady , having found a Silver 〈◊〉 , the first thing she toucht , among the Patches , I presented her . 'T IS Silver ; hold , fair , Charming 〈◊〉 , hold , If you , like Midas , touch again , 't is Gold . Your hand 's , strange Pow'r to your bright Eyes impart , Let , thro' my Breast , your shooting glances dart , When 't is made Gold , you will accept my Heart .

To Amasia , off'ring me a branch of Gilded Laurel . SEE there the Lovely , Lov'd Amasia stand , The Charming branch held in the Charming hand . My Temples must not be with Laurels Crown'd , Throw down the bough , and let thy Arms surround .

To a very Charming Lady , with an unpleasing Name . SUre , you have more than Female force to Charm , Who , at first sight , can prejudice disarm . By different Passions sway'd , my senses move , My Ears detest you , but my Eyes must Love . Deaf be those Ears , which dare such Rebels grow , Deaf , to the Sounds of Love , and Musick too . How can thy name raise an ungrateful Sound ! Can melting Harmony , like discord , Wound ! Thy Name is tuneful , as thy self is fair ; My Sense is faulty , yes , the Crime lies there . Unseen , thy Name displeas'd , but now , 't is fear'd , T was not unseen alone , but 't was unheard . While from your Charming Lips the Accents break , The Name delights , 't is Musick , when you speak . While you repeat the Lovely Letters o'er , I Swear I never heard the Name before . Each melting Breath runs Thrilling thro' my Heart , You make each pointed Syllable a Dart. With Charms profuse , how are your Beauties Crown'd ! When , by your Pow'r , deformity can Wound ! Forgive me , fair , I have Love's Rebel been , But now 〈◊〉 yield ; you vanquish all , when seen . I own , I own since I beheld thy Frame , At most , Deformity is but a Name .

To a Lady , whose Maid , having given her a Manuscript , I sent her , and being ask'd from whom , she receiv'd it , reply'd — from the Conjurer himself , she thought . WHilst your Sage Maid does on my Papers look , And sees Chains , Flames and Altars in my Book , Light'ning and Thunder scatter'd up and down , And Heaven and Hell , drawn in each smile and frown , No wonder , every hint she should improve ; There is a certain Magick dwells in Love . But while my Thoughts flow from a wounded Heart , Mine 's Magick Nature , 't is not Magick Art . All that my skill , my little skill can boast , Is , not to sind my Heart , but know it lost . Like weak Magicians , who their Spir'ts can raise , But have not Power their fury to appease , I , with unwarranted presumption play , And raise fierce Love , which I can never lay . But if thou tak'st me to thy Circling Arms , I 'll brave the Fiend , and fear no Counter Charms .

To a Lady , saying she knew I Lov'd her . IT may be so ! I fear , it must be so ; You , who receive the Heart , must surely know . We think not , often , when some toy we drop , But they must needs perceive , who take it up . Mine does so like a very trifle show , It is not worth your pains , to stoop so low . But if to lift the worthless toy you Deign , O never hurl it from your Arms again .

To a Lady , who , ( while endeavouring to tye up some Linen , with a Ribbond , a little of the shortest . ) being ask'd how she would manage , if she Lov'd a Gentleman without a Fortune , reply'd , I 'll show you — ( and so , drawing harder , made the ends meet . ) 'T IS done ; and you with just Applause are Crown'd ; For how can Lovers be too closely bound ! Blest be the Hand , which the firm Knot has ty'd ; O thou , who art the Priestess , grow the Bride . Let Hymen empty from our Nuptials fly , Our Circling Arms shall make the Marriage tye . Why should'st thou Wed ? Thy Charms can never cloy . Thou wilt for ever be a Bride in Joy .

To a Lady , Singing frequently these Words , — Youth and Beauty . FRom your Sweet Tongue , in vain those Accents Spring , For , all your Features Youth and Beauty Sing . Your Eyes , your Smiles , and your expressive Mien , All Sing those Words , and you are Musick , seen . Enough you charm'd us , thro' our Eyes before , You need not pierce our Ears , to Wound us more . Struck thro' one Sense , more fast your Lovers fall , Than others Captives , when Attacqu'd thro' all . 'T is not enough you can soft Passion move ; We must grow ravish'd , and in transport Love . Were Passion free , thou wouldst fix every choice , At once Seraphick , in thy Face and Voice . Hold , Tyr'nous Charmer ! tho' no Beam declines , Yet , the Sun need not burn , to prove it shines , Hark my Heart beats , and Dances to thy Ayres , Thy Breath is tuneful , as the tuneful Spheres . Sing then , the Charms of Beauty and of Youth , But add these three , Love , Constancy , and Truth .

To a Lady , who , with a Charming Air of Negligence , frequently , when spoken to reply'd — Yes , Sir , COnsent , Love's darling blessing , dwells in this , In this one soft , transporting Accent , Yes . Still that dear Sound , from those dear Lips should flow , O may they never , never Answer , No , If of your late , kind Accents you repent , When Love 's the Theam , be silent ; that 's Consent .

To Amasia , having dreamt of me . THE God of Sleep , who flies the Lover's Breast , Yet Acts the Friend , and gives Amasia rest . Your Guardian Angel slumb'rous dreams inspires , And Whispers soft rewards , for soft desires . Whilst in a dream your Bosom I possess , You but the Image of a Lover bless ; How can Love live upon a Painted Feast ? Love , which is blind , can have no Eyes to tast . O feed my Senses with thy real Face , Let my Eyes gaze , and let my Arms Embrace ; Thus let your Swain , your ravish'd Sylvius , feed , No other Nourishment pure Flames can need . With their fair Beams let thy bright Glances move , Amasia , Waken from this dream of Love . To truer Joys your ravish'd Lover take , Waken Amasia , or let Sylvius wake . If only sleep my fancy'd bliss can frame , Pleasure is all but an imperfect dream . By Day , let Lov'd Amasia yield delight , Or let Night last , may it be ever Night . Love seeks the Shades , but seeks them oft by Day , Stay , my Amasia , let the Shadow stay ; It flies , alas ! as the Sun shines , away . You thus , unknown the fleeting bliss destroy , Nor grant me , even the Shadow of a Joy . This is the Pleasure that the damn'd may boast , To hear of Blessings , but to know them lost , Love is it self a Shadow , which will flee From every Lover , but unhappy me ; What then are dreams ? — They must but Shadows of a Shadow be . In vain , in vain , for ever I pursue , You fly me fleeting , as yours dreams do you .

To Amasia , on the Accidental falling of her loose Garments , which discover'd to my view her Breasts . 'T IS hard indeed , ( so many Charms you boast , ) Justly to tell , which takes your Sylvius most ; This does alone within my Judgment fall , All , who have Eyes to see , admire them all . Piercing , yet soft , your killing looks appear , And all , bright dazling rays of Lustre bear ; Your Heavenly Voice has Charming Pow'rs to move , And your Ayrs Fan , and spreads the Fires of Love . But when your Breasts the falling Garments 〈◊〉 , How blest a Scene of Beauties did I view ! AEtna , I thought till now , had rag'd alone , I knew no Rivals to that burning Throne ; Your Breasts , as well may Admiration claim , For they are Snowy Mounts ejecting Flame . What falls from Heav'n that Fiery Hill secures , Nor is it's Frost near so Divine as yours . Columbus ne'er did such fair Worlds descry , His Travels could not make him blest as I , Your Garments show'd me Heav'n , they were the Cloudy Sky . On your soft Globes Young smiling Cupids play , And tender Loves your Beauteous Islands sway . Venus in State does on these Thrones appear , She keeps her Paphos , and Cythera here . Your Golden Locks , spread all around , would show A pleasing soil , where Milk , and Honey flow . Whose tides of Joys , reserv'd for Babes must be , It will ne'er prove a promis'd Land to me . This shews that Infants are more blest than Men ; I for those Breasts would be a Child again .

To the Admir'd Mrs. Cr — fts . LET other Poets other Subjects choose , And Sing some Name proportion'd to their Muse. But be you mine , be you my Charming Theme , Proclaiming yours , I gain my self a Fame . Beauty , and Wit are by each other fir'd , Each raising that , which makes it self admir'd , Thus shall you spread thro' me , me , whom your Charms inspir'd . To such vast heights your Tow'ring Fame has flown , It can't grow more , than 't is already grown . Such are your Merits , they transcend our Praise , But that 's a Fog still drawn by Beauty's rays . No shining Off'ring , worthy you , can rise , For Mortals incense but obscures the Skies . Where'er you pass , while Youths around you Crowd , Your Eyes Flash light'nings thro' the yielding Cloud . The Swains , enamour'd with your Glances , press , And , urging theirs , deny the rest access , Your Charms might more be known , if noted less . We , when grown fond to view your Beauties , run , But sind the nearer Clouds hide from our sight the Sun . Thus , since your Eyes first blest Hibernia's shore , Your Triumphs hinder you to Conquer more . So , while the vanquish'd scorn a mean retreat , You might be greater , were you not so great . To you , fair Goddess , Victims daily fall , All would adore you , were you known to all . The Beauteous Warren , long unrivall'd , Charm'd , No Mortal Breast against her Darts was Arm'd . She still Triumphant , thro' her Conquests , rode , For she has Charms which might o'ercome a God . But you , to share her Empire , hither came , To share an Empire setled long by Fame . To you this right , as you deserve it , fell , So much her equal , you almost excel . Such are your outward Beauties , all must own , All those to whom your Wit , and humour 's known , That Face was made but for that Soul alone . Of what can Paphos , or Cythera boast , Alas ! the fame of those Lov'd Isles is lost , Venus is now ador'd on 〈◊〉 Hibernia's Coast. Hear then , thou Beauteous , Celebrated fair , Exert your Pity , and receive this Pray'r , Whatever Youths shall be subdu'd by thee , ( And all must be so , who have Eyes to see ) Command them live at least , and mildly prove , ( Tho' in your Empire uncontroul'd you move , ) The Queen of Mercy , as the Queen of Love .

To a Lady having lost three Kisses on a Wager with me , and refusing to pay them . WHY , Charming Maid , should you delude me so ? Can those dear Lips deny the Debt they owe ? Those happy Lips , dissolv'd in Balmy bliss , Envy'd by me , since they each other Kiss . How do I long for the Divine delight , When they refuse , what they at once invite ! He who with you will such a Wager lay , Must hold the stakes , or you will never pay . A Kiss would me to hopes of Blessings move , For 't is the Prologue to the Play of Love . Tell me , my fair , what are 〈◊〉 Joys I want ? What is that bliss , which you refuse to grant ? A Kiss you say — and prethee what is this ? Why , all you Answer , is , that 't is a Kiss . A pretty saying , by thy Lips it is . Well , it 's Existence Just in nothing lies , It lives unborn , for when 't is got , it dies ; The sickly Off-spring of a fond desire , And what begets it , makes it strait expire ; While 't is enjoy'd with a more warm embrace , Your ruddy Lips dissolve it's sweets apace , While Thousands more spread o'er your Beauteous Face . So Snow on AEtna still is melting found , Yet still it lies upon the wond'rous ground . O let me Kiss , and rifle all thy store , O let me Sow , and reap ten thousand more , I 'll Kiss thee thro' , I 'll Kiss thy Soul all o'er .

Reflections on the Picture of Cupid , Imitated from Propertius . WHoe'er he was , he does my fancy move , Who painted first the little God of Love . Plainly he saw the senseless Lovers snare , What solid good they lose , for empty care ; Thence did he Justly windy Wings impart , And made the God fly with a humane Heart . By Fortune's waves he knew us wildly tost , While , by each dash , we may be wreck'd , and lost . Justly he knew what the old Poets sung , That from the Seas Love 's Beauteous Mother sprung . E'er since which time , unhappy Lovers see , Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free . It Ebbs and Flows , unfixt , not long the same , A rowling Ocean of tumultuous Flame . He feign'd him blind , with true design , to show That every Lover , while he Loves , is so . Justly indeed his Darts were bearded found , For , what they hurt , can never be made sound ; And ' ere we see him , he is sure to wound . My Breast his Arrows , and his Image boast , But sure his Wings , with which he flies , are lost . My Heart 's his Throne , yet Rebel Passions Jar , Which Fire my Veins , and thro' my Blood make War . Why Cruel Love , should you the Tyrant Play ? By what pretence can you demand your sway ? But you have Pow'r , and I must still obey . When I am gone , who shall your praises sing ? And my Light Muse can weighty glories bring .

To Amasia . ( 1. ) BY their own light my Fires have long been seen , And ev'n my silence told what my fond pains By Birth , and Beauty plac'd so high above , ( have been . All Mankind pays you Universal Love . ( 2. ) Your Beams , like Phaebus , o'er the World appear , Nor need you wonder I perceive them here . Soon may I prove a Conquest from your Eyes , It is the Sun gives life to insects , and to flies , ( 3. ) High as you are , I may at least admire , Mine , like all Flames , by Nature will aspire . Tho' you are great , I am not basely low , He can have no mean Soul , that is in Love with you . ( 4. ) As the rash Youth who dar'd attempt the Sun , Was soon destroy'd , and hurl'd by Thunder down . By Fires as wild so did I madly burn , As fiercely struck with my Amasia's scorn . ( 5. ) This Beauteous Danae's Fortress could not hold , Could I but melt into a show'r of Gold . Here , to have gain'd at all , were greater far , Than a full Conquest , in a meaner War . ( 6. ) You , like a God , can Act howe'er you please , And may ev'n me , to be your equal , raise . You vastly so , would prove your Pow'r the more , In Crowning him , who was your Slave before . ( 7. ) To you Just Heav'n large Fortunes did bestow , Love is the only blessing wanting now . If then my Passion must be ne'er approv'd , O may you never know what 't is to be belov'd ! ( 8. ) The whole Ambition that my Thoughts have known , Is to be yours , Amasia , yours alone ; Blest with your Love , I should slight Empires more Than by your scorn I was despis'd before . ( 9. ) But you , with Roman Pride , your Captives use , When we have yielded , you a Peace refufe . You drag me chain'd , and all my Love Proclaim , Thus you , Amasia , give me Smoak for Flame . ( 10. ) But now , my fair , Eternally adieu , Farewel , farewel to all my Love , and you . Tir'd with the race , no more I fiercely Burn , My dear young Daphne now shall to a Laurel turn . ( 11. ) In vain alas ! like Children , I pursu'd , And chac'd , from Hill to Hill , a guilded Cloud . Whilst Ixion like , fond I , suppos'd it fair , And thought indeed to find a Goddess there . ( 12. ) When thro' all dangers I had wildly gone , Led by Love's wand'ring blazes madly on . O had I grasp'd it in my eager Arms , It would have burst in Show'rs , in Thunder , and in Storms .

The End of the Second Book .

AMASIA , OR , THE Works of the Muses . Containing LETTERS of LOVE . Vol. II. Book III. Et mea , Nescio quid , Carmina dulce sonant .

TO THE Right Honourable EVELYN EARL of Kingston , THESE POEMS Are Humbly Dedicated By his Lordship's Most obedient and most Humble Servant .

J. Hopkins .

LETTERS of LOVE . Written to Amasia . AS Men untry'd stand shiv'ring on the shore , And wish , impatient , the first plunge were o'er ; Till at the last — Boy'd up with fancy'd hopes they shall not sink , Headlong they leap , and leaping Spurn the brink . So , doubting long , the ruin'd Sylvius stood , So plung'd — But void of hope , down Love's impetuous Flood , Others by Waters may , unskill'd , expire ; More fierce my wreck ; I 'm lost in Seas of Fire . With me , as with some wretch pursu'd , it fares , Oceans before , behind him Swords and Spears . Bold does he plunge , or tamely yielding dies ; Easy his fate , or if he stands or flies , But oh ! what Sword — What Spear can pierce like bright Amasia's Eyes ? You know my fate , you know , and make it too , All I can be , depends alone on you , You know I Love you , too , too well I do . Love with the humblest Passion , yet so high , That but your scorn can with that Passion vye ; Unhappy Passion ! thrice unhappy I ! Ill has the Partial hand of chance assign'd Fortunes too slender , but too large a Mind . By this the greatness of my Soul I prove , I Love with more than with a Mortal Love . Yet you , the fair , imperious Charmer , you , Will not believe those Vows I offer true . Too mean the Captive , and Obscure the Prize ; Under unhappy Stars that Lover lies , Where Beauty Conquers , and where Pride denies . In vain the proof of my pretence you shun ; You needs must see what your own Eyes have done . But to convince you of the pangs I bear , O do not see alone , but see , and hear . Hear , tho' you never make the least return , Hear me declare how I shall ever burn .

To Amasia . IN vain in slighted Numbers I complain , In vain I write , when I have spoke in vain . Nor Tongue , nor Pen can you , Obdurate , move , At once disdaining either Wit or Love . In what a maze of griefs am I perplext ! Love , the first Crime , and writing was the next . Both Crimes , yet both yield Anguish and Delight , For while I live — I 'm doom'd to Love , and while I Love , to Write . Tho' sense like yours permits no soft return , Be mild at least , ah ! do not , do not scorn . Believe I Love you , be assur'd I do , Assurd — I Love , and could adore you too ; Why should I urge what seems a Crime to you ? Yet I 'll confess , tho' so confessing die , 'T is I who Love you most , 't is only I. Of this , my Crime , as of desert I boast , Yes , I am Ravish'd here — To think , to know , and vow I Love you most . Love is reported blind , tho' blind he be , I see I Love — And thou the object , all must own I see , Spight of your haughty scorn , you see it too , Tho' you disdain to look at me , you do . At once your Pride and Reason you display ; Why should you cast the smallest Glance away ? Others with darts from shooting Eyes are struck , Me you confound , and Kill without a look . Would I could Learn , O teach this Charming Skill , Teach me to save my self , tho' not to kill . It cannot be , here the Obstruction lies , Unhappy , Eyes I have — And I must look , as long as I have Eyes . 'T was they first drew the fatal Poyson in , Would they — or I my self had never been , But fate is past , I am , and they have seen . Seen ? — Were that all , your Slave had still been free . But still the Soul Admires , whene'er they see . O my Amasia ! no , oh ! no , ye Pow'rs ! She is not mine — Nor wilt thou be , tho' I am ever yours . Would I were yours , but that , ye Pow'rs Divine ! That cannot be , for thou would'st then be mine , Can it not be ? — what can't the Pow'rs above ! To them my slighted , humble suit I 'll move . Rather , to thee — thou art the Pow'r of Love .

To Amasia . AS Men on Racks feel Tortures , and complain ; Severer far than theirs , my Mortal pain : So , do I feel , sigh so , like them in vain . Like them confessing dying Truths at last , And blest that Power which Tortures me so fast . Compar'd with mine — Small is the greatest Malefactor's smart ; Wheels break their Limbs , Love gnaws , and Tears my Heart . Stay , let me tell my Num'rous suff'rings o'er , And think — O no ; — no let me think no more . Ambition vast my Airy Thoughts pursue , Confus'd , of all things , and yet all of you . You all my Notions , all my Sense Enthral , Confin'd — confin'd to you ? yet you are all . Now , to Amasia's Charms alone I bow , Then she disdains — My own desire must be my Mistress now . Where can my Anxious Soul at last have rest ? There is no Calm , but in Amasia's Breast . Whene'er I see 〈◊〉 , 〈◊〉 , step , or move , My Soul 's on Fire , and I am all o'er 〈◊〉 Thro' every Vein the subtile Poyson flies , And dancing , leaps at my enlighten'd Eyes . Thick on my Heart dashes my boiling Blood , Wash'd like some Rock by the insulting Flood . Yet not unmov'd ; it trembles at each touch ; Mine 's sure no Rock , your Heart is only such . Believe , Amasia , could you know my Love , Rock as it is , such Passion needs must move . Could you but know to what excess I burn , Soon would you pity him , whom now you scorn . Whate'er the Female , rigid Pride foretels , There must be softness , where such Beauty dwells . O think again , think on the ills I bear , And do not , do not drive me to despair ; Must all — must all be cruel , who are fair ? Beauty , like light'ning thus it 's Pow'r maintains , And less in Charming than in Terrour Reigns . O that true Love should with disdain be paid ! O that my Passion should your sport be made ! Late , at your Father's Gates I saw you stand , And Knock for Entrance with a gentle hand . The conscious Gates ( kind to my Pray'rs ) were barr'd , I saw — And tho' at distance , fancy'd that I heard . Long time you stood , tho' then I thought not so , You enter'd — where I wretched , must not go . Blessings so great your harsh decree denies , Yet thou wert follow'd by thy Lover's Eyes . Not they , ev'n they , could full Admittance gain , The shutting Gates dash'd back my sight — My Eyes attempted , like my self , in vain . Dull , senseless Eyes , which could that object lose ! O Servant , harder than the Doors you close . Secure , like Danae in your brazen hold , Not Jove himself can enter , but in Gold .

To Amasia . AS Men in desarts lost , with wand'rings rove , Thro' ev'ry trackless thicket , every Grove , So am I lost — And so bewilder'd in the maze of Love . To Men , and Gods , and Heav'n , distress'd they cry , Nor Men , nor Gods , but Ecchoing Woods reply , And threat'ning Thunder bursting from the Sky . In vain the Hills their sad complaints restore , Or worse than vain — Redoubling back their Woes , they make them more . In vain , forlorn , they strive themselves to shun , Their griefs pursue them , wheresoe'er they run , Like me despairing , and like me undone . Off'ring their latest Pray'rs , to Heav'n they sue , Kneel to unpitying Pow'rs , as I to you . Unknowing where for kind relief to fly , Accurst like me , like me resolve to die . Cruel Amasia ! — no , I wrong thee there , For thou art good as Guardian Angels are . Gentle in Nature , Affable , and Mild , Courteously soft — And Sweetly smiling , as a dreaming Child . What is my fate ? What Crimes must I atone ? What ? — Tell me Heav'n ! and Earth what have I done ? What have I done ? — ne'er may the guilt remove ; I own , and boast my Crime , my Crime is Love . Young tho' I am , I have a Manly Soul , And full-grown Passions in my Bosom rowl . Young tho' I am , if you continue cold , Believe , Amasia , I shall soon grow old . Already have I felt unsetled Fires , Already past all Youthful , vain desires . Whether by chance , or by misfortunes hurl'd , Too well I know , and now despise the World . From all it's loose , Fantastick Charms I flee , Contemning all it's Beauties — all , but thee . Like some Skill'd Traveller , o'ercast with Night , Gay , shooting Meteors , and false Stars I slight , But rise , and bow to the Sun 's awful light . Each Meaner Planet might Attract the Eye ; But Sol in view , all Constellations fly ; What Beauty 's seen , and bright Amasia by ? You with peculiar force your Glances Arm , Nor do they shine alone , but shine and warm : Lovely in every thing ! in all you Charm . Why should I bring your Image to my veiw ? O would your Image could be very you . But I unblest , am by all Bars deny'd , Your Guardian Father , and your Guardian Pride . Tho' Death it self from your disdain I meet , I ask but this — Let me receive it at Amasia's Feet .

To Amasia . WHat can I think ; can nothing , nothing move ? Is there no way , no 〈◊〉 to gain your Love ? As Men in Vessels beaten by a Storm , By Winds and Waves , and all that fear can form , Look often back for the forsaken shore , But that long lost , tho' loud the Billows roar , Plow up amain the Seas , for passage o'er . So wish I oft I had not told my pain , Wish what I told cou'd be untold again , All I declar'd , since it was all in vain . Then strugling Passions in my Mind revolve , Resolv'd to move thee , but in vain resolve . In spight of Winds , in spight of Waves I 'll on , I can at worst , be , as I am , undone . Roar on ye Bolts of Thunder from the Sky , And at my Head broad Sheets of light'ning fly . Burst , ye charg'd Clouds , hurl fast your Burthens down , I rage with scorching Fires ye cannot drown , Fall thick , and save me from Amasia's frown . Your scorn alone my Breast with trembling moves , He cannot , no , he cannot fear , who Loves . Once with your presence blest — but once — kind Heav'n ! Thanks for that once , my humblest Thanks are giv'n . With beating Heart , and melting Eyes I came , Catch'd , at each step , and every Glance , new Flame , Saw all the Charms that fancy rack'd can frame . Slowly with mingled Love and awe approach'd , Stood , and gaz'd on , but never , never touch'd . Tortur'd at once with Pleasure , and with pain , Smoth'ring my Sighs , for I had sigh'd in vain . Fast to my Face flush'd up my Mantling Blood , I stood — O would I had for ever stood . Chang'd , as Romantick Lovers were of old , I seem'd enchanted in some Charming hold , The place show'd Paradise — And you look'd form'd of an Angelick mould . As Men in Pangs and Agonies of Death , With Tremulous LipsCatch thick at parting breath ; So , but with greater pangs your Sylvius strove , And scarce , ah ! scarce could speak those Words — I Love . Seated , at distance far , far off , with shame , And down-cast looks I told you why I came . My business known , you put resentment on , And seem'd to bid me , with your looks , be gone . I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 go , or I had then obey'd , 〈◊〉〈◊〉 , oft murmur'd that I stay'd . 〈◊〉〈◊〉〈◊〉 go without one smile away ? Why did I move at all ? — Fool that I was , I did not ever stay ! O that those Minutes were so quickly past ! O that those Minutes could not Ages last ! Our pains remain — But ah ! our fleeting Pleasures fly too fast .

To Amasia . THink , think , Amasia , on the Wounds you gave , Think how your Eyes have made my Soul your Slave . O let your Pride before your Beauty fly , What will you gain , to see your Sylvius die ; Why am I slighted thus , Amasia , why ? For Adoration are our Temples made ; While there are Altars , vows will there be paid . At Shrines the suppliant does with Off'rings move , Heav'n claims our Duty , as you claim our Love . No wonder then my Breast so soon was fir'd , For you were only 〈◊〉 to be admir'd . The gazing World shall you the Charmer see , Ador'd by all , but most belov'd by me . Where , where deserv'd can you confer your Charms ? Into what happy Youth 's successful Arms ? Lovely in all , with form , and Face divine , With Form and Face Serenely Sweet as thine ? It cannot be — here all desert is Barr'd , Heav'n cant be priz'd — 'T is always giv'n , and giv'n as a reward . Impious the Wretch who thinks thy Charms to buy , If Mortal Man can purchase thee , 't is I. Nor Transient Gold , nor Titles ought to move , Love only Merits you , immortal Love . Free from all Servile int'rest do I sue , I should have all the World , in having you . Tho' my small Fortunes wreck'd , and lost I own , I Court your self , but for your self alone . What more can in Ambition's Circle fall ? Her self ? Ye Pow'rs ! Thy Charming self is all . Let others Plow the sierce , Tempestuous main . And visit Lands , far distant hence , for gain . Let suppliant Souls for gilded honour bow ; Thou art my Treasure , all I wish for , thou . Tho' now at partial Fortune I repine , I should indeed be rich , if thou wert Mine . O never mine — a thousand Bars deny ; Your Father — think , O think — Your Father Loves you not so well as I. When you , by him consenting , shall be led To the false Joys of a gay Nuptial Bed , May you abhor the Man , but for damn'd int'rest Wed. Rather , kind Heav'n ! ( if such a thing can be ) May he be cold , indiff'rent , dull — yet doated on by thee . Then may you say , when this curst State you prove , Tho' Sylvius wanted Fortunes , he had Love .

To Amasia . WHY did the Day its hateful dawn disclose ? Why wak'd your Slave so soon , so soon arose ? Why did I wake to be your Slave again , When in my sleep I did a Conquerour Reign ? Vain Shadow of a Conquest ! all is vain ! To thy dear Arms , methought , I ravish'd flew , And humbly yielding there , Triumphant grew ; Delusion all , all false — but very you . With soft , submissive force I gain'd the Field , And found the greatest Triumph there to yield . To your Command my prostrate Soul I gave , And was , when most your Conquerour , most your Slave . O that each Thought could the like Vision Frame ! Sure I wak'd then , and now , 't is now I Dream . Methought , Amasia made a kind return , Methought , soft smiles did all her Face adorn , And she seem'd Lovely as the blushing Morn . Young Love , Methought , dawn'd round your gentler Eyes , You all o'er fondness , I all o'er surprize . O let me dare my Blessings to relate , O let me tell thee my transported State , Extatick Joys beyond the Power of fate . Not to the happiest Man unknowing Heav'n , Can such unbounded Floods of flowing Sweets be given . Free from all loose desires did Sylvius move , Which real Passion , from it self can prove , They only feel , who have not Souls to Love . Low at your Feet , long did I humbly Kneel , And in soft Sighs breath'd all the Pangs I feel . Why should my Pains , my racking Tortures stay ? And why my Joys fleet with the Night away ! To smiling looks , me thought , you chang'd your frown , And from your Eyes cast soft Compassion down . Then , happy then ! ( but Dreams have fancy'd Charms You kindly rais'd me up — Rais'd me , all bliss to your endearing Arms. Forgive , Amasia , what I here declare , For Men may Dream of Heaven — Ev'n in the deepest Anguish of despair . Chast are my Thoughts , chast is my Sacred Flame , Ev'n in deluding sleep , unknowing shame , For who can Sin , that does of Angels dream ? Close to your Breast the trembling Lover flew , Which , when awake , no Mortal dares to do . Then , — ye Propitious Pow'rs ! ye Thrones Divine ! Receive , you Cry'd — Receive me , Sylvius , I am ever thine . Who could , ( and Live ) those Heav'nly Accents hear ? O 't was too much , too much for Man to bear . Like the fam'd Roman in his Triumphs prest , I fell — And falling sunk into Eternal rest . O would it were Eternal — would no more I had awak'd , to feel my suff'rings o'er , Suff'rings , from Pleasures past , far greater than before . Seldom , ah ! seldom do I find repose , Yet when I do , ev'n thence my Anguish grows ; Yet gentle Slumbers of kind Death — With your all binding Seals my Eyes for ever close .

To Amasia . ENough — 't is done , the fatal Work is done , Now , Cruel fair ! you may disdain me on . No further ills has he to fear , who feels More Mortal Pains — Than Wretches dash'd on Rocks , or broke on Wheels . The flourishing Oak shakes , when the tempest blows ; The naked Tree does it's bare Trunk expose , Nor bows , nor shakes , tho' the Winds fury grows . Frown , gloomy Heaven ! pour fast your Thunders down , All that I can , I have already known ; Frown gloomy Heav'n , and fair Amasia , frown . Let me the worst extreams of Rigour try , Heap on me all at once , I can but die . Who , who 's that Wretch who can your Vengeance flee ? Or where 's the Man who dares not die for thee ? Scorning , I laugh at those who boast their fall , Slighting all Deaths , and yet afraid of all . Why should I Perish ; No , Amasia , no , So tho' I fell , I could not gain you so ; Love is Romantick in the Shades below . Death is a Thought should never sooth Despair , For I can meet no kind Amasia there ; Where shall I find thee then , O tell me , where ? Thro' Seas , thro' Fires , o'er Mountains would I go , O'er Mountains cover'd with Eternal Snow : Thro' Salvage Wilds , thro' Dens and Forrests rove , Thro' the whole Universe , to gain thy Love . Tho' I disdain with flatt'ring Vows to Whine , Hear me , yon starry roof , hear me , ye Pow'rs Divine ! There are no dangers under Heav'n — I would not brave , to have Amasia mine .

To Amasia . WHence , whence your Charms ; whence your engaging Pow'rs ? Why do I wish to be for ever yours ? Something peculiar in your form is seen , And something strangely taking in your Mien . Something there is , unknown , allures my Soul , Does all my Thoughts , and all my sense controul , Divine in every part , Angelick in the whole . Now , your Seraphick shape I wond'ring , Praise , Then , at each motion , every Gesture gaze , But when your Face I view — My sense lies Buried in a Thoughtless maze . Others , to move , may their whole Beauties Arm , But you with every smallest part can Charm , Continue cold your self , yet all beholders warm . Yet this alone ne'er cou'd such Passion move , This could not make me , ev'n to madness , Love . Curst be the hour , when I beheld you first , Curst be the Day , thro' long , long Ages Curst , Curst be the time , when I presum'd to sue , And Court , with humblest Love , the proud , imperious you . Then , then it was your Sense engag'd me more , Than all that Beauty had display'd before . Strange ! that indulgent Heav'n all Charms should give ; Strange ! that Minerva should in Venus live ! But , stranger yet ! you Hate , for Love , return ; 'T is hard to know — Whether your sense be greater or your scorn .

To Amasia . AT last believe — as thou art fair , be good , Believe I Love ; you promis'd me you wou'd . How can I proofs of my Affection show ? O had I Crowns — Empires and Worlds , far let those trifles go , All would I slight , all I can think , for you . Beyond thy Charms what can Ambition see ; Thou art an Empire , and a World to me . While Eyes can look , and while thy Beauty blooms , ( And that will be , ' til the Pale Tyrant comes . ) While I have sense to speak , to live , and move , While I despair , ( which must be ) while I Love . While Seas shall roar , while Night and day shall last , Till the great doom of all Mankind be past , Still shall my Soul to dear Amasia bow ; And yet she fancies that I Love not now . O Charming Maid ! believe , at last believe , 'T is all your Sylvius asks you now to give , Believe that I shall Love you , while I live . Sure , ev'n from Death my Passion must be free , Sure , when my Body dies — Yet the surviving part will think on thee . What then must come , none , while alive , can prove , But here , none truly live , who do not truly Love . O you must needs be full convinc'd I do , I have no int'rest in the World , but you . Your self I Court — And for your self alone , your self I wooe .

To Amasia . COuld you believe my Flame , would that relieve ? You would but scorn the more , as you the more believe . A real Passion but disdain Creates , And Pride 's a Monster that on Beauty waits . Custom has taught all Virgins to be coy , And feeds their Vanity , but starves their Joy . O'er Sense , o'er Reason , and o'er Love it Rules , Custom , the Guardian , and the guide of Fools . Custom , which leads us out , and brings us in ; And yet , 't is Custom chiefly makes Men Sin . When we do ill , the weak pretence we show , The Poor excuse , is , Custom taught us so , And all the World must with the Fashion go . If then , that Phantom must all Acts approve , Know , that 't is Customary too to Love . Common to all as Death ; — the Rural Swain Sighs for the Nymph that Charm'd him on the plain And sits , and Sings like me , like me , in vain . Forsakes his Flocks , and seeks some cool Retreat , Shunning the Sun's , and Love's more scorching heat , Supine he lies — Gazing on others Herds , and as he Sighs , they bleat . The Soldier too , proud in his own Commands , Receives the Signal from his Mistress Hands , O'er him Triumphant still , where'er she goes , At every Glance Alarm'd — More than with Drums , and Trumpets from his foes . From Noisy Nonsense Calm , entranc'd he lies , And Swears not now , — but by his Charmer's Eyes . The pleading Lawyers from the Bar remove , And slight all suits , but the soft suit of Love . An other's case , Loquacious , they make known , Impertinently loud ; — But as their Clients , silent , in their own . Love , by strange Pow'r , maintains his Conqu'ring Sway , And we must , in our own despight , obey , Speaking the least , who have the most to say . Amasia , thus I prove my claim to you , All Mankind Love — But none of all , as I , unhappy , do . There I transcend the Custom , bold , extravagantly new . In other things — Let all your Sex to their old Law refer , Amasia is belov'd , Love should be Law to her . Let others boast their Titles , or their Arts , But only Hearts should have a right to Hearts . And yet , I own you are not blindly led , For Reason bids you shun the humble Bed ; Reason ? — who ever Lov'd , that did with Reason Wed !

To Amasia . THO' Sense prevailing Checks a kind return , Tho' Sense , cold sense , permits you not to burn , Yet Sense can never bid Amasia scorn . By Fate 's decree , Love rages in the Blood ; A Passion cannot be by force withstood , For I would hate Amasia , if I cou'd . Can I at once mention thy Name , and hate ? Love Choaks that Word , for Love to me is fate . Resentment now does with soft Fondness Jar , Reason and Love wage an Eternal War , Love Fights — Love Conquers still — And my own Heart is his Triumphant Car. In vain I call my Senses to my aid , In vain Rebel , he will be still obey'd , For I am soon by ev'ry Sense betray'd . Now , I resolve thy Beauties to despise , And look — but look alas ! with longing Eyes . Each pointed Glance , with haughty Courage Arm'd , Looses its Edge , and at thy sight grows Charm'd . In all I yield , and strait , ye Pow'rs Divine ! My Heart , and Soul , as well as Eyes , are thine . Whene'er I touch thee , I transported grow , Whene'r I touch , which but in Thought I do , More soft thou seem'st — Than downy Swans , or than the Fleecy Snow . Thy Fragrant Breath — More smelling Sweet than richest Perfumes blows , Than Scents of Violets , or the blooming Rose . To catch new Sweets , oft flying Zephirs stay , Around thy Lips , and with thy Tresses play , Then pleas'd , with Whistlings fly — And on their Wings bear the dear spoils away . In thee all Odours keep their Lov'd aboad , One sigh of yours would Charm , or make , a God . From place to place , tastless of Food , I rove , Loathing all else — my only food is Love . Musick , be dumb — what Musick can I hear ? Amasia's Voice can only Charm my Ear , All 's discord else — there 's only Musick there . Thy Ayres , at once , Fann , while they raise the Fire , Thy Words beyond all others Songs inspire , Charming the Poet more than his Apollo's lyre . Seraphick strains from every Accent spring , Sing not Amasia — no — For I should grow Immortal , should you sing . Whene'er you speak , fond of the Charming sound , With the Lov'd Voice the Hills , and Vales rebound , Scarce , scarce at last by repetition drown'd . O had the Vocal Nymph such strains restor'd , Had Eccho's Voice been such , Narcissus had ador'd . Ravish'd like me , he had Condemn'd his choice , And had not Burn'd — For the Reflection of a Face , but Voice .

To Amasia . WHY am I charg'd to lay aside my claim ? Why am I charg'd to stifle sacred Flame ? Let the dull Hind Plow up the Patient soil , And duller Warriors in their Trenches toil . To gainful Trades their Sons let Fathers bind , And let the Sailor , go , pursue the Wind ! In their own Spheres let every Mortal move , And let , ( Amasia ) let your Sylvius Love . Bid the bright Sun be now no longer bright , Bid the succeeding Stars withdraw their light . O would thou couldst , then might my suff'rings end , There 's not one Star in Heav'n that shines my Friend . Bid rowling Billows , cease to lash the shore , Bid the insulting Tempest cease to roar , Then bid me cease to Love , and to adore . O Charming Maid ! Bid thy own Beauties fade , Till then , Mankind must Love thee , Charming Maid ! Why wert thou form'd of that Celestial Mould ? Gold 's base to thee — O be not bought with Gold ; Beauty should only be for Passion sold. Freely on me confer the Heav'nly store , Freely — as Nature gave it thee before , And Heav'n , by which 't was form'd — Will , pleas'd , ( if possible ) yet make it more . Where should the Lovely fair her Charms confer ? Where ? but to that fond Youth — Who Burns , and Bleeds , and Sighs , and Dies for her ? Receive me , O receive me to thy Arms , Or if thou still wilt scorn , withdraw thy Charms . Let me some ease from Mortal suff'rings find , O be not too , too Lovely , yet unkind ; But thou art Deaf to Pray'rs — As raging Seas , or as the Storming Wind. Oft , when alone , you Dance before my view , And every thing I think of , turns to you . Flee , Phantom Love , — or where shall Sylvius flee ? Why should I think — she never thinks of me , The Cruel , Haughty , Proud , Imperious she . O say , Amasia , whom all Charms adorn , Can'st thou feel no Remorse , and wilt 〈◊〉 ever scorn ! Gods ! 't is too much to bear — it can't be born . It must , alas ! — how idly did I rave ? What Charm can succour me , what Pow'r can save ? Now I resolve by force thy House to Storm , Again I rave — But what , ye Gods ! can't Men in Love perform ? Sometimes , on wiles I think , because I know Acontius gain'd his fair Cydippe so ; Again resolve near your aboad to stay ; And snatch , and carry thee by force away , Snatch , like the Bird of Jove , the Lovely prey . The Thund'rer's Ensigns on his Wings he rears , Love's light'ning's fiercer than the Flames he bears . This ' midst a Thousand other Thoughts , comes on , Orythia so was by Young Boreas won . Then , as you pass along the Crowded Street , I think — your Sylvius thinks , his fair to meet , And fall a Victim , prostrate at her Feet . Soon will a passage to my Heart be found , The Sword but ent'ring where Love made the Wound .

To Amasia . O Cruel fair ! at length , receive my Pray'r , At length , return my Passion , Cruel fair ! Think what it is to Love , and to Despair . Whene'er I meet Acquaintance in the Town , Thoughtful I pass , & look dejected down , Scarce knowing Friends , and ev'n to Friends scarce known . Strait , with concern they ask me what I Aile , And Cry , why Pale , my Sylvius , why so Pale ? Silent I sighing stand , nor speak , nor move , Soon , ah ! too soon , from thence my griefs they prove , And tell me laughing — Youth , Poor Youth ! you Love . Thinking on thee , Amasia , all the while , Fond their ill-natur'd Pity to beguile , Ev'n in Despair I force a racking smile . With scornful Jests my Friends their Pity show ; Yes , proud Amasia too can pity so . Almost in Tears , yet forc'd to smile again , My Pain concealing , I encrease my Pain . Love , Tyrant Love urges those sad Extreams , Like Winter Suns , I smile with Watry Beams . Vain are my weak Devices , and deceit , They talk of business — and I name you strait . Why Blush you now ; why Pale again ; they Cry ; Why ? — you should Answer them , Amasia , why . A Thoughtless Ignorance on Love attends , Tell me the cause , that I may tell my Friends . If this , fair Charmer ! you refuse to do , I 'll lay it all , charge all my change on you . Take then the Reason , Friends , Companions , take — You see me Pale ; 't is for Amasia's sake . To you ( once Dear ) and to the World I own , I Love — I Love Amasia , her alone .

To Amasia . COuld the true Lover all his ills declare , Make known his tedious suff'rings to his fair , Sure , she would kindly listen to his Pray'r , Sure , all his Woes would some Compassion move , Sure , she would Pity , tho' she could not Love . Hear , hear , Amasia , what I feel for you , For by your self , by your Dear self , 't is true , I Love almost to madness — Gods ! I do . My Eyes no rest , my Soul no quiet knows , Sylvius is tortur'd , whereso'er he goes , No peaceful slumbers Crown me with repose . All Day I rave of thee , and all the Night , Ev'n in the gloom , I have thee in my sight , Nor am I Cheer'd by the all-Cheering light . Wing'd with my sighs , the Minutes slowly fly , When every Mortal Creature sleeps — but I. Why do you rack me thus , Dear Charmer ! why ? Now wild Chimaera's in my fancy grow , Now , now I think I see thy Beauties glow , And strait my gushing Tears in Torrents flow . Flow on , ye Streams , Flow , ye Tumultuous Streams , Not all your deluges can quench my Flames . Excuse each Blot , which to your view appears , I stain the Paper less with Ink than Tears . Strange force of Love , which can such wonders do ! Raising our Souls to make them lower bow . Thus , while it Works me to the last excess , Making me more than Man , it makes me less . Each tedious moment of the Night I sigh , As on my Bed , lodg'd like Despair , I lie , No Creature there , no living Creature Nigh . Plac'd near my Feet , a silent Taper stands , But not like Hymen's , when he Joyns kind hands . Like Death's Pale Torch , a glimm'ring light it yields , Or like the Glow-worm Fires in Winter Fields . Sometimes my fancy shows me Pale and dead , And direful Furies yelling round my Head . Again — ( what ev'n would be in Death deny'd ) I see Amasia Mourning by my side , And hear her sighing Cry , — I come , thy Bride . Convinc'd at last , her Charms my Soul could 〈◊〉 Convinc'd at last , that I did truly Love . Sylvius , with thee , down to the Shades below , With her own Sylvius shall Amasia go . There , thy firm Love , thy Constancy , to Crown , Thy Lov'd Amasia shall be thine alone . Rais'd by this Thought , I strive to seize my fair , But Oh! I find no dear Amasia there . Your very Image 〈◊〉 — And nought is left me real , — but Despair . From side to side , guiltless of sleep I turn , And now I Freeze , now , as in Feavers , burn . Oft on thy Name , and oft on Heav'n I call , And Kneel to every Pow'r , and Pray to all . Then , hush'd by Weeping , as the Wind by Show'rs , I speak in softest Murmurs only yours . Amasia — Dear Amasia — then I sigh , Amasia sleeps — and all things sleep — but I ; The Virgin sleeps , and will not hear my Cry . O may the softest , Golden slumbers Crown , Her Charming Eyes , and every trouble drown , Since I am Curst , may I be so alone . On me the worst , the heaviest Sorrows fall , All may she scape , save her , kind Heav'n from all .

To Amasia . WHilst some vainFops repuls'd , and oft deny'd , Turn Love to hatred , and soft Pray'rs to Pride ; I , when the most by your disdain despis'd , Confess thy Charms are still Divinely priz'd . He , whose Address the worst success can move , That Wretch , that False , Mean Wretch could never Love . Lovers like Beggars should kind Pray'rs bestow , Whether their cravings are reliev'd or no. But you , too harsh , will no Petitions meet , And tho' you wont relieve — Deny to let me Perish at your Feet . O tho' you ne'er support me in my want , Yet hear at least , that is not much to grant . O 't is too much — accurst by fate's decree , The smallest favour is to great for me . The ragged Wretch , deseas'd , who at your Door Falls down , and Begs , Decrepid , Friendless , Poor , At least you Pity , if you give no more . This , every Day , almost each hour I view ; Who would not beg , so to be pity'd too ? But more for any Slave , than for your own , you do . Europa thus on the Sydonian shore Viewing a Bull , with Pleasure hear'd him roar , Fed him with flow'rs , then , mounting on him , rode , Till the transported Bull became a God . More to relieve him so , the Virgin strove , Than she had done , if she had known him Jove . O to what form can I this being change , Into what parts , and whither shall I range ? Strange Love ! Strange Wish ! Fantastick Notions Strange ! Vain my desires , all fond endeavours vain ! Alter'd from what I was — I am your Slave , and must your Slave remain . The humblest , real Love no change endures , While I have any being , I am Yours .

To Amasia . HArk — how I sigh , mark the last dying Groan , Feel how my Heart beats thick — observe my Moan , My Breath comes short , and now — Now in that other sigh my Soul is gone . Now , do I faint , yet oft , too oft revive ; ( Happy the dead ; none can be blest alive . From Tortures freed , but to be kept in pain , I am , like Sentenc'd Wretches , rack'd again . See , how my changing Colour comes and goes , See , how Amasia smiles , yet all my suff'rings knows See , how my Tears my Sickly visage drown , See , how they fall — And drop by drop trace one another down . Stream on , for there the Lovely Charmer stands , Stream , till she dries you with her tender Hands . False Tears ! yet Kind , tho' False ; O kind surprize ! My Tears afford me what my Sight denies ; My Tears present her Image to my Eyes . To the true view Amasia ne'er appears , And yet she kindly Dances in my Tears . Kindly ? — ah ! no ; such Mirth yields no relief , She , Dancing , Triumphs in her Lover's grief . Blindness by Weeping , I to sight prefer , If only Weeping can present me her . Since , but by loss of sight , her form I find , To Weep , is seeing ; all sight else is Blind . Thus , the effect of grief , the grief destroys , And thus my very sorrows yield me Joys . In every drop Amasia I espy , Amasia , always in my Tears , but never in my Eye . Strange ! that your Soul not the least softness bears ! Strange ! that thou know'st not pity , yet art lodg'd in Tears ! Still as they flow , they bring thy Image on , Thy Image is in every Torrent gone ; I think — I see a thousand Charmers ; seeing none . By some Learn'd Sage I must instructed be , If 〈◊〉 the fancy , or the Eyes that see . Let me not boast oft so your form I view , My Sorrows multiply , as fast as you . Above all Gemms , I prize each flowing Tear , There 't is you shine , that 's bright Amasia's Sphere , Thou , the fair Orb art ever rowling there . Thro' Waters thus enlighten'd fancy Spies , What the clear Air to eager sight denies ; Thus the Sun 's seen in Streams , tho' Clouded in the Skies . Thus did the Flood to fond Narcissus shew What no search else thro' the whole World could do . When with each falling drop Amasia goes , The next succeeding drop a new Amasia shows . False Omen that ! — I see all 's Shadow now ; For thou thy self art fled — How wilt thou come again ? instruct me , how ? For thy true loss — Think , Charmer , think how Pompous is my woe , When thus I Weep to see thy Shaddow go ? Like Radiant Sol , from the Tumultuous Main , From Tears you rise , and set in Tears again . While thus thy form appears in watry Eyes , From Floods I see a Second Venus rise .

To Amasia . SEE , how in Sorrows Drown'd I trembling stand , See , how my Pen falls from my Feeble Hand . Why , let it fall — I 'll now embrace my Chain , No more in Words , no more in Sighs complain , And never , never write , despis'd , again . To end my Woes , and Life , at once , I 'll try , Burst , burst my Heart — lost Wretch ! run mad and die . Tear first thy Eyes , there let thy rage begin , Thy Eyes first drew the fatal mischief in , For thou had'st never Lov'd , if thou had'st never seen . Hurl , hurl the Bleeding Balls , and let them meet Their abject Doom , spurn'd by Amasia's Feet . What have they done ? how does their Crime appear ; What could they do , but look , when she was near ? With sight Seal'd up , Men sleep , tho' Stars shine Bright , But the Sun ris'n — All Eyes are Open to receive the light . O let me grow distracted with my Moan , And roving in some desart land , unknown , Lose my loath'd Life , and Senseless , stiffen into Stone . Ev'n then the Marks of deepest Woes I 'll bear , And stand the very Statue of Despair ; A frightful Wildness in my look , and Terrour in my Air. Strange ! I should wish this desp'rate State to prove , Strange ! that no Charm your rigid Breast can move . Strange ! you despise — The softest , dearest , and the tend'rest Love ! No Charm but Gold ? — Oh! wilt thou then be sold ? Wilt thou Debase thy self to Servile Gold ? His Golden wish , when Midas came to die , He Curst — and wisht him Poor , yes , Poor as I.

To Amasia . TOO much , too much you Tyrannize , proud Maid ! More than you ought , you do my sense invade , yours Obey'd . Whilst the Commands of Heaven are less than Ev'n when I go to offer up my Pray'rs , And beg the Gods to ease my Mortal cares , My Heart is thine , my Words are only theirs . Where am I safe from this thy Charming Skill , Thy Eyes , thy Conquering Eyes can at the Altar Kill In vain to Shrines for refuge I repair , For I can find no kind Assylum there . Where shall I fly to shun thee , tell me , where ? Like mine , Leander's Am'rous Passion came , He saw — admir'd the Maid — And as she Offer'd incense , Catch'd the Flame . Like him , to Venus Fairest Maid , I sue , And as you Pray to Heav'n , I Pray to you . Your Fan , Love's ensign , painted Flow'rs displays ; Behind that Shrine the Lov'd Amasia Prays . Hide not thy Face , no paint can be so Fair , There Roses bloom , and every Sweet dwells there . O I Conjure thee , by the Pow'rs above , By those you Pray to , by the Pow'r of Love , By all that 's Dear and Sacred , by thy Charms , Receive thy ravish'd Sylvius to thy Arms. So , may thy Beauties have Eternal springs , Love hov'ring o'er thee with Extatick Wings . So shall thy Husband still thy Lover be , And none shall ever Love and Live as we . But if thy Pride bids thee low Fortunes shun , May you at last to loath'd Embraces run , And dully Marry with Consent — Some Country Booby's awkward , senseless Son .

To Amasia . HOW far will Love his Conqu'ring Wings extend ! O must my Mortal suff'rings never end ? They cannot , no ; each sigh Love's flight sustains , O'er my own Heart in my own Breast he Reigns , And holds too strong , my strugling Soul in Chains . Thy growing Beauties yield him fresh supplies , His Darts are pointed by Amasia's Eyes . Thy soft Commands are by this Cheif obey'd , 'T is you , who teach Love warfare , Charming Maid ! And on his Standards is thy form display'd . I yield , I yeild , thus Prostrate low , I fall , Love's Goddess thou ! thou Conquerour of my all ! You all my Thoughts , you all my Speech employ , Thou giv'st me pain , and thou can'st give me Joy . Whate'er you please to do , I pleas'd , approve , Hate , where you hate , and where you fancy , Love . Sun of my Days ! and Phantom of my Nights ! Source of my Woes ! and Spring of my Delights ! Fond of my Life , should you make kind returns , Yet now I slight it , since Amasia scorns . Just as you make me , either Curst or blest , Form'd to your will , my Soul is rais'd , or prest , And swells and falls , like thy own Charming Breast . Ill with thy Breast do I my Soul compare , Thy Breast — the Seat of all that 's Sweet and fair , Thy Breast — O Scene of Pleasures ! ever blooming there . Whilst in my Soul Despair her Court maintains , And with deep Pomp in solid Darkness Reigns . Thy Breast ! — O never let me lose the Theam , There , as entranc'd , let my lull'd fancy Dream . O could I gently melt the Lovely Snow , Thence , thence the Poet 's Helicon would flow , And I should need no other Muse than you . If now with Frozen coldness you inspire , O could you burn , how fierce would mount the Fire , Flaming with Joy , and sparkling with desire . To heights sublime would soaring fancy drive , Amasia's Name should at the Stars arrive , Amasia long , long Ages should her self survive . No sad decay should to thy Beauties come , As in thy Face , when mould'ring in the Tomb , They should for ever in my Numbers bloom . More lasting far than polish'd Marble made , While Men could read , thy glories should not fade . Thy Lovely Image thro' the World should go , The World should thee it's greatest Charmer know , Thy Charms , which seem Immortal , should be so . Round thro' the Universe thy Fame should flee , My Verse ador'd should live , by giving Life to thee . Sound , Fame , thy Trumpet , to the Skies Proclaim , Amasia lives , for ever lives in Fame . Sound too her Sylvius lives ; Love Life insures , Known , while the Sun , the God of Verse endures , Known for my Constant Love , Amasia , ever Yours .

FINIS .

AMASIA , OR , THE Works of the Muses .

A Collection OF POEMS .

In Three Volumes .

By Mr John Hopkins .

VOL. III.

I , fuge ; sed poteras tutior esse domi .

LONDON , Printed by Tho. Warren for Bennet Banbury , at the Blue-Anchor in the Lower-Walk of the New-Exchange , 1700.

TO THE Honourable M rs COOK OF NORFOLK . MADAM ,

I Have heard , and may therefore say , I know your Character , for I have still been told the same by every Body , You are above being Titularly Noble ; your Vertue is the true Nobility . 'T is not for me to attempt your Encomiums ; for all the Actions of your Life have given you , and shall give you praise . The easie greatness of your Temper , your courteous Affability , your Generosity , your Charity , your Goodness , and your Piety , have Universally spoke your Character . Your Vertues are your Historians and your Poets ; and 't is thro' them the Memory of your Name shall live , thro' them , 〈◊〉 well as thro' your Children , who by their Happy Education shall stand the admirable Copies of their bright Original .

On you , Madam , I have fixt , as the Patroness of these Poems , you who are all Vertue , and all Goodness , can best defend them from the Censures of detracting Tongues ; your Name prefix'd to them , must in it self protect them ; for none will imagine I should presume to Play the Libertine , when I approach the Temple of Diana . The following Stories are out of Ovid's Book , Intitled Metamorphosis , the best , as well as the Chastest Poem he has writ ; and how far soever I have fail'd in transfusing his Poetry into the English Language , I dare be positive he has lost nothing of his modesty by my Translation ; for I consider that whatever off'ring is lay'd Chastly at your Feet , you will not Spurn : This , Madam , Courts Modestly your Acceptance , without the least Impurity , without Flatt'ry ; so much I truly Honour and Esteem you for your Illustrious Character , that I have even Dedicated to you , without a Complement , for I am sincerely , with all due deference and respect , your Vertue 's Just Admirer , and ,

Madam , Your most Obedient Most Humble Servant . J. Hopkins .

THE PREFACE .

A Preface is the trading Stock the Author gives his Book , as Parents do to their Younger Children , as soon as they think them of Years Mature enough to launch into the World . As for my Embryo , I honestly 〈◊〉 all fondness to it ; and only write now to satisfy the Lady Urania , that I have to the last Volume forborn to mention her Name in hopes to have made some discovery of her , in order to return her the thanks she deserves , with all the praise she has given me ; all her own . I receiv'd it , not because I had , by Merit , any right to keep it , but because , as all praise is her's , she has Power to give it where she pleases . Whoever this Charming Urania is , I must confess she 's altogether unknown to me , and when I read the Panigyrick she has been pleas'd to send me , I have reason to fear I am as much unknown to her . Tho' the Complement she has made me in her Verses be a very great one , she may yet confer one much greater on me in permitting me 〈◊〉 read her Face .

THE CONTENTS . Vol. III. Book I. THE Metamorphosis of Love . Containing several Love Stories imitated from Ovid. Vertumnus and Pomona Page 1 Venus and Adonis 5 Perseus and Andromeda 8 Picus and Canens 12 Jupiter and Europa 16 Boreas and Orythia 18 Iphis and Ianthe 20 Tereus and Philomela 25 Pluto and Proserpina 31 Alphaeus and Arethusa 32 Jupiter and Calisto 35 Pigmalion and his Iv'ry Statue 37 Salmacis and Hermaphroditus 41 Cephalus and Procris 47 Phoebus and Leucothoe 52 Hippomenes and Atalanta 55 Eccho 60 Narcissus 63 Pan and Syrinx 68 Jupiter and Semele 71 Glaucus and Scylla 75 Diana and Actaeon 77 Coronis and Neptune 79 Orpheus and Eurydice 81 Book II. THE Miscellany of Love . Containing several Occasional Copies . On Flowers in Amasia's Bosom ; in imitation of Anacreon 91 To a Lady asking me a thousand impertinent Questions , which she would have Answer'd 93 To the Lady above-mention'd , saying , I gave her a very senseless , impudent Answer ibid. To the same Lady saying she would give me a Kiss , If I would tell her what she ask'd me 99 To the Lady aforesaid , striking me on the Face with her Fan , for my former Answers ibid. To a Lady , who ask'd me why I writ on such trifling Occasions 95 To a Lady , saying , I ought to Marry her because she Lov'd me , ibid. To the same Loving Lady , telling me , abuse was an ill requital for sost Passion , but she thank'd her Stars , she was but in Jest ibid. To a Lady , asking my Opinion concerning the writings of the Ancients and Moderns . 96 To a Lady , making her a present of Straw-Work ibid. To the Bookseller desiring my Sculpture before my Book 97 To a certain Gentleman , you must know , very Censorious on me 〈◊〉 assenting to my Bookseller's desire 98 To a Lady , telling me I should Court applause if I expected to gain it . ibid. To a Lady saying , with a smile , she 〈◊〉 I would not perform my promise 99 To a Lady telling me I writ too fast . 100 To the same Lady , saying — Sure I never thought , and commanding me to write on a Feather p. 101 To a Lady saying she imagin'd Poets were all on Fire , when they wrote . ibid. To Amasia , putting a Paper of my Verses in her Bosom 102 To a Lady with a very Charming Dimple in her Chin , occasion'd by a Scar , which , she said an unaccountable Distemper had left there ibid. To a Lady Dancing at a Ball 103 To a Lady , saying she would hate me , if I should write Satyr 104 To a Gentleman , whose Life was indanger'd by his endeavouring to address a Lady in a Sphere above him 105 New-Year's-Day , 1699. ibid. Seeing a Lady at a Play , call'd , A Trip to the Jubilee 107 To a Lady under the Name of Philomela ibid. Love in Idea . Written to a Friend , who said his Mistress was above Gold , and desir'd my advice in his suit 108 To a Lady , who seeing me in a Languishing Sickness , call'd me — Poor shadow of Love 111 To a Lady making me a second present of a Lock of her Hair , after I had in an humour return'd the first 112 To a Lady Singing 114 The Health . After absence — to a Friend ibid. To a Lady , holding her Picture in my Hand , and looking on her Face 115 The Arms. 〈◊〉 aut vi 116 Poems on several Occasions . The Complaint 119 To Mr — Written before the representation of his first Comedy 122 To Mr — 〈◊〉 is second Comedy 124 The Petition p. 126 To a Lady , my Friend 's ingrateful Mistress 128 To Dr. Gibbons 131 To a Lady asking me why I did not apply to Dr. Gibbons to be cur'd of my Love too 133 The Charmer 134 The Vision of the Muse. 136 Book III. THE Friendship of Love . To Mr — 147 To Mr — 149 To Mr — 152 To Mr — 154 To Mr — 157 To Mr — 161 To Mr — 164 To Mr — 167 To Mr — 169 Martin , the Friend . 173

THE Metamorphosis of Love . Vertumnus and Pomona . WHilst Peace o'er Latium spreads it's gentle Wings , And each pleas'd Swain amidst his labours Sings , In her own Orchards , undisturb'd with care , Pomona flourisht , and was counted fair ; Her blooming Beauty still the same appears , Not Blossom'd only in the Spring , like theirs . She Loves no hunting , she admires no Game , Covets no Groves , nor any Silver Stream ; Her happy Pleasures with her Fortunes suit , She prunes her Trees , and she preserves her fruit , Knows nought of Love , but what Tradition told , And fears such Rapes as she had heard of old . Therefore her Orchards with a Wall defends , And lets in none but those she thinks her Friends . Oft did the Satyrs , oft in vain , essay , To make the Virgin to their lust a prey , And force her thence , to be enjoy'd , away . Oft too did Pan attempt the Charming Maid , And oft Silenus made the Nymph afraid . Priapus too , who others Fruits secures , Longs most , Pomona , but to rifle yours . Yet more than all the sweet Vertumnus blooms , Drest in his Charms , where'er the Virgin comes . He could all shapes , whate'er he fancy'd wear , Would now a Souldier with his Arms appear , An Angler next , and like a Reaper soon , Chang'd as he pleas'd , and made all forms his own . Hopeless to gain , now each disguise he fears , And seems a Matron in declining Years . To his own Godhead he the Maid prefers , And quits his Beauties , but to gaze on her's . Born on a staff , with creeping Feet he moves To the fair object he so fiercely Loves . Salutes her first , then eagerly he prest , And claspt her closely to his Throbbing Breast . Fond tho' he was , tho' his desires were strong , He Lov'd too well , the Charming fair to wrong , Tho' all-o'er Innocence , all soft , and Young . The Vertuous Maid receives her Lover's Kiss , And thought old Women's were the same as his , Kindly she Thanks him for his Courteous care , Welcomes his visit , bids him welcome there . Prays him sit down on the next Bank , and view Her rip'ning Fruits , where all the choicest grew . Around he looks , around the Pregnant Trees , And praises lavishly each plant he sees . Observes a Vine , how with the Elm it spread , Commends both that , and the industrious Maid , Who gave its Clusters so secure a shade . Then tells her , she should by such sights be led , To Love the Pleasures of the Nuptial Bed . How many Swains for her a Flame had born ! How had she rack'd them with continu'd scorn ! Gods in the Skies , and Demi-Gods below , Have quit their Heav'n , and all the Joys they know , To look , and gaze ( my Beauteous Maid ! ) on you . But , trust me , child , my kind advice receive , And what I tell you for a truth believe ; The fair Vertumnus all your Charms approves , And out of force he must confess he Loves . He , only he , shall be my choice for you , And you your self , I hope , will choose him too . None knows him more than I , the Youth still blooms , Sweet is his own , yet he all shapes assumes . Wish what you will , he puts on every form , And each he Wears , has some peculiar Charm . He dwells in Gardens , and has charge of bow'rs , His whole delight the very same with yours . None is more Beauteous , none than he more strong , The smiling God is thro' all Ages young . To him First Fruits of all your Trees are due , Which Joyful he receives each Year from you . But now not those he will accept , but thee , Thou must thy self , the next , blest Off'ring be . Believe this Courtship from himself , suppose What I have said the fair Vertumnus knows . Shew then your Pity , be no more severe , The God himself will soon be present here . So may your Fruits survive the Winter Frost , So may you ever the same Beauties boast , And may nor they , nor ought of yours be lost . Thus when he said , himself again he grew , And stood all Charms before the Virgin 's view . Thro' Clouds of Age he darts his youthful rays , And now the Glories of his Face displays . All o'er Divine , he stands transported there , And gains a Conquest o'er the wond'ring fair .

Venus and Adonis . THE Queen of 〈◊〉 is by her Son inflam'd , And hates those places for her presence fam'd . Paphos , Cythera , no , nor Heav'n can please , Her only Heaven the fair Adonis is . To all things else the Goddess him prefers , And her whole care is to confirm him her's . She fears her Charms boast not the Pow'r to move , ( Tho' Beauty's Goddess ) her Adonis Love . With all her Arts she decks her sparkling Eyes , With all Attractions which make Passions rise . Now , like Diana , does her game pursue , Nor heeds what ways she passes swiftly thro' . Hurts her soft Limbs on the unfriendly thorn , Her tender Limbs , too Beauteous to be torn . She hunts the Hare , and the more Stately Deer , But fears the Boars , and bids Adonis fear ; Would have him bold to follow those that fly , But shun pursuers , and be swist as they . Those Men are brave , who fight their equal foes , You shew but rashness , to encounter those . I beg you ne'er those Salvage Beasts engage , By Nature arm'd , and which by Nature rage ; Your Youth and Beauties please the Queen of Love , But their rough Hearts your Charms can never move . Let not your Goddess stand expos'd in you , For , with Adonis they wound Venus too . Come my sweet Boy , my weary toil perswades , And yonder Poplar Courts us to it's Shades . Thence strait the Lovers to their Joys withdrew , And blest Adonis , Charms Immortal knew . How did he there of her Dear Flames approve ! A Heav'n of Beauty , and a Heav'n of Love ! Lost in their Pleasures , for a while they lay , And those too , soon were lost , as well as they . In smiles , and blushes , they at length arise , And dart soft looks , one at the other's Eyes . She leaves him there , drawn by her Snowy Swans , And Waves an Airy Farewel from her hands . A Boar appears , soon as the Queen was gone ; Advice is lost , where Courage urges on . The Lovely Boy starts up , nor knows to fear , And feels a Passion too to Conquer there . With his strong Dart he wounds his flying foe , Not Phaebus certain hands strike with a surer blow . The raging Beast the Bearded Javelin drew , And with his Open Mouth , upon him flew . His monstrous tusks the fair Adonis wound , And leave him bleeding on the reeking ground . His dying Groans the wretched Goddess hears , But her own Shrieks more loudly pierce her Ears . She drives her Chariot to the dismal sound , And in his Pangs her Dear Adonis found . Ah! who can tell the griefs which Venus move ! Now Queen of sorrow , not the Queen of Love . She calls aloud , ah ! my Adonis stay , Thus , is it thus , you my Commands obey ? Ah! cruel Boy ! you have my Peace betray'd , If you had Lov'd me , you had sure obey'd . Then her rich Garments , with her Hair , she tore , And Wip'd his flowing Wound with Robes she wore . Beating her Breast , and Bathing it in Tears , Fast with his Flood she sadly mingles her's . To breath new Life , surpast her Female Pow'r , She chang'd his Blood into a Fragrant Flow'r .

Perseus and Andromeda . THE Conqu'ring Perseus now his Wings had ty'd , To his swift Feet , his Faulchion to his side ; When , thro' the Air the dauntless Hero flies , Free as the Birds , who cut the liquid Skies . Now 〈◊〉 beneath him he perceives a Maid , On the hard shore , in Iron Fetters lay'd . A monster's prey was the fair Virgin brought , The fairest piece , that ever Nature wrought . Chain'd to a Rock , she waited there her Doom , Naked , and Whiter than the Snowy foam . The flying Hero now descends from high , Where he had cours'd along the Airy Sky . With a sixt look he views the Virgin there , Amaz'd , and wond'ring he admires the fair , 'Till he forgot to fly , forgot he was in Air. Had he not view'd her Hair , which flow'd behind , Held loosely waving by the gentle Wind , Had she not wept , and he her sorrows seen , He would have thought she had some Statue been . Strait he descends from where he lately flew , Impatient now to get a 〈◊〉 view ; Closer , and closer to the Maid he came , And all at once he feels a raging Flame . With Love , and fear , with wonder , and with awe , By slow degrees he does towards her draw . With his Eyes sixt , all motionless he stands , Then , why she wore those Fetters he demands ; He thought her worthy most of Marriage bands . Declare , he crys , thou matchless , Charming fair ; Why thus in Chains ? What are thy Crimes ? declare . Who us'd thee thus , and tell me Justly why ? How can such Beauty be condemn'd to die ! Thou shalt by me , thy Champion , be restor'd , For thee the Thund'rer's Off-spring draws his Sword . Say , if deliver'd by the Son of Jove , Shall your Life purchase , in return , your Love ? Say , Charmer , speak ; me thro' a brazen hold , He got , descending in a show'r of Gold . The bashful Virgin still persists to mourn , And for his Words , she does her sighs return . Her growing shame still more her sorrow moves , She weeps , and blushes , while with Joy he Loves . In Chains extended at their length , she lies , While he , in transport , feeds his longing Eyes , Fain would she hide her blushes from his view , But that her Fetters hinder'd her to do . With deep regret her shame the Virgin bears , And 〈◊〉 her Eyes with constant Floods of Tears . Oft tho' he urg'd her , she kept silent long , But thus , at last , unlock'd her trembling Tongue . My conscious Mother , fatal too , as fair , Her 's with proud Juno's Beauties would compare . Who , in her Vengeance , most unjust , decreed , That I unboasting , for her Crime should bleed . A dreadful monster from the Seas will rise , And I , 't is I , must be that monster's prize . With his broad Breast he will the Surges Plow , O there , there , there , I see him issuing now . Save me , ah ! save me , hast with all your Pow'rs , And , gen'rous Youth , I will be ever yours . Thus spoke the fearful , Lovely , Charming Maid , Who sigh'd , and wept , for she was still afraid . And now the Seas began aloud to roar , With the apparent Monster hast'ning to the shore . When the bold Hero o'er the Billows flies , And Tow'rs above him , up , tow'rds Silver Skies . The furious Beast his gliding shadow views , Which , chacing eager , he o'er Waves pursues . As Jove's strong Bird , who has a Dragon seen . Siezes , his neck , and strikes his Talons in ; So , the descending Perseus Sheath'd his Sword In the vast Beast , who like the Oceans roar'd . The wounded Monster o'er the Billows bounds , And turns fierce on him , to give larger wounds . Now far beneath the Waves he dives , and now , Rises again , and does the Surges Plow ; Vast as some Island , does he wildly Play , And from his Mouth pours out a bloody Sea . His dreadful Jaws the flying Hero shuns , And his bright Sword , thro' his thick Neck he runs . Loudly he roars , the Maid the Eccho heard , And some new Monster on the shore she fear'd . Mad with the anguish of the wound , he raves , And lashes with his tayl the suff'ring Waves . High in the Air he spouts such Wat'ry Clouds , The Hero thought he was beneath the Floods . His wings now wet , and flagging , down he falls , And is receiv'd upon the Monster 's scales . Now with his Faulchion does he bruise his sides , And , as in Triumph , on his foe he rides , Who Mad , and Rabid , turns his angry head , On tow'rds the Hero with wide Jaws he fled , Caught in his Throat his Sword , and with the wound lay dead . Strait from the Beast Victorious Perseus flies , In hast , unloos'd , and so receiv'd his prize .

Picus and Canens . SAturnian Picus in Ausonia Reign'd , Who gen'rous Horses for the Battle train'd . The Prince was born , and bred in Latian plains , The Joy of all the Nymphs , and Envy of the 〈◊〉 He slights their Wishes , but for Canens burn'd ; Canens he lov'd and she his Flames return'd . This Beauteous Maid alone can claim his Loves , In Woods , and Rocks , her Voice compassion moves . Swift Rivers stop their course , whene'er she sings , And Birds neglect the labours of their Wings . While her sweet tunes Celestial Musick yields , Young Picus hunts in the Laurentian Fields : Follow'd by Courtiers , he pursues with speed , Arm'd with two darts , upon a fiery Steed . O'er Hills , and Vales , he courses swiftly bold , In Tyrian clad , and buckled close with Gold . When now , fam'd Circe wand'ring on those Hills , Her sacred lap , with Magick simples fills . Picus she sees , and with the sight amaz'd , The gather'd Herbs fell from her , as she gaz'd . Swiftly he past , yet that she Loves she finds , Resolv'd to meet him , were he wing'd with Winds . An Airy Boar she forms , which takes it's course , Far off to thickets , which no Steed could force ; Which Picus sees , and quits his foaming Horse . On Foot he follows the deceitful shade , When strait the Day is darken'd by the Maid . Such Charms she uses as might force the Moon , Or Cloud her Father's Splendour , ev'n at Noon . Now , Picus far from all his Gards remov'd , The Charming Maid thus tells him how she Lov'd . By those fair Eyes , which have such Pow'r on mine , And by that dear , alluring Face of thine . Hear , when a Goddess sues , nor rigid prove , 〈◊〉 his Off-spring offers thee her Love . My Parent Sun I darken in the Skies , Yet have no Charm to sheild me from your Eyes . They , brighter far , shoot out more shining Flames His Radiant Chariot bears less burning Beams . Pity that Nymph who is your suppliant grown , And to those Fires you kindled , add your own . Thus wooes the Maid — but he reply'd , in vain , With Am'rous Words , you tell your Am'rous pain , Me Canens Loves , Canens belov'd again . Scorn'd , and repuls'd , thus threats she loud — 〈◊〉〈◊〉 What Woman 's hatred dares , when wrong'd in 〈◊〉 Thrice to the East , thrice to the West she 〈◊〉 Thrice touch'd him with her Wand , and thrice 〈◊〉 Earth she 〈◊〉 Strait , with unwonted speed , he swiftly flies , Chang'd to a Bird , and cuts the liquid Skies . His wings the Purple of his Cloak assume , The Gold , which claspt his Garments , turns to 〈◊〉 The day grows clear , and hunting all abroad , The Guards , and Courtiers call aloud their Lord . Circe they find , and while they threatning stand , Them too she changes , with her Pow'rful Wand . In dreadful sounds , she all her Charms repeats , And raises Woods , and Forests from their Seats . Their leaves look pale , Herbs blush with drops of gore , Earth Groans , Dogs howl , Eccho repeats it o'er , And hollow Rocks in murmurs hoarsly roar . Thro' all the Air unbodied Spirits glide , And on the tainted ground black , slimy Serpents slide , Now Night comes on , and gloomy fears it brings , To Canens mind , upon it's Cloudy Wings . Confus'd , thro' Woods , with lights her Servants fled , In quest of Picus , whom she fancies dead . They not returning , from the Court she strays , And , as chance led her , follow'd wand'ring ways . On Tyber's Banks she sits , in sad Despair , Spent with a tedious search , and Melancholy care . There pining , still she weeps , and weeping Sings , With sweetest Voice , the softest , mournful things . So , to Maeander's Streams Swans slowly fly , Sing their own Breath away , and Charming die . Not long she liv'd , yet ever lives in Fame , And still the place she mourn'd in , bears her name .

Jupiter and Europa . HUmble and soft must the Swain's Passion prove , Greatness can never well agree with Love . Chang'd to a Bull on the Sydonian shore , The Thund'rer now does in new Thunder roar . The flesh in swelling rolls his Neck adorns , All Snowy White , he stood with peaceful Horns . Made smooth as Gemms , tho small , they glitter'd bright , He seem'd for Beauty form'd , and not for fight . His Eyes no Wrath , his Brows no Terrour wear , His milder Aspect does no threat'nings bear ; Europa views him strait , nor knows to fear . With inward Joy , he sees the Royal Maid , By whom , he soon with choicest flow'rs is fed . In her fair Hands the grateful Food she bore , Which oft he kist — ah ! scarce deferring more . And now he rowls along the Golden Sands , The Virgin sees him , and delighted stands . On tow'rds him near , and nearer still she drew , And now he sports , and wantons in her view . Extreamly pleas'd , she stroaks his proffer'd Breast , And his rich Horns with Flow'ry Garlands Drest ; The Maid's behaviour did more Courteous prove , Than it had been , if she had known him Jove . Half kneeling now , the Am'rous Bull bends down . And the Maid mounts his Back , ah , too too vent'rous grown . Strait , by degrees , on tow'rds the Seas he flies , ( prize . Then , rushing thro' the Floods , bears fast his Royal Shrieking she turns , to view her Native shores , Whilst the Triumphant Bull , loud as the Oceans roars . The frighted Maid , held , with one hand , his horn , While her loose Robes were in the other born . With constant Eyes , she view'd the shore behind , Her lighter Garments flying with the Wind ; Trembling her self , and as they slutt'ring flew , The very Garments seem'd to tremble too .

Boreas and Orythia . THE fair Orythia still remain'd unmov'd , Tho' she by Boreas had been long belov'd . No kindled Flame he in the Maid could sind , Nor raise one spark with all his force of Wind. His colder blasts all Am'rous heat supprest , And chill'd the warmth of the Young Virgin 's 〈◊〉 So much he Lov'd , he but in sighs could blow , Which spread his Fires and made them siercer glow , 'Till at the last , when he all means had try'd , Had often ask'd , and been as oft deny'd . Vex'd , and inrag'd at her unkind 〈◊〉 , And rack'd to find that he had burn'd in vain . Storming aloud , all Furious does he move , Incens'd , with Anger much , but more with Love , In show'rs of Tears , he sheds his wat'ry store , Yet all can't lay the Tempests rais'd before . In Blustring sounds he does aloud Proclaim , With all his Breath , his Lov'd Orythia's Name , Wildly , from place to place in hast he roves , Tells all the Vallies his rejected Loves , Then Whispers soft Orythia to the bending Groves As thro' the Forests in Despair he flies , Each Tree that he Salutes , for his scorn'd Passion sighs , Ah! Charming Maid , he crys , too late I find , That you are deafer than my Northern Wind ; Will nothing move you , nothing make you kind ? Where can your Favours be by you bestow'd , When you refuse them proudly to a God ? Alas ! you know not , beauteous , scornful fair , How I make War in our wide Field , the Air. There I my Breth'ren in a storm assail , And Fight with Oaks , and beat the Earth with Hail . I meet all Winds with such impetuous shock , That Thund'ring Skies with our encounters rock . I toss the Billows , and I 〈◊〉 the Floods , And force out Light'nings from the bursting Clouds . Tow'rs I throw down , and fly thro' hollow Caves , Driving pale Ghosts , all trembling , to their Graves . Whene'er I shake my horrid Wings around , Their Airy motion strikes with Blasts , the ground . I trail my dusky Mantle on the shore , And , when I please , I make the Ocean roar . Fierce as I am , where ever else I flee , Yet , soft as Zephyrs , do I play with thee . This said — he strait the Lovely Maid beheld , And he resolves she shall be now compell'd . In Clouds of dust , which he had rais'd , he hid , And there observ'd whate'er Orythia did . Soon she perceives him , and not yet grown kind , Out-fled the God , tho' the swift God of Wind. His speedy flight his fiercer Fires had spread , Fleet , as Love's shafts which wounded him , he fled , And , now he overtakes , now ravishes the Maid . Vain might his Wings , with all their Fleetness prove , Unless assisted by the Wings of Love .

Iphis and Janthe . LYgdus and Telethusa , free from care , Had long together liv'd a happy pair . Blest with such stock , as might themselves maintain , And bring content , while childless they remain . But now , her time of Labour drawing nigh , The Child , if Female , Lygdus dooms to die . A Girl , he says , too great a charge would prove , For , 't is the Portion gains the Suitor's Love . Sad Telethusa , griev'd at what he said , And greatly fear'd the Child would prove a Maid . She from the curse fain would her off-spring free , But his Commands had past his firm decree . And now the helpful Goddess , Isis , came , To comfort Telethusa in a dream . To her , a sacred Promise there she made , Bids her rely on her alone for aid , And Nurse the doubtful Off-spring of her Bed . Now from the Room the pitying Goddess flew , When , stretcht , tow'rds Heav'n , her Hands the Woman threw , And strives , awake , to think her Vision true . Encreasing throes at length a Girl disclos'd , But , by the Father , still a Boy suppos'd . So close the cheat was hid , that it was known But to the Mother , and the Nurse alone . The happy Lygdus feels an inward Joy , And gives the Name of Iphis to his fancy'd Boy , Now thrice five fleeting , happy Years were fled , And his Young heir must fair Janthe wed . Together still at their own sports they play'd , And Iphis Lov'd her , tho' her self a Maid . Like Darts , at once , their simple Bosoms strike , In all alas ! but in their hopes , alike . The Nuptial day , appointed , now draws nigh ; Janthe thinks the hours too slowly fly . Her Charming Lover she believes a Boy , And hopes in her to find unpractis'd Joy . But wretched Iphis , tho' belov'd , Despairs , And utters thus , in sad complaints , her cares . No Maid , like me , did e'er so ruin'd prove , For I am lost in strange , prodigious Love . The Gods , in pity , should this form destroy , Iphis can ne'er be chang'd into a Boy , Nor can Janthe give a Virgin Joy . Compose thy Mind , curb in thy wild desires , Think of thy Sex , and quench thy Foolish Fires . Some other object for thy Passion choose , Reform thy will , and Love as Females use , Alas ! I can't , — For then , I should Janthe lose . There lies my woe , that causes all my care , And what should bless me , drives me to Despair . Of all the Creatures plac'd beneath the Sky , The beasts that tread the Earth , the Birds that fly , None ever yet was greatly 〈◊〉 , as 〈◊〉 Of all Created things that live , and move , No Female suffers for a Female Love . What comfort now to wretched me remains ? 'T is only hope which Cupid's flight sustains . Lovely I seem , and Charming to my fair , Each for the other does a passion bear , Ev'n in our Sex alike — ah ! would we differ'd there . Then with our wishes all would soon comply , Nor do our Parents , nor our Friends deny , The longing Virgin too , fond to be blest as I. But now alas ! thou canst not happy be , Nor she enjoy'd , tho' Men and Gods agree , Alas ! she may , she will — by others — not by me . All , but the greatest bliss , from Heav'n I prove , Far as they could , the Gods have crown'd my Love , And now the wish'd for day will quickly shine , When dear Janthe will be ever mine . Alas ! I rave , and shall distracted grow , In spight of Heav'n , she cannot c'er be so . With this dire curse , my fatal Nuptial hasts , To thirst in Rivers , and to starve at Feasts . Let no glad Hymen at these Rites appear , We both are Brides , there is no Bridegroom here . This , and much more the Mournful Virgin said ; But diff'rent griefs perplext the other Maid , Who for her long-delay'd embraces pray'd . Still Telethusa new excuses Frames , Fancies , and Notions , Auguries , and dreams . But now no longer are the Rites delay'd , And the next Night , Maid must be Join'd with Maid . The Mother now lost in her Just Despair , Unbinds her own , and her sad Daughter's Hair , And to Propitious Isis offers up her Pray'r . Bowing , towards the Altar , first she came , Then , 〈◊〉 , does the sacred promise claim ; The Altar shook , and flash'd out awful Flame . Loud Timbrels rung , the great successful sign , And Telethusa bows , and leaves the Shrine . Whom Iphis follows with a larger pace , Short , curling locks , and a more Manly Face . For their chang'd Child his Parents Praises sing , And sacred gifts to Isis Temple bring . This Verse , writ o'er the Altar , was display'd ; What Iphis Vow'd , a Girl , a Boy , he pay'd . Next Morn , they both to their wish'd Nuptials move , At Night , his Sex the vig'rous Boy does prove , And both are happy in their Mutual Love

Tereus and Philomela . FIve Winters now , Wing'd with their Storms , were fled , Since Progne first did Royal Tereus wed . When thus the Artful fair her suit did move , Urg'd , as a proof of his continu'd Love . If yet , my dearest consort is not cloy'd , Nor slights those sweets he has so oft enjoy'd . If , but the least soft Passion yet remains , If yet , free Love springs from your Nuptial Chains , If , any Fires , yet kept alive you bear , Or value these Embraces , grant my Pray'r ; Grant , on some Terms , I may my Sister see , Send me to her , or else bring her to me . Promise my Father she shall soon return , He shall not long his Philomela Mourn . All Bars , which hinder his assent , confound , And then my wishes , and my Joys are Crown'd . Tereus , well pleas'd , without the least Dispute , Commends her Fondness , and approves her suit . The Seas now past , and all the danger o'er , He lands , successful , on the wish'd for shore . And now , Pandion Welcomes there his Son , Who tells him why he thro' such hazards run , And strait , his Progne's urgent suit begun . At first , small warmth his kind entreaties show , But Philomela seen , more fierce they grow . Richly Attir'd , the Charming Virgin came , And from her Eyes , each glance is Flash'd , like Flame , The Youthful King strait burns with fond desire , Like Sun-dry'd Reeds , which , at each spark , take Fire , The Lustful Passion can't be long withstood , For now it Rages in his boiling Blood , And , like some Rapid Torrent , swells the Flood . His rising sighs , like Boist'rous Tempests blow , And Passion 's Seas all Reason's bounds o'erflow . Some Thoughts , like Waves prest by the tides , are gone , But still , full , Foaming , new desires come rolling on . Sometimes , he thinks , to make her Maids his Friends , And with large gifts to Bribe them to his ends , Again , resolves to use unlawful force , As if the safest , and the surest course . Vows , he will soon remove each Anxious Bar ; If not by Love ; possess , by bolder War , And now , perplext with long delays , he sues , And , much more urgent , his Request renews , Still , on his Wife's behalf he seem'd to press , While his fond Words flew to a vast excess . Whene'er his speech did into transports break , He said , she weeping , charg'd me thus to speak . So , with close Arts successfully he pleads , And the Maid follows , as the Lover leads . Fond of her Sister , she too wish't to go , Kisses her Father , and intreats him so . While Tereus Thus perceives the Virgin sue , Pleas'd , and o'erjoy'd , he does his speech renew , Still more , and more inflam'd , at every view . Her soft Embraces set his Soul on Fire , He does each Action , and each word admire , All spreads his Loves , and raises new desire , No longer now the good , old King denies , But gives consent at last , with weeping Eyes . The Night comes on , and with it , Peaceful rest , To all alas ! But to the Lover's Breast . In Am'rous Murmurs Tereus does complain , Bright Philomela caus'd his Anxious pain . Sleep shuns his Soul , and it 's kind ease denies ; Like a coy Maid , when courted most , it flies . The Charming fair does all his Thoughts possess , Great was his Love , which yet he wisht not less . His fancy brings her still before his view , His very fancy does his Flames renew , And as he thinks he sees her , he begins to sue . Then , as from Dreams , wak'd from those Thoughts , he 〈◊〉 Reflects on real Charms , and fiercer burns. Those he has seen , his whole Idea fill , But ah ! he thinks — he knows , there must be 〈◊〉 still Thus does he pass the tedious Hours of Night , With Am'rous , painful Thoughts , which yield a Nice Delight . Oft does he wish for the approach of Day , That he may hast , with his Lov'd prize , away . And now , at last , the wish'd-for Morn appears , When old Pandion , thus with streaming Tears , Parts with the last dear hope of his declining Years . My Son , since Piety this due requires , I yield to yours , and Progne's fond desires . But oh ! I charge you by the Gods above , Guard , and defend her , with a Father's Love . You , Daughter , leave me not too long alone , How shall I live , when my last comfort 's gone ! You know I Love you , tenderly I do , My Heart , my Life , my very Soul 's in you , I cannot speak for Tears , — soon , soon return — adieu . Thus the good King does his Just sorrows tell ; He might alas ! have bid a long farewel . For now , the flying Ship had left the shore , And he must never see his Daughter more . Tereus , exulting Cries , she 's now my own , And I shall soon my earnest wishes Crown . With constant Eyes the Charming Maid he views , With loose behaviour , and lew'd carriage wooes , And his designs , ev'n there , far as he could , pursues . But now , at length , on his own Lands he Treads , And , to a close recess ; fair Philomela leads . Trembling she stood , lost in distracting 〈◊〉 , And for her Sister now enquires with Tears . He , in full rage of Lust , delays not long , But , with fierce Kisses , stays her Charming Tongue . Tells his designs , and her consent requires ; Refus'd , more high he Foams , with wild desires , And ravishes the Maid , and quenches so , his Fires . In vain , alas ! she Shriek'd in her distress , Sister , nor Father , could her wrongs redress , On them , and Gods she crys , but all without success . And now deflow'r'd , from his loath'd Arms she breaks , And thus upbraids him , while inrag'd she speaks . How shall I term thee , since thy Lust began ! Vile , Treach'rous Tyrant ! Barb'rous Monster ! 〈◊〉 Thee , nor my Father's Tears , nor Progne's Love , Nor my Chast , Virgin Innocence could move . Gods ! What a wild confusion hast thou bred ! I an Adultress to my Sister's Bed ! Would I had dy'd , e'er I my honour lost , I had departed with a spotless Ghost . Yet , if the Gods my wrongs , and suff'ring see , ( Sure they will Punish too , if Gods they be . Thus having said , in hast she strove to run , And thought , by flight , the Tyrant's rage to shun . But he , provok'd by her reveal'd Despair , Quickly surpriz'd , and seiz'd the injur'd fair ; And threw her on the ground , and drag'd her by the Hair . Strongly he binds her tender , helpless Arms , Resolv'd once more to rifle all her Charms . Loudly she Shrieks , and so Proclaims her wrong , Disarm'd of all Resistance — but her Tongue . And that , his Sword cuts from the panting Root , Which trembling falls , and murmurs at his Foot . And like a Serpent's Tail dissever'd , leaps , And for a while , pursues the Tyrant's steps . Yet , after this , he oft , and oft enjoy'd , Nor was his horrid Lust with the Fruition cloy'd .

Pluto and Proserpina . A Lake there is which Stately Woods surround , Where constant Flocks of Silver Swans abound . A blooming Spring upon the Banks appears , And the Fair Trees create refreshing Airs . 〈◊〉 strays Proserpina thro' Fragrant Groves , And gathers Flow'rs her Nicer fancy Loves . With pretty Pains a Childish care she shows , And picks , and chooses , all the way she goes . Behind her Young Companions now she stay'd , Too long , her pleasing Pastime Charm'd the Maid . Urg'd by a fond desire to gather on , That by her pains the rest might be outdone . 〈◊〉 Pluto 〈◊〉 her , and admires her form , 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Gesture shew'd the God some Charm . Fierce to enjoy , his Love Brooks no delay , He boldly carries her by force away . No Words he uses to the tremblimg Maid , Who calls her Dear Companions to her aid . Now born by strength , with Shrieks , and Weeping Eyes She thinks he means to make her Flow'rs his prize . Those , while she strugles thro' excess of fear , Fall to the ground , for which she Tears her Hair , And simply Cries to see them scatter'd there .

Alphaeus and Arethusa . OF Arethusa's change I Mourning Sing , And how the Nymph became a sacred Spring . To Hunt , and Toil , her dear Diversions were , And yet she Justly was reputed fair . The Virgin griev'd her Beauties did excel , And thought it infamy to please too well . As from the Woods , tir'd with the chace she came , She found a silent , and a Silver stream . Securely close , and so exceeding clear , That every smallest Pebble wou'd appear . Pleas'd with the coolness of the Place she Wades , And makes the Waters brighter where she treads . Then , leaves her Robes upon a Sallow's Top , And swims , and plunges still , to bear her up . Now , to the further side she gently rows , And plays , and sports , and wantons as she goes ; When , all amaz'd , she heard a stranger's Tongue , And , in Confusion , to the Bank she Sprung . Whither so fast ? Alphaeus loudly Cries ; She makes no Answer , but all trembling flies . He fleetly hasts to Seize his Beauteous prey , Who seem'd , when leaping from the Streams away , A Venus rising from a Silver Sea . Wing'd with her fear , fair Arethusd flew , While fierce Alphaeus did as fast pursue . The more he hasts , the more he sees her fly , And still he catches , when he thinks her nigh . Nearer , much nearer he desires to see , And grieves to find he is not swift as she , As Doves do Hawks , she shuns him , all amaz'd , And almost thinks she is already seiz'd . The Lover still his hot pursuit maintains Thro' Craggy Mountains , over Hills , and Plains . Follows all eager , nor would e'er for bear , And almost now o'er takes the flying fair . She sees his shadow , and his steps she hears , Feels his warm Breath , and now , and now she fears , Quite spent , she Cries , your aid Diana send , Hast , Chastest Goddess , and a Nymph befriend . When a thick Mist the helpless Virgin shrouds , And the sad Maid is vail'd with pitchy Clouds . The wond'ring Lover searches all around , But she must never , never more be found . That Sun of Beauty by the Fogs o'ercast , Must shine no more , but set in Floods at last . He ranges on , and every means he tries , Then , Lovely Arethusa , loudly Cries . As a poor Lamb grows stupid with her fears , When howling Wolves about the fold she hears . So , all amaz'd , the Maid stands trembling there , And Begs protection from the Gods by Pray'r . She sighs , and weeps , cold sweats come o'er her Face , And trickling drops run down her Limbs apace . Her Beauteous Hair dissolves to Fragrant dew , And all consum'd , a Silver stream she grew .

Jupiter and Calisto . WHen now the Thund'rer walkt the Heav'nly round , And all there safe from the late burnings found . The Fields , the Groves , and Streams he next survey'd , Where passing to and fro he sees a Lovely Maid . Tho' there no ruines in her way were strow'd , The Nymph , the Charming Nymph , inflam'd the God . Warm'd by her looks , and brighter Glances , more Than when the Sun fir'd all his Skies before . She with a Zone her looser Garments ty'd , Her painted Quiver hanging by her side . Her flowing Tresses o'er her Shoulders spread , And her warm Face glow'd with unusual Red. Thus tir'd with hunting , she to shades retires , To cool her own , but raise the Thund'rer's 〈◊〉 On flow'ry Banks her Beauteous Limbs she lays , And to the God a tempting Heav'n displays . Thus loosely stretch'd upon the Fragrant Bed , Her Arms thrown wide , her Quiver bears her Head , While Jove beheld , admir'd , and Lov'd the Maid . Diana like , strait from his Heav'n he flies For her cool Shades , he quits his shining Skies , And stands before the Virgin , as she lies . My huntress , says he , while he fondly view'd , What Game hast thou , this Lovely morn , 〈◊〉 Strait did the rising Virgin tow'rds him move , And thus reply'd ; hail , Pow'r more great than 〈◊〉 This the fond God , with smiles , delighted heard , Pleas'd that himself was to himself prefer'd . She strait about to Answer more , in hast , The pressing Lover clasps about her wast , And Kist her fiercely , and embrac'd her fast . Just as the Thunder , from his own abode , With inward struglings flies , so flew the God . Soon more inflam'd , his Kisses eager grow ; Not such as Maids on their own Sex bestow ; He now would further sweets , and greater transports know . Impatient grown , he forces her to yield , And gains by strength , the long disputed Field . In vain , exerting all her Pow'rs , she strove , Alas ! What Woman can contend with Jove ! Enjoy'd , he leaves the Nymph , who well might know , The Chastest Goddess could not use her so . Rising in hast , strait from the Woods she sprung , And left her Bow , her useless Bow , unstrung . She sees Diana , but she dreads the shape , And Blushing flies her fast , and fears a second Rape .

Pigmalion and his Iv'ry Statue . IN a lewd Age Pigmalion spent his times , Women debauch'd themselves with Monstrous Crimes . No vertuous Virgin in his Days was known , All the Chast , Female Modesty was gone , Therefore a long , long time he liv'd alone . An Iv'ry Statue now at last he Frames , And from the Maid he form'd , he gathers Flames . In every part , the Virgin did excel , Which Limb was best , the Artist could not tell , It was all Lovely , and he Lov'd it well . Curious her shape , so sparkling were her Eyes , Such quick , such glancing brightness in them lies , They would have roll'd , but that her shame denies . Such lively strokes he to the Maid did give , That , tho' a Statue , she appear'd to live . The Artist's self that she had Life believ'd , And fondly was by his own Art deceiv'd . He felt her flesh , for he suppos'd it such , And fear'd to hurt her , with too rude a touch . Often he Kiss'd her , while he madly burn'd , And fancy'd now , how she the like return'd . He Wooes her , Sighs , and her fair Hands does 〈◊〉 And tells his Passion in a Dear Address . Till at the last , his Notions grew so vain , That he believ'd she sigh'd , and prest again . He sends her presents , Gums , and precious Stones , The choicest Bracelets , and bright , glitt'ring 〈◊〉 Soft singing Birds , which flutt'ring all around , With pretty Notes , rais'd a delightful sound . Rich Pendants , Rings , and Gums he sends the Maid , With Wreaths of flow'rs adorns her Lovely Head , And lays her now , soft on a Downy Bed . In Pompous Robes he does his Idol Dress ; Much so she Charms , but not , when naked , less . Now was the time , when 〈◊〉 kept her Feast , And Love-sick Youths to her fam'd Temple prest . There to be offer'd , Snowy Heifers come , And the rich Altar smoaks with pretious Gum. Among the Crowd the hopeless Lover goes , Tho' no Just reason , or pretence he knows . Before the Altar , now he weeping stands , And Bows , with Off'rings in his careful hands . Fiercer , and Fiercer his desires grow there , And rise more furious , from his wild Despair . A long , long time does he forbear to pray , For still his doubts deny'd his Speech the way , Yet wish'd ( altho' he knew not why ) to stay . At last , his fearsul silence now he Breaks , And thus , but still in mighty fear , he speaks . If you , Love 's Beauteous , Charming Goddess , have , And can bestow what Mortal suppliants Crave . Shew now your Pow'r , on me your Blessings shed , Grant me the Wife I wish , one like , he said , But durst not say , grant me my Iv'ry Maid . This done , he thrice percieves the flashing Fires , The happy Omen blest his fond desires , And to the Maid he now with doubtful Joy retires . With wond'rous longings he in hast returns , And now , more fiercely than before , he burns , Closely he claspt her to his panting Breast , And felt her softer still , the more he prest . Now , all at once , with a surprize of bliss , He finds her Lips grow warmer with his Kiss , He finds them Moist , and Soft , and Red as his . Her throbbing Breasts heav'd now , and gently swell'd , While he with wonder the Lov'd sight beheld , The Maid , now Fairer , in his Arms he bore , Tho' fram'd of Iv'ry , polish'd fine before . Let none henceforth of wish'd success Despair , When Statues soften'd by our Passions are . The happy Artist , now perceives his Wife With beating Pulses , and with perfect Life . And , for a while , as Motionless he stood , As she had done , e'er she grew Flesh and Blood . Her Lover first she with the light descrys , For which she Checks , and turns her bashful Eyes , While in her blooming Face her Beauteous Blushes rise .

Salmacis and Hermaphroditus . THE Beauteous Salmacis , who Lov'd her ease , By her own Fountain Passes happy Days . There she delights , there do her wishes please . This Nymph was still unpractis'd in the chace , She ne'er contended in a painful race . Lov'd not to mingle with Diana's Train , Nor draw the Bow , nor Hunt upon the Plain . Oft her laborious Sisters bid her rise , To Join with them , and get some stately Prize . They urg'd her oft with Words repeated o'er , To follows Staggs , or to pursue the Boar. All would not do , she would no Quiver seize , Nor for their toil forgo her pleasant ease . But in her Fountain she delights to play , By Night rests there , and there she Bathes by Day . Still in that liquid Glass she drest her Charms , And her fair Eyes with Loving glances Arms. There still she learnt what Gesture best became , There practic'd Charms , such as could raise a Flame . Oft from one side she to the other Swims , Then in fine Lawn arrays her Beauteous Limbs . Oft , on soft Moss , stretcht at their length they lay , And thro' the White , transparent Robes their Lovely shape display . To the full view she leaves her Bosom bare , Spreads o'er her Shoulders her loose , flowing Hair , And shews her Face , her Neck , and Breasts exceeding fair . Languishing now , on blooming Banks she lies , And plucks such Flow'rs as please her Curious Eyes . When she perciev'd , as she was busy'd there , The Charming Son of Hermes coming near , Who , soon as seen , the Virgin 's wishes mov'd , For he deserv'd to be by all belov'd . His blooming Beauties she admir'd much more , Than the fair Flow'rs for which she long'd before . At the first sight , her wishes sill'd her Soul , While soft Emotions in her Bosom rowl . Her Fires grew fiercer , as he nearer came , And now she fondly burns with glowing Flame . Much she desir'd , yet still conceal'd she lies , Till with soft looks she deckt her sparkling Eyes . 'Till she appear'd with all her utmost Art ; 'Till all her Beauties bloom'd in every part , That she might win the Charmer , and surprize a Heart . With all her skill she does each Feature Arm , And sets her Dress , who of her self might Charm . She now at last in all her Robes applies , To the dear Youth in looks , and moving sighs , And by her melting Words she shews him how she dies . With gaining ways , and soft , bewitching snares , Her Passion thus she to the Swain declares . Such are your Charms , dear Boy , your Beauties such , All Nymphs must Love you , none can Love too much . Pleasing your form , sure you are all Divine , All Hearts you Conquer , as you Conquer mine . Such are the wond'rous glories of your Face , You were not born sure of a Mortal race . Such , such the sparkling brightness of your Eyes , Such the strange force which in their glances lies , You are some God descended from the Skies . Ah! you so much can on a suddain move , I know , I know that you were born above , You are the Son to the fair Queen of Love . If I mistake , if then you are not so , But the sweet Off-spring of some Prince below . Happy , ah ! thrice , thrice happy must they be , Who are related , and ally'd to thee . Blest are thy Parents : and that Woman's Breast , Which gave thee Food , is infinitely blest , But the fair Partn'r of thy Bed much more than all the rest . If such there be , ah ! do but grant me this , Let me Embrace thee , let me fondly Kiss , And by close stealth deprive her of her Bliss . But if you yet from Nuptial vows are free , Make me your Joyful Bride , ah ! seal them now with 〈◊〉 The Love-sick Nymph thus far her Passion mov'd , Thus told the Charming Youth how well she 〈◊〉 When sierce desires her farther Speech debarr'd , And the Youth Blush'd for the fond things he 〈◊〉 Still in his Blushes did he Lovelier seem , Still more she wish'd to be belov'd by him . So Apples blush upon the Sunny side , Or polish'd Iv'ry with Vermillion dy'd . So in Eclipses does the Moon appear , When stains of Red her strugling Face does wear . Closer she comes , and now in Am'rous pain , She thinks to seize upon the Lovely Swain . With bashful Anger her Embrace he shuns , And from the Maid disdaining proudly , runs . With nice reserve he flies the tempting snare , Forbear , he cries , loose idle Nymph , forbear , Or I 'll forsake the place , and leave you there . She , at this Menace from the Youth , reply'd . 'T is yours , fair Swain , and so she stept aside . Yet in a thicket of close , shrubby Trees , She hides secure , and all his Actions sees . He now believing there was none to view , To the fair Banks of the Nymph's Fountain drew . And sporting now , trips nimbly back again , With bolder steps o'cr all the Flow'ry plain . Now , growing warm , he crosses o'er the Meads , Comes to the Stream , and to the Knees he wades . Then , to the Greens he takes the nearer ways , His Silken Garments on the ground he lays . And to the longing Maid , all , all the Man displays . His Naked Beauties her fond sight amaz'd , Who with impatient , eager wishes gaz'd . Her sparkling Eyes , while she the Youth desires , Glow with bright Beams , and shoot out shining Fires . Their rays the Sun 's on Silver streams surpass , Or when reflected by a Chrystal Glass . Mad to possess , and to enjoy the Swain , She almost thinks to tell her Loves again , So very much she burns with the transporting pain . Now , from the Flow'ry Bank , to which he came , The Lovely Boy leapt down into the Stream . Then , with his Snowy Arms he loosely plays , And sports , and wantons thro his liquid ways . Still as he swims , his glitt'ring Limbs appear , Thro' the smooth Streams , so undisturb'd , and clear . Like Iv'ry Statues , which the Life surpass , Or like a Lilly in a Chrystal Glass . The ravish'd Virgin Cries , he 's now my own , And , strait disrob'd of all , impatient grown , Pursues her eager Joys , and plunges to him down . About his Neck , and o'er his strugling Wast , Her circling Arms with longing folds she cast . On ev'ry side she clasps him , as he swims , And locks him closely with her twining Limbs . So , when an Eagle with a Serpent flies , Fast in his Talons , and then Mounts the Skies Around his Head , and Feet the Serpent clings , And wreaths her tail about his spacious Wings . Still , tho' detain'd , and forc'd , the strugling Boy With all his Pow'rs resists the Virgin 's Joy . In vain , ingrateful , foolish Youth , she cries , In vain , your scornful Pride my coming bliss denies . Grant , grant ye Pow'rs ! that no unhappy day , May snatch this youth from my embrace away . Propitious Pow'rs to the Nymph's Pray'rs incline , For strait in one their diff'rent Figures twine . And as their Souls Join'd when their transports flew , Their Bodies mingled with each other too .

Cephalus and Procris . TWO fleeting Months blest Cephalus had past , Who now may grieve they did not longer last . While he has Procris , swift each Minute flies , They Count no time , who cannot Count their Joys . Those pleasing hours , wing'd with their transports , flew , When fair Aurora saw , and Lov'd him too . Tho' on her Throne she had the Pow'r to sway , The dewy consines of the Night , and Day . He was her greatest Pride , her only care , While deeper Blushes in her Cheeks appear , And shew her shame , because she thinks him Dear , On steep Hymettus she her Flames declar'd , But happy Procris is to her prefer'd . She had his Heart , she had his Soul before , He gave her all he could , and wish'd to give her more , This when Aurora knew , inrag'd she said , Keep then your Procris , prize your Nuptial Bed . But if I fate , or her proceedings know , You soon will wish you had not Lov'd her so . He leaves the Goddess , but her Words he bears , Which rack his Mind with Thousand Anxious fears . Sometimes he thinks she might his honour wrong , And then concludes her Vertuous , tho' she 's young . Yet oft he doubts , where the surmize was vain , And must himself be Author of his pain . Chang'd by Aurora , a new form he wears , And , as a stranger , at his House appears . All there was silent , he could sind no Crime , As if with Procris all had mourn'd for him . With all his Arts he does the cheat pursue , And seem'd to fear that they were all too few . At length he sees her , and amaz'd he stood , New Beams of Beauty pierc'd her sorrow's Cloud . Scarce from due Kisses could he there refrain , And almost thought to grow himself again . For him alone was all fair Procris care , Absent to her , altho' she saw him there . Oft he attempts her Chastity to try , He asks her oft , who does as oft deny . She yet does faithful to her Nuptials prove , Nor dares ev'n fancy she can wrong her Love . Presents he sends , and by the Gods he swears , She must be his , for he is only hers . Seduc'd by these , she knows not what to do , Nor can she tell would she be Chast , or no , Fears she is lost , for Oh! she finds it so . Her Eyes with Tears , her Cheeks with Blushes fill'd , She shews , by silence , she at length might yield . Then , he inrag'd in his own form appear'd , She saw her Lord , and as she saw , she fear'd . He loudly storm'd , and like a Tempest flew , She prest with shame ; in silence , strait withdrew . Ran to the Woods , nor would return again , No Beast so Salvage , so abhorr'd , as Men. He soon repents the mischiefs he has done , And says himself the fault was all his own . Forgives his Procris , who again return'd , And owns , he , so , had for Aurora burn'd . Their Love more firm , by being broken , grows , They both resolve to keep their Nuptial vows , He in a Wife was blest , and she a Spouse . In their Chast Breasts so Just a Passion moves , He priz'd her Bed above the Queen of Love's , Nor would she change her Husband 's ev'n for Jove's . Now with his Dart he Traces o'er the plain , And haunts the Forests , and the Woods again . After his toil , he does to Shades repair , Where the cool Vallies Breath refreshing air . Come , Air , he cry'd , ( as he was us'd to say ) O come , and Kiss my glowing heat away . Oft did he call it with such Words as those , And Court it so , while he more fiercely glows . Some busy Fool heard all that he had said , And told his Procris he had wrong'd her Bed . She , Jealous she , was with the story mov'd , And fears some Dryad , above her belov'd . Condemns her Lord as most inconstant now , She says he is , but yet she knows not how . The following Day he does his game pursue , And Courts the Air , as he was wont to 〈◊〉 When a loud sigh among the Woods he hears , Then strait a rustling , and in hast he stirs . Throws his strong Dart at the 〈◊〉 Beast , And Wounds his Procris on the tender Breast . Ay me ! She cry'd ; her Voice too well he knew , And in distraction to her aid he flew ; Found her all Bloody with the wound he made , Faint with the blow , and half already dead . O live , said he , leave me not guilty here , To smart for ever for the Wound you bear , The Wound I gave that Breast I Love so Dear . Dying , she cry'd , by all the Gods above , By all the Gods that have a sense of Love . By all the Pow'rs that have Command below , To whose infernal Regions I must go , By all the blest — by Procris , and by you . I charge you , ne'er let your desires be mov'd , Nor let lew'd Ayre be after me belov'd . Just as she dy'd , he did her fate unfold , And told it Mourning , since too late he told .

Phaebus and Leucothoe . OF Phaebus Loves , and of their cause I sing , Of that Just cause , from which his sorrows spring . A like , fierce Flames , and equal Passions move , The God of Battles , and the Queen of Love . They both alike resolve to quench the Fire , And now in secret to their Joys retire ; This Phaebus sees , as on his Course he goes , And to wrong'd Vulcan does their stealth disclose . Fine , Brazen Nets , by his directions made , Are gently clos'd about the injur'd Bed . So 〈◊〉 wrought , they could the Eye deceive , More curious far than those the Spiders weave . Thus strictly bound , they had not Pow'r to move , The God of War was then Compell'd to Love . Now Vulcan tells the sports that he had seen , Acquaints the Gods with what had lately been , And at his Ivory Doors they all come laughing in . Thus Mars Triumphant in his Chariot rode , 〈◊〉 at , yet envy'd by each wishing God . For this , from Venus , Phaebus Passion came , From hence it was he felt his fatal Flame . His longing Eyes alone Leucothoe view , And give to her what to the World is due . He sees alas ! yet tho' all Eye he be , If he is blest , he must do more than see . He rises Early , and desires to stay , Beyond the usual Limits of the Day . In his sad Face his raging griefs appear , Which strike the World with an amazing fear . Thus an Eclipse could ne'er his light remove ; These Paler looks are the effects of Love . As when great Fires upon the smaller beat , They dim their brightness with a Conqu'ring heat . So the Sun's-Beams , when Am'rous Flames he bore , Lost all that Lustre which they shew'd before . Leucothoe he to all the World prefers , And all it's Beauties are despis'd for her's . Her Royal Father Persia's Scepter sway'd , Yet , not her Birth , but Charms , endear'd the Maid . He now dismounts his glorious , shining throne , And puts her Mother's awful likeness on , Whilst by a Lamp the Beauteous Virgin spun . He Kist her first , and scarce could more forbear , Then bid the Maids withdraw , & leave them there , He had a secret , that they must not hear , Now the bold God his brightness reassumes , And tells her who he is , and why he comes . Tho' he sees all , and by him all things see , By her Dear self he swears , there 's none so bright as she . Not his own rays such Radiant Lustre wear , As her Lov'd Eyes in their swift glances bear . Amaz'd she seems , nor has she Pow'r to stir , The God as stedsast too admiring her . Stupid , and senseless with her fear she stands , And drops her distaff from her trembling hands . Her Beauteous fright his siercer Passion fed , And , now he Conquers , now enjoys the Maid . This Clytie knew , nor could she long conceal , She was her Rival , and she Joys to tell . Her Salvage Father hears her fatal Crime , And her excuses do but harden him . His Beauteous Child he does alive inter , And throws a Mountain on the injur'd fair . This Phaebus sees , and would new Life beget , While his bright Beams do at the Mountain beat , In vain , alas ! she cannot feel their heat . How does he grieve at his too feeble Pow'r ? He ne'er so truly did Lament before . Not his lost Son made him so sadly Mourn , He scorch'd the World , but she made 〈◊〉 burn .

Hippomenes and Atalanta . TO Shady Woods fair Atalanta fled , Resolv'd to shun the fatal Marriage Bed . Warn'd by Apollo , she prepares to flee From every Suitor not so swift as she . Replies to all , she must be first outrun , Or else she Lives to be enjoy'd by none . Declares besides , who thro' presumption tries To Conquer her , if unsuccessful , dies . Thus , many swains Love's , and Death's pangs did bear , Their hazard noble , as the Maid was fair . Whilst others fear'd to seek the Beauteous prize , What her Eyes urg'd , her fatal tongue denies . Now some bold Youth , who long a Flame had born , Nor could expect , or hope a kind return , Prefer'd her Conquest far before her scorn . And begs a race , nor does he know to fear , 'T is less , much less to die , than languish in 〈◊〉 Here Young Hippomenes by chance appears , And of the Lover , and his Flame , he hears . It first his pity , then his Anger mov'd , He crys the Maid is too , too much belov'd . But in the race , when he her form beheld , He was with fonder Admiration fill'd . He gaz'd with wonder , nor could Justly tell , Which did , her Beauty , or her speed , excel . Swift as a Scythian shaft the Virgin flew , Scarce could her Lover within sight pursue . With a Wing'd hast she nimbly seem'd to fly , Her Feet outran the quick Spectator's Eye . Now growing warm he still admires her more , Her motion fann'd those Fires , which her Eyes caus'd Whilst the fond Winds bear back the purple strings Which bind her Legs , and seem like looser wings . Tossing her Hair on her fair Shoulders spread , And all her snowy skin grows Beauteous Red. Carnation Curtains so on Walls display'd , Die their pure whiteness with a fainting shade . All this he sees , and he admires it all , And almost fears that thus himself must fall . Praises the Maid , and is Enamour'd grown , Wishes she now may be o'ercome by none . He is resolv'd his better fates to try , And must enjoy her , or he vows to die . Thus while he Thought ; the fatal race was run , And the lost Lover's Life fair Atalanta won . The bold Spectator from the Crowd appears , And humbly bowing Darts his Eyes at hers . His Love he does above his Life esteem , And owns the Conquest she has gain'd of him . Tells her she must her Victory pursue , And , as with Beauty , kill with swiftness too . Demands a race , not fainting , or afraid , But slights all dangers for the Beauteous Maid . Bids her contend with him , nor seek to raise By meaner Conquests , but a meaner praise . Sprung from great Neptune , he assures her so , She will be Victor in her overthrow . The Boy she hears , and does his Beauties view , She would not have him his designs pursue , And scarce , ah ! scarce she wishes to subdue . What God she says would such a Youth destroy , Who thro' these dangers would my Charms enjoy ! What! what 's his Mien ! what is he all I see ! Such sparkling glories so despis'd for me ! Must those bright looks , those shining Beauties fall , My Merit never could reward them all . Ah! Charming Boy ! shun my deluding Bed , You cannot Conquer ; and I must not Wed. Your worth you know not , and you doat on mine , There is no Virgin who would not be thine . In vain , I speak , and I advise in vain , In vain alas ! you hear of Numbers slain . O I could wish you would the danger shun , Or , since resolv'd , would you could faster run . Thou , Beauteous Boy ! art the dear Youth alone , To whom my Charms should be intirely known , And should be mine , were I my self my own . Would Heav'n had Order'd that I ne'er had been , Or that you ne'er had Atalanta seen . Thus far her new born Passion urg'd the Maid , He hears it all , and as he hears , is glad . Perceives her Flames , tho' to her self unknown , And hopes e'er long to Crown them with his own . The Numerous Crowds do now impatient grow , With Murmurs of a race , and swarm to know . The eager Boy calls Venus to his Aid , That , as he Loves , he may enjoy the Maid . From her , three Golden Apples he receives , Who tolls the use of the Rich Fruit she gives . Now both the Lovers at the Barrier stand , And the loud Trumpets Sound on either Hand . They start at once , who might be safely born O'er Autumn Fields , nor hurt the standing Corn. A thousand Cries rise from the Noisy Crowd , The Goal is yours , bast , hast , they shout aloud . Ill with his Feet the Boy 's desires comply , He sees the maid , but ah ! he sees her fly . How did she stay , when she might oft o'ergo , And look , and grieve , that she out-strip'd him so ? Now the tir'd Youth one of the Apples threw , In quest of which the greedy Virgin flew . Behind her far the rowling Gold was thrown , Which she admires , for which she Deigns to run . The glowing Youth now swiftly passes by , And the loud Field resounds with shouts of Joy , Yet soon again she overtakes the Boy . The other two with greater force he throws , By which the Virgin does the Conquest lose . For each she turns , and lets her Lover run , Who now was foremost , when the race was done , And Atalanta by the Youth was won .

Eccho . THE Vocal Nymph the Young Narcissus views , As he his prey into the toils pursues . Tho' she her self could not her silence break , She Answer'd others , when she heard them speak . Revengeful Juno , Jealous of her Jove , Might have surpriz'd him oft in Lawless Love , But still this Nymph with cunning Wiles deferr'd The Goddess's progress , till her talk she heard . So that her Rivals by this Crafty slight , Escap'd her fury in their speedy flight . Which when she knew , for such a wrong , she said , Thy Tongue small Pow'r shall boast , deluding Maid . She threatens high , while she who hears the threats , The self same things in the same Words repeats . Now the fair Youth she saw , and strait admires , She follows silently with fond desires , Where'er he goes , and still she gathers Fires . Nearer , and nearer in his steps she moves , And still pursuing , still the more she Loves . Her wishes fir'd , when closer now she came , As Sulph'rous Torches catch approaching Flame . Often she strove , but strove in vain to tell The Charming Youth she Lov'd him too , too well . To her fond mind a Thousands things she brought , Moving , and melting was her tender Thought , But all conceal'd ; for she could utter nought . The Pow'r of speaking was deny'd the Maid , But still , to hear his Speech , she longing stay'd , That she might Answer to whate'er he said . His Young Companions gone , the Boy complains , And calls , and calls them in continu'd strains . Where do you fly ? Fond Eccho hears him cry , And straits she Answers him , where do you fly ? Around he looks , but he can nothing see , And much he wonders whence the Voice could be . Is any near ? He crys , she pleas'd to hear Those Joyful Words , returns , is any near ! Once more the Huntsman hollows o'er the plain , And utters sounds , which she returns again . More loud he calls , she of the Office proud , In hasty Accents , made replies as loud . Then let us Join , he said , her Thoughts combine , And all consent , she Answers — let us Join . Soon as she spoke , strait from the Woods she flew , And round his Neck her Arms , transported , threw . With close Embraces fondly lock'd him fast , Who strugling broke from her weak hold at last . And proudly crys , rather I 'll cease to be , Than you , loose Nymph , shall have your will on me , Shall have your will on me ? the Nymph returns , To the ingrateful Boy for whom so much she burns . Mean-while he flies , disdainful , from her view ; Now , so repuls'd , she will no more pursue . With all her speed she runs to gloomy Groves , And grieves to think he should despise her Loves . Her Flames rejected , she Laments , and Mourns , And Weeps , and Blushes , with the shame , by turns . Alone she Pines with her excess of Woe , But Loves him still , who made her Wretched so . Her raging Passion , and her fonder grief , Torment her so , she can have no relief . Thoughts of her slight the Virgin waking keep , Restless , and Languishing , for want of sleep . Now she consumes with her continu'd care , And all her Moisture is dissolv'd to Air. Nought of her now remains but empty sound , Her Voice still heard in Caves , and Hollow ground . Thus her the Cruel , Young Narcissus's Pride , Had kill'd , with many other Nymphs beside . Some born in Rivers , and on Mountains some , Sure still to ruine , where his Beauties come . When one who suffer'd by his proud disdain , Despairing pray'd , when she did long complain , Thus may he Love himself , and thus in vain . Her wish was Just , and met with great regard , She fell reveng'd , for soon Rhamnusia heard .

Narcissus .

Beginning with the Description of a Spring .

IN a deep Vale ; lodg'd among Ancient Trees , Which Shade it round , a Silver Fountain lies . Girt with long Grass , whose Verdant Beauties show , To whose great Bounty they their freshness owe. No angry blasts the Spring 's smooth surface moves , A peaceful Calm the liquid Chrystal Loves , No loose , rude leaves it's Virgin Waters stain , From the least Mote , and every Blemish clean . So clear it shows , the Beauteous Trees appear , As if they saw to place their branches there . Whose lofty Tops do with such tremblings move , As if they too were with themselves in Love . Here , tir'd with hunting , fair Narcissus came , Nor from such Waters fear'd a rising Flame . Pleas'd with the Shade , upon his Face he lies , Till Captiv'd there by his own Conquering Eyes . He sees his Shadow in the liquid Glass , But knew not what his Charming Shadow was . With constant Eyes the fleeting form he views , For fear the darling object he should lose . So have I seen a well-Cut Parian Stone , Appear to gaze , with admiration , down . He Loves himself , what shall the Lover do , Both his own Mistress , and his Suitor too ? Oft stoop'd he down to catch the pleasing Cloud , And fill'd his Arms with the deceitful Flood . From the sierce Lover the false image fled , Coy , and Disdainful , as a Courted Maid . How could he hope , or e'er expect to find So cold a Mistress to his wishes kind ? How could her wat'ry Breast his Flames approve , Too I hill alas ! to feel the warmth of Love . Raising at length , with pain , his drooping Head , Thus , with a sigh , and folded Arms , he said . Tell me , ye Woods , ye aged Woods declare , Have ye yet known a Youth so Wretched here ? No Seas , nor Mountains do our Joys remove , Nought , but a little Water , parts our Love . As oft as I to Kiss the Flood design , So oft his Lips ascend , to Join with mine . Ah! Beauteous Boy ! Why should you scornful flee ? I too am Young , I too have Charms , like thee . Come forth , whate'er thou art , nor grieve me so , Or I will follow you where'er you go . You move your Lips , I see your Breath appear , But what you utter I must never hear . Oh! 't is my 〈◊〉 , alas ! I plainly see , 'T is my own Shadow that bewitches me . In my own Flames I burn ; what shall I do ? Direct me , Heavens ! Shall I be woo'd , or wooe ? What shall I wish , what shall I further crave , Since what I covet I already have ? Ye bounteous Gods ! too much has made me Poor , Disjoin me from my self , I ask no more . Sure my desire may admiration move , I would be disposses'd of all I Love , Alas ! I faint , I find I cannot live , Sure after Death I shall no longer grieve . Would her I Love might stay when I am gone , Two Wretched Lovers are destroy'd in one . Then gaz'd again upon the form he made , And view'd with Watry Eyes the false , deluding Shade . His dropping Tears rais'd Circles , as they fell , And sunk the Shadow which he Lov'd so well . Weeping , methinks , should ease the pains he bore , But ev'n his Tears made him Lament the more . Soon as he saw the fleeting Shadow flee , Ah! stay he cry'd , and I will die with thee . Let me but see you in the Envious Flood , And Feast my Passion on that empty food . Ah! too , too Justly I deserve my pain , The Nymphs all Lov'd me , yet they Lov'd in vain . The Beauteous Eccho , oh ! I Mourn for her , Ungrateful I , who would not hear her Pray'r . My harsh disdain did that fair Virgin kill , Shame to my Sex ! By me , by me she fell . Complaining thus , he beats his Naked Breast , But feels the Torment where the pain was least . His Snowy skin by his rude Blows was made Like fairest Apples streakt around with red . Which wheu he saw in his fair form appear , He could no longer such a sorrow bear , Here he receiv'd the strokes , but smarted there . As virgin Wax dissolves with fervent heat , Or Morning Frost , whereon the Sun-beams beat . So thaws Narcissus with his sierce desire , And Melts consum'd in an unsual Fire . From his pale Checks their wonted glories fled , They Blush no longer with a Beauteous Red. None of those Charms , those fatal Charms remain , Which Wretched Eccho so admir'd in vain . That slighted Nymph deplores his hopeless fate , Nor , for his scorn , did she return him hate . From her sad Breast all Thoughts of Vengeance fled , She living Lov'd him , and she Mourns him dead . He dying cry'd , farewel , belov'd in vain , She Sympathizing , so complain'd again . The wasted Youth a Yellow Flow'r became , A Beauteous Flow'r , which still retains the name . The Swains bewail him , all throughout the Groves , And every Shepherd Moans Narcissus Loves . The Mourning Nymphs bedew the ground with Tears , That much Lov'd ground , which fair Narcissus bears . Then view with sorrow the deluding well , And with their Flowing griefs the Waters swell , Those hated Waters where Narcissus fell . No tuneful Bird in all those Woods will sing , And pensive Flocks pass bleating by the Spring . It 's very Waters a repentance show , And seem to Weep , as from the well they flow .

Pan and Syrinx . YE haughty Maids , let this example warn , And 〈◊〉 you all from your injurious scorn . Fair Syrinx liv'd on sweet Arcadia's plains , The Joy , and Torment of the wondring Swains . Belov'd by all , yet no one's Flames return'd , For her the Rival Gods , for her the Sylvans burn'd . Nay , the rough Satyrs lay their rudeness by , Such was her Form ! And gaze when she is nigh . For , thro' the Woods oft with her Bow she came , And like Diana , chac'd the flying game . At her approach the yielding Branches Bow , And hasty twigs bend till she passes through . The darkest Groves are on a suddain bright , And seem to smile at their new Robe of light . The Am'rous Trees Bow their Officious heads , And strew their willing leaves , where'er fair Syrinx Treads . All who behold her , are her Suitors grown , But the Chast Nymph resolves to live alone , To live a Maid , and therefore pities none . Unhappy fair ! By her own Charms betray'd , Such Beauties sure were for enjoyment made . Her eager Lovers now in vain pursue , And strive to Ravish , since in vain they wooe . Untouch'd , till now , she sported all abroad , But now is Courted by the Shepherd's God . As , Crown'd with Pines , Pan from Lycaeus came , He saw the Nymph at her delightful game , He saw , he Lov'd , and must reveal his Flame . And with such Words as these , he urg'd her stay , Why from a God do you thus hast away ? Sweating , and spent , he follows still the fair , Sees the blest Zephyrs wanton in her Hair , And all her flying Garments loosely bear . Her growing Beauties now inflame him more , And his fresh Crown he from his Temples tore , A Crown he always much esteem'd before , Now , to smooth Ladon's Sandry Banks they flew , She shuns him fast , who does more fast pursue , In the God's reach the Nymph does now appear , The Wings of Love out-fly the Wings of fear . With longing Arms he strives to seize his prey , Which from his cheated Arms escapes as ost away . Thus the balk'd Hound snaps at the Hare in vain , Deceiv'd , Posts on , and is deceiv'd again . But now the Nymph no more has Pow'r to run , Nor knows she how the eager God to shun . She strait the watry Deity adores , Desires their pity , and their aid implores . Her Pray'rs are heard , and she is caught at last , Whom , chang'd to Reeds , the wond'ring Pan embrac't . Amaz'd , he now for his lost Mistress Mourns , And speaks her praises , and his griefs by turns . Stirr'd with his sighs , the Reeds with tremblings move , And in short Murmurs make complaints of Love . Pleas'd with the Sound , the God , all Ravish'd , cries , Tho' thee in Person Rigid fate denies , Thy sweet , thy Charming Musick never dies . Still shall such converse by thy change be found , And her own Pipe shall Syrinx praises Sound .

Jupiter and Semele .

Beginning with the Description of Fame and her Palace .

A Place there is in the Capacious Air , Where all things done , tho' far remote , appear , Fame's lofty Palace , whose tall Tow'rs outvie The lowly Clouds , and reach the Blewest Sky . The Airy Queen in her high Mansions dwells , Knows all is said , and more than all she tells . Whate'er is done , whate'er is spoke she hears , A hundred Ears , a thousand Tongues she bears . Wing'd round about , thro' all her Tow'rs she flies , Descends to Earth , and Mounts again the Skies . Her Royal Arms two diff'rent Trumpets hold , Brass in the left , and in the right hand , Gold . From place to place with flying hast she roams , And Sounds them loudly wheresoe'er she comes . Ten thousand ways lead to her Spacious Court , Millions of rumours to her Hall resort . A while they talk of things they scarcely know , wander a while , and then away they go . Her Friendly Gates are wide expanded still , And with strange News her large Appartments fill . All built of Ringing Brass , her House resounds , Reports things told , and every Word rebounds . Within , no silence , yet the noise not loud , But like the Murm'ring Voices of a Crowd . Such as from far the rowling Billows cause , Or as spent thunder with a fainting noise . With secret Whispers all the Palace Rings , Of unknown Authors , and of doubtful things . Here , truths , with lies coufus'dly mixt , are told , And the New Words still disser from the old . Millions of Tales , yet each , in telling , grows , For every Author adds to what he knows . So , in a Crowd , the Snow is rowl'd by all , And grows a Mountain which was first a Ball. Rash , foolish Errour has her lodgings here , Vain , short liv'd Joy , and sad dejected Fear . These wait on Fame , from her their being have , And , when she pleases , lose the Life she gave . From her , wrong'd Juno knew her Bed defil'd , Knew , how lew'd Semele was great with Child . 〈◊〉 , she cries , my 〈◊〉 are all in vain , 〈◊〉 slighted Goddess ! Will you still complain ? Sway we a Scepter , and is Heav'n our seat , Or am I more than Titularly great ? When thus a Mortal bears a Rival's Name , And by her Issue would Divulge her shame . What she brings forth my Thund'rer did beget , Such as our Love has scarce effected yet . But if his Sister , and his Wife I be , My Just revenge shall Act what 's worthy me . Then , leaves her Throne , and in a Colour'd Cloud , Descended where her Rival's Palace stood . Her Skin all wrinkled , and her Hair was gray , Who with her creeping Feet , grop'd out her ling'ring way . Crooked her Limbs , her Voice was Weak , and Hoarse , In all respects she seem'd her Rival's Nurse . Long would she talk , whene'er she mention'd Jove , And Cry , Pray Heavens none else has wrong'd your Love . Yet , truth , I fear , for Maids have thus been won , Deceiv'd by Cheats , and by their Wiles undone . If he be Jove , let him some wonder do , That may convince you he is truely so . In all his glories let him Act his Love , Deckt with those Ensigns which his Godhead prove . Such , and so mighty , as when Juno's Charms 〈◊〉 him to clasp her in his burning Arms. Thus she advis'd , and set her Thoughts on Fire , Who wildly Rages with a sierce desire . And begs of Jove a favour , yet unknown , He bids her ask , he will refuse her none . He swears by Styx , which , thro' obscure aboads , Spreads his dull Streams , rever'd by all the Gods . Pleas'd with her high , destructive Pow'r to move , She must be lost by her Ambitious Love . Tells him to her's he shall no Charms prefer , But , as he is to Juno , be to her . Within her Arms he must his glories shew , And as he 's Heaven 's , be Love's great Thund'rer too . In hast , he sought to stop her fatal Tongue , For oh ! On that he knew her ruine hung . Too late alas ! His vain atempt he made , For she had ask'd , and must be now obey'd . The God was griev'd he had so rashly sworn , He knew his Love , his Semele must burn . Wrapt in dark Clouds , he sadly Mounts his Throne , And show ' is his sorrows in loud Tempests down . Drest in his thunder , but of mildest Flame , To those Appartments , where she lodg'd , he came . Her great success she sadly now bewailes , For Oh! more Fires than those of Love she Feels . Her high presumption , and it's fate she Mourns , And in those bright embraces , which she urg'd , she Burns .

Glaucus and Scylla . REpuls'd by Scylla , Love-Sick Glaucus flies To try what Pow'r in Crice's Magick lies . And now at length , to Flaming AEtna came , AEtna and he Burnt with an equal Flame . Thence , soon arriv'd at the design'd abode , The 〈◊〉 Enchantress welcomes there the God . To whom in moving Words his Flames he proves , And sadly thus Reveals his slighted Loves . 'T was Scylla's Beauty rais'd my fond desires , And in the Waters kindled raging Fires . On a high Rock close to the Seas she stood , And cast her Eyes down tow'rds the rising Flood . There first I saw her , there I Lov'd her too , Courted , she fled , nor could I fast pursue , So , to implore your aid , I came to you . This favour , Goddess , you may soon confer , Quench not my Fires , but raise the like in her . To whom thus Circe speaks with taking Air , Be well assur'd you may enjoy the fair . I , sprung from Sol , to your Embraces run , With Radiant Charms , bright as my Parent Sun . Meet her who seeks thee , her , who flies thee , shun . Thus let thy fairer suppliant's Pray'rs be heard , My Love must sure be to her 〈◊〉 prefer'd . Glaucus replies to her who Courts him so , First shady Groves shall on the Billows grow . Birds thro' the Seas , Fish thro' the plains shall move , E'er I , while Scylia lives , estrange my Love . Know then , she Crys , I shall not tamely 〈◊〉 Your proud repulse , nor fall to vain Despair , No , there 's a Beauty you to me prefer , To ruin thee , 〈◊〉 be reveng'd on her . Thence , utt'ring Charms , strait to a Sandy Bay , In hast she flies ; there Beauteous Scylla lay . Sad Glaucus too towards the shore return'd , His Mistress , chang'd into a Rock , he Mourn'd , Circe refus'd , and still for Scylla Burn'd .

Diana and Actaeon .

Beginning with the Description of a Cave .

A Cave there is , deep in declining ground , By Stately Pines , and Cypress Shaded round . Tall Reeds , and Osiers at the Entrance grew , And parted weeds with Riv'lets running through . The rough , Arch'd Roof all form'd of Mossy Stone , From which long Tufts of Shaggy Grass hung down . Here , Chrystal Streams in the smooth Bottom flow , And rise in Bubbles from their Springs below . From it 's Cleft sides in rills the Waters pour , And in their constant Course trace one another o'er . Here , with her Nymphs , the chast Diana came , And , all undrest , bathes her soft Limbs with them . Pleas'd with the grateful coolness of the Cave , Her fatal Bow to her Lov'd Maid she gave . When , led by fate , the tir'd Actaeon too , With wand'ring steps , to the same Cave withdrew . The Nymphs all Shrick'd to see a Man appear , And stood amaz'd , and senseless with their fear , Like Iv'ry Pales about their Goddess there . She saw him too , more Tall than all her Train , And wish'd in hast she had her Bow again . As a bright Cloud , by Sun-Beams pierc'd , appears , Or a fair Morn , which Virgin Blushes wears , So Chast Diana seem'd , for such were her's . Dashing rude Water in his Face , she said , Tell how you saw a Goddess dissarray'd , Yes , tell aloud where you have boldly been , I give you leave , speak all that you have seen . Chang'd to a Stagg , now wing'd with fear he flies , And is surpriz'd to see his swifter thighes . But when his Head the next clear River shows , And the proud Arms his Nature there bestows , He starts with wonder , and himself he fears , Tho' not his Form , yet his own Mind he bears , And speaks his sorrows in his Groans and Tears . What shall he do ? Alas ! He grieves , in vain , Actaeon ne'er must be himself again . How shall he rest , how shall his change be born ? Shall he stay there , or shall he home return ? Thus while he thinks , his Dogs appear in view , And he must run , for his own Hounds pursue . O'er Craggy Cliffs , o'er Rocks they force their way , And on a swifter 〈◊〉 all chase the Princely prey . The lost Actaeon in his Anguish Cries , And , where he us'd to follow , now he flies . Fain would he tell them whom they sought to slay , But oh ! He could not speak , nor did he dare to stay . They seize him now , and tear the stately foe , Who were by him taught to be Cruel so . With usual shouts their Dogs the Huntsmen chear . And seek , and call their Lord , already too , too near . In looks he Answers , yet is blam'd by all , Because thought absent at his wond'rous fall .

Coronis and Neptune . FRom Royal Blood the fair Coronis came . As great by Beauty , as by Birth in fame . From both alike she has a Pow'r to move , From both alike she draws Spectators Love . Her awful Charms make suppliant Princes Kneel , And quit their Crowns to shew the Pangs they feel . Belov'd by all , none dare her Laws oppose , Sure still to Triumph , and enslave her foes . The Neighb'uring Kings , who by their Arms might rise , Dread less — her Father's Scepter , than her Conqu'ring Eyes . While now the Maid walks on the nearer shore , To view the Floods , and hear the Billows roar . While now she steps upon the Sandy Bay , And seems another Venus of the Sea . The Am'rous Fish approach the harder strand , Most now delighted on the Happy land . No scaly Armour from her Beauties Saves . With their short Wings they cut the brighter Waves . The Sea Nymphs float upon the swelling Flood , Like Fancy seated on a moving Cloud . Now Neptune too thro' Waters feels a Flame . And owns Love's Mother from the Ocean came . At 〈◊〉 he sees the Maid , Serene , and fair , And tells his suff'rings with a Lover's care . But now more rough with swelling Passions grown , When she , his Heav'n , pour'd angry Tempests down . Like his own Waves , he does to ruine move , And , all inrag'd , chafes with the storms of Love . The frighted Virgin from the Ocean flew , And , swift as Winds , he does in hast pursue . Tir'd in the Sands , the God approaching near , She Cries for aid , and Begs the Heav'ns to hear . As to the Skies her trembling Arms she threw . On their 〈◊〉 skin Black Plumes of Feathers grew . Turn'd to a Crow , she cuts the upper Air And leaves her Lover , who stands wond'ring there .

Orpheus and Eurydice . THE Widow'd Orpheus for the Bride he lost , Undaunted hastens to the Stygian Coast. Thinking to Charm with Verse the Powers below And hopes his Wife may be recover'd so . Already now the Courts of Death he past , And mov'd all Hell with his soft Songs at last . The Fiends with silent Admiration heard , The Mornful Musick of the Artful Bard. His Harp and Tongue did Joy to all afford , While the Black roofs the wond'rous Song restor'd . No more does Tantalus in vain essay , To tast the streams which ran too fast away , Now , ev'n the floods their rapid torrents stay . The wretch forgets what he desir'd so long , And only thirsts to hear the charming Song . The 〈◊〉 Maids no longer fill their Urn , Nor the quick loss of their spilt Waters mourn . Ixion now does a short respit feel , And leans , and listons on his quiet Wheel . The 〈◊〉 Vulture now torments no more , And Titius Liver is no longer sore . The Fiends to torture Wretched Souls forbear , And Furies Weep with a relenting care . All Hell Harmonious with his Voice appears , Of equal sweetness with the moving Spheres . Nor was the Musick , which he made , in vain , All Hell consents to give his Bride again . But a short time she with the Youth remain'd , His Passion loses what his Poem gain'd . The Pow'rs below did on these Terms restore His Wretched Wife to leave the Stygian shore . If , till he quite the Shades of Night had past , And reach'd the clear AEtherial light at last , He turn'd his Eyes , his longing Eyes , to see His doubtful prize , it should for ever flee . Long now he wanders , and Extreamly burns , Long he forbears , but urg'd at last , he turns . And now arriv'd to a faint , glimm'ring light , Where the Sun's rays pierc'd thro' the gloomy Night , He casts his eager Eyes , to see the wish'd-for sight . His Wretched Wife can now no longer stay , From his last look she fleets in hast away . In vain he thought to catch the Shade again , She too bent Backwards , to be caught , in vain . Her double Death could not her anger move , He had no fault but his excess of Love . Gods ! What curs'd Thoughts urg'd his rais'd Passions on , When he perceiv'd she was forever gone ! Fled from his hold , and must return no more ; He thinks he 's now in Hell , and was in Heav'n before . What Anxious ills did in his fancy rowl , And what Tumultuous Pangs perplext his Soul ! In vain he wish'd he might with her return , But that deny'd , he could do nought but Mourn . In vain he Sung , his Notes were all in vain , No Verse , no Charm could bring her back again . Stay , dear Eurydice , Ah! Stay , he Cries , How fast the Lovely , fleeting Shadow flies ! How fast she shuns me , tho' I can't pursue ! This were not Hell , should it receive me too . She 's now already on the farther Coast , Lost is Eurydice , my Wife is lost . No track of time again can set her free , She 's gone for ever , ever gone from me . No Charms a second time Hell's Pow'rs can move , Oh! They will ne'er release my Wretched Love . No sacred Verse , no sacred Pray'rs will do , Hell has her now , would Hell had Orpbeus too . In Titius Place let me his torments bear , Love 's a worse Vulture than that gnaws him there . It preys , alas ! On a much Nicer part , That hurts the Liver , but this hurts the Heart . Is this your goodness then ? ye Hellish Pow'rs ! Yes , it may easily be known for yours . Some spightful Fiend releas'd her from the shore , But with design to make my suff'rings more . For on such Terms you gave me back my Wife , You knew I must lose her , and she her Life . Thus is your Nature plainly understood , You ne'er intended to be wholly good . By some damn'd Pow'r contriv'd , I know not how , You blest a short , short while , to curse me now . Ah! Yet be kind , and my dear Bride restore , Let me enjoy the Blessing , yet , once more . Let my fond Eyes once more their Pleasure boast , Which but for too much Love had ne'er been lost . By that dread sway , that horrour which I view , By those vast Realms which were allotted you , By that unquestion'd right you rule them too . By these my Pray'rs , and Tears , which once had Charms , Once more restore her to my longing Arms. A little while let her on Orpheus smile , And she is yours , within a little while . Life is but short , and when you please to call , You can have her , you can have me , and all . Thus Sung the Youth , but had not Pow'r to move , No Charm the second time could gain his Love . Rack'd with Despair , he quits the Stygian Coast , Nor could he stay where his dear Wife was lost . Back to the light he takes his mournful way , But was not Chear'd at the approach of Day . In sad complaints he does his griefs rehearse , And tells his Sorrows in his moving Verse . He Sings incessantly in Charming strains , And draws Stones to him o'er the flow'ry plains . His Pipe brings Herds , and their pleas'd Flocks along , Which leave their pasture , to admire his Song . The Trees Dance round , as if they understood , By wond'rous Sympathy , the Voice of Wood. His lays the Nymphs , and Sylvans did rejoice , And ravish'd Maids lay melting at his Voice . So could move , The wishing Virgins all their Pow'rs bestow , To Charm the Youth who had o'ercome them so . But still Eurydice his Thoughts does fill , Her 't is he Loves , to her he 's constant still . They , vex'd to bear their fond desires in vain , Hate where they Lov'd , and furious o'er the plain , Pursue the Youth , who by their Hands is slain .

The End of the first Book .

AMASIA , OR , THE Works of the Muses . Containing the MISCELLANY of LOVE . Vol. III. Book II. Qui non vult fieri desidiosus , amet .

TO THE Right Honourable THE Countess of Manchester . MADAM ,

COuld any intrest prevail with me to address a Person undeserving , my task would then be easier much ; as the Painter who has a Face before him , indifferent to Paint , knows his chief business is to flatter ; he knows he is not to draw a Face , but make one . But , Madam , I have so Beautyful a Pattern before me , my Eyes grow dazzled , and my Soul is aw'd ; your Ladyship is indeed an Original , a ravishing Original . I here present you the Miscellany of Love ; in my Opinion , a very humble present , yet very suitable ; the 〈◊〉 of all that 's Good and Lovely , your Ladyship is presented by Nature to the World . So much Beauty , with so much goodness mingled , scarce ever met before ; so much , that I hope humbly there 's enough of both to smile on , and forgive the weak Endeavours of

Madam , Your Ladyship 's Most Humble and Most Obedient Servant , Sylvius .

THE MISCELLANY of LOVE On Flowers in Amasia's Bosom . In Imitation of Anacreon . WHAT ? tell me , what , should Flow'rs do there , Amasia's sweet , as she is fair . In her , all blooming Beauties meet ; What Flow'r so fair , as she is sweet ? Not Flora's self , shall proudly dare With my Amasia to compare . Flora's Breast , I know it well , Does not like her Bosom smell . This , Flora too , her self , does know , For else , she would not Court her so . Not Eastern Spices , Indian Gums , Afford us half so rich Perfumes . Not the Phoenix boasted Nest Can Rival my Amasia's Breast . Arabia can 't with her's compare , For Love 's the Phoenix , that dwells there . There , tender sighs and wishes move , The Rich , the Od'rous Breath of Love . Why should those Flow'rs , Amasia , stay ? Pluck them , throw them far , away . Why should they in thy Bosom live ? They come to Rob thee , not to give . They could , when growing in the Field , They could — but common Odours yield . Throw them , Amasia , throw them by , Then Mark , how quickly they shall die . You will not thence the Robbers throw ; Sure they are rooted there , and grow . O happy they , in such a Bed ! Where nothing withers , nor is dead . Tho' every other Flow'r you spare , Let no Narcissus Flourish there . Whilst thus my Rivals blest I see , I find , thy Bosom can be free , To any thing , but Love and me .

To a Lady asking me a Thousand impertinent Questions , which she would have Answer'd . YOur swarm of Queries one Just Answer draws , I did this , that , and every thing — because . What , wont that Answer do ? Now , Jove forbid ; I did this , that , and all ; — because I did .

To the Lady above-mention'd , saying I gave her a very senseless , impudent Answer . IN Mazes of impertinence involv'd , You are not yet , nor can be e'er resolv'd . I thought , — Because — had fairly play'd it's part ; 'T is very hard , you should more Questions start , Than your whole Sex can Answer for their Heart . All the response they practise , won't suffice ; Yes , No ; — or shall I Answer you with Why 's ? By you , I hope , I shall no more be task'd , Answer'd , as civilly , as I was ask'd . Now , since I give you my replies so plain , Favour me once , and tell me what you 〈◊〉 . Then , if I yet must Answer you more true , Start me a thousand Questions all anew . I 'll make replies , as fast as they are said , Answer me only this — What 't is you think , and what you do a Bed .

To the same Lady , saying she would give me a Kiss , if I would tell her what she ask'd me . I 'll take the Bribe , but not my Answers sell ; Madam , you know , we must not Kiss , and tell . Maids , 〈◊〉 e'er now , ( yet oft their aim have Mist , ) Have been impertinent , but to be kist .

To the Lady aforesaid , striking me on the Face with her Fan , for my former Answers . NO longer now I must your rage withstand , Who brandish thus your Vengeance in your Hand . How very stupid must my senses grow ! Which ne'er conceive , or what you say , or do , But this — and this you beat into me too . To make returns for this last Favour shown ; Now you have Struck my Face , pray , hide your own .

To a Lady , who ask'd me why I writ on such trifling Occasions . THese are the fittest subjects I can choose , For trifling business , Suits a trifling Muse. I make my Verse , at least , my own delight , And , Madam , when I trifle , then I write .

To a Lady , saying I ought to Marry her , because she Lov'd me . THus must I pay , by smarting , for your Wound ; If you be Conquer'd , why should I be bound ? O never more to such entreaties move , You would not have me hate you , if you Love ?

To the same Loving Lady , telling me , abuse was an ill requital for sost Passion , but she thank'd her Stars , she was but in Jest. SUch Jugling Tricks I cannot understand ; You hold , unhurt , Coals burning in your Hand . Long may you sport in the false Am'rous fit ; Love is a Jest , I ne'er could laugh at yet . I 'm pleas'd to find your wrongs already o'er , For , should I Wed , I might abuse you more .

To a Lady asking my Opinion concerning 〈◊〉 Writings of the Ancients and Moderns . THIS only I dare positive avow , The Ancients wrote best then , the Moderns now .

To a Lady , making her a present of Straw-Work . LET Straw no more in slighting Terms be nam'd , What she accepts , grows worthy to be fam'd . Let lab'rers beat the shining sheaf no more , 'T is now priz'd higher than the Corn it bore . From your fair hands I may this Knowledge draw ; Your Eyes attract my Heart , as those the Straw . O happy product , which the Field has giv'n ! From earth it Sprung , but reaches now to Heaven .

To the Bookseller desiring my Sculpture before my Book . TAke it , the Wretched , lifeless Figure take ; 'T is only giv'n for my Amasia's sake . With Charms , too bright to be repell'd , you move , Yet , not thro' vanity I yield , but Love . Amasia's Name does my Book 's Title Crown , Amasia's Name , which gives my Book Renown . Hence 't is I grant , with pleasure , your demand ; Shall I not , Join'd with my Amasia , stand ? Let , with a scoff , the World my form disdain , The Cens'ring World , unknowing Lovers pain ; On this account , I 'm proud of being vain . My self I gave to the bright Maid before ; How in a Picture can I give her more ? Let the World talk , and rail , and rave aloud ; I never yet for sordid praise have Bow'd ; I 'll call Fools envious , while they call me proud .

To a certain Gentleman , you must know , very Censorious on me , for assenting to my Bookseller's desire . I understand you , Sir , and now I see , ( Tho' now too late , I own ; ) thou can'st not be My Picture 's Friend , much less a Friend to me .

To a Lady , telling me I should Court applause , if I expected to gain it . IF , like a Virgin I should Fame adore , The more I Court , she would but fly the more . Courtship for praise , would render me most vain , For none e'er Courts , but has some hopes to gain . Fame , if she comes , is welcome ; but at worst , The Poet can't be like the Lover curst . O'er every sense my Lov'd Amasia Reign'd , I Courted her , and Courted , she disdain'd . No other Charmer shall my Mistress be ; For she was Fame , and every thing to me . Let flatt'ring Fame yield to the flatt'ring Muse ; What I ne'er gain'd , ne'er sought , I cannot lose . Yet , praise I boast , while the pretence I quit , For 't is my Fame , that I ne'er sought it yet . Let others Court her in a tedious Course , I 'll not pursue , but if I meet her , force . The God of Verse himself , pursuing , fail'd , Had He woo'd less , he had , perhaps , prevail'd . My Charming Daphne , my Amasia lost , I should not much of bending Laurels boast . From the chang'd Nymph soft sighing Breezes came ; 'T is Breath , meer Air , that gives the Poet Fame , How would my Raptur'd vanity run high , Could I , like Phoebus , hear my Charmer sigh ! But here no pains , no Courtship can succeed ; Amasia sigh ? — that would be Fame indeed .

To a Lady , saying with a smile , she fear'd I would not perform my Promise . O Doubt it not ; or doubt if Truth be true , All promise , is performance , made to you . He that adores , brings Incense in his Hands ; Who dares withhold whatever Heaven demands ? When o'er the Seas Neptune exerts his sway , In the struck Rock what rebel Wind shall stay ? Sharp as his Trident Flies each Glance you Dart , But meets no Rock in a soft Lover's Heart . When the Soul Acts , what thought shall flag behind , The Flames you raise , mount swifter than the Wind. But whilst , thus smiling you impose my task , Your Eyes give more , than what your Lips can ask . And yet , your Conqu'ring killing Pow'r's so great , You Force , and Rob me , while you thus intreat . All gen'rous grants , from the Heart ravisht flow ; What need you ask , my Heart is yours , you know . Whilst to obey those smiles the Lover flies , Grant him but this — the promise of those Eyes .

To a Lady , telling me I writ too fast . 't were hard , 't is true , 't were very hard indeed , If I should write more fast than you can read . My Muses Works , thus , to your Summs amount , Making more Slaves than ev'n the Eyes can Count.

To the same Lady saying — Sure , I never thought , and Commanding me to write on a Feather . NOW I shall think ; what Genius can refuse , When you thus kindly Wing the flying Muse ? No boist'rous Winds my Soul's Emotions bear , But you know , Madam , Feathers fly with Air. I think sometimes , ( by my best Thoughts , ) 't is true , On my own wit , and on your Beauty too , And think them much alike — I think I do . Strange is your Female sway o'er thoughtful Men , Strange ! That your Feather should Command my Pen. Rouz'd from a Musing fit , you often Cry , You think on nothing ; why , Just so do I. Only by chance , for once , one thought I 'll write , Say , is the Feather , or the Fair more Light ?

To a Lady saying she imagin'd Poets were all on Fire when they wrote . WHen my Amasia Charms my Soul , by turns , The Poet rages , and the Lover burns . But 〈◊〉 other Theam no warmth insures , My Breast is then , almost as cold as yours .

To Amasia putting a Paper of my Verses in her Bosom . WHilst on this Subject you afford , I write , Concealing some , you bring more Works to Light . Whilst from your Breast my inspiration flows , Your Charming Breast a new Parnassus grows . Two Spiring mounts give the fam'd Hill ronown . Two Spiring mounts Amasia's Bosom Crown . Take care , soft Charmer , of thy Breast take care , For thro' my Verse , my Soul will enter there . Whilst thus my lines are in thy Bosom lay'd , The Poem's happier than the Poet made .

To a Lady with a very Charming Dimple in her Chin , occasion'd by a scar , which , she said , an unaccountable distemper had left there . THat Wounds leave scars , is known to all Mankind ; But none e'er knew that scars left Wounds behind . The dire effect , thus , the dire Cause is grown : I see your Wounds , and smarting feel my own . Thus , Graces infinite your Features Arm ; What are your Pow'rs ! When ev'n Desease can Charm ! Shafts at impassive Heaven are shot in vain , With Vengeance Wing'd , they kill , when turn'd again . To Salve my Wounds , grant me one Balmy sigh , For 't is thro your Desease I pine and die . Be kind ; and perfectly restore me sound , Where Love heals ill , a rancour'd Scar is found .

To a Lady Dancing at a Ball. THE Muse appears , all Airy , in my view , The Muse appears , and Dances , Bright , like you , Like you , she fleets , and in my fancy flies , All Wing'd , and gliding fast thro' azure Skies . Loe ! She descends , and hither darts her way , Like Sun-beams swiftly bright — All Lust'rous clear , and flashing on the Day . With moving Air , like thee she passes now , Welcome , my Muse — oh ! Not the Muse — 't is thou . Forgive me , Virgin , I mistook the fair , Only thy self could with thy self compare . You are my Muse , 't is you , 't is you inspire , While your each motion Fans the kindling Fire . My tuneful Notions rise surprizing new , At once you Dance , and give the Musick too . O that my Verse could run on Feet like thine , My numbers then , would grow , like thee , Divine . So true you move , yet with such swift surprize , Tho' rising still , none can perceive you rise . Stay , British Daphne , 't is not Sol pursues , Winning too fast the race , the prize you lose . My 〈◊〉 Thoughts in vain to reach you strive , Stay , thou hast won the Laurel , yet alive Take the reward , the Poets Crown 's your due , Both Crowns and Hearts all must submit to you . O if to thee a fate like Daphne's fell , How would the Wreath be priz'd — How would all write , and how would I excel !

To a Lady saying she would Hate me , if I should write Satyr . SInce Satyr , Madam , his her Birth from spight , If you should Hate me , that would make me Write . My Satyr's Teeth , whene'er she Bites , draws Blood , Not sharp ; but very Blunt ; and that 's as good . Provok'd , like Jove's , my strugling Thunder 's hurld , Broad Sheets of rage , like light'nings , are unfurl'd , And I could Flash , and Blast , and Tear the World . I boast an equal Priviledge with you . Sat'ring my self , in every thing I do .

To a Gentleman , whose Life was indanger'd by his Endeavouring to aderss a Lady in a Sphere above him . GO on , and speak your Passion uncontroul'd , For , Love and Fortune both befriend the bold . Maids are half gain'd , when , once the Suit 's begun , And she deserves to be thro' hazards won . Storms past at Sea indear the Anchor'd ground ; E'er Drake grew fam'd , he did the World surround .

NEW-YEAR's-DAY , 1699. AH ! Hapless Day ! How thy sad gloom appears ! Rolling o'er me twice Twelve revolving Years . Thou gav'st me Life , thus art thou doubly curst , 〈◊〉 , by thy Light I saw Amasia first . Now , since that time , twelve Circling Suns roll on , Since that sad time I found Amasia gone . Scarce to compleat thy Circle wouldst thou stay , You bore in hast , so rich a prize away . Return , Rapacious , Rival Year ! restore My fair , my Charmer , Charming as before . O woe Eternal ! O Eternal pain ! Nor you , nor she must strike my Eyes again . My endless Sorrows round thy Circle move ; Twelve fatal Years ! Half of my Life was Love . Love was my Life ; and now I plainly see , That Time and Death are much the same to me . O Grant me , 〈◊〉 ; this is all my Pray'r ; One smiling Sun , let me behold my fair . For that one Day , Serene I 'll bear my doom , Past Years of Woe , and Ages yet to come . If , on that Day , I meet Amasia's scorn , If , on that Day , the Charmer shall not burn , Never may this , no , never more return .

Seeing a Lady at a Play call'd A Trip to the Jubilee . THE Scene seems now a Melancholy place , Here gaze , my Eyes , here revel , and Embrace , And press , and Kiss , at every glance , that Face . Let both the Author and his Play seek Rome , Beauty , I 'm sure , keeps Jubilee at home .

To a Lady , under the Name of Philomela . I 'M Charm'd , I 'm ravish'd with thy tuneful Song ; Ne'er may this Philomela lose her Tongue . Sweet as the first , Harmoniously you move , By Sorrow she was taught , and you by Love .

LOVE in IDEA .

Written to a Friend , who said his Mistress was above Gold , and desir'd my advice in his Suit .

YES , some there are , sure yet some Nymphs remain , Some gen'rous Nymphs , despising sordid gain . If such you find , no suff'rings are too hard , No Pains are great enough for such reward . If some such truly noble fair you see , You meet that fair yet never met by me . My Art were useless then , nor would I teach Devices far below her glorious reach . Exalted Numbers should her worth Proclaim , She should be every Poet 's Charming Theam , Above the Stars the Muse her name should bear , Fix her immortal Crown , for ever sixt it there , Such gen'rous Flames would Paradise restore , With Flow'ry Pleasures , as at first it bore . Still should thy Passion kindle , as it soar'd , And she , the Charming she , should be ador'd . Still with Obsequious Courtship should'st thou serve , Thou could'st not Love her , as such Charms deserve . Let Am'rous Sylvius to that Charmer flee , The Maid like her should be belov'd by me : Revolving Days and Nights would I admire , Gaze on her Eyes , draw thence New Streams of Fire . At her dear Feet , all Prostrate , Breath my lays , Sing as she smiles , her every motion Praise , And look , & look again , revolving nights and days . In tuneful Numbers every thought express , And make Immortal Love , and feel no less . New transports still should from New transports Spring , Growing my self , all ravisht , as a I Sing . Angelick Thoughts should my whole Soul employ , Immortal Love , and as Immortal Joy . With trem'lous , darting glances would I gaze , Fixt , like some Statue , in a blest amaze . My flutt'ring Heart it's motions should improve , And where for Life but with one stroke 't would move , A thousand beat , with quick alarms , for Love . Then , would I run her Num'rous Beauties o'er , Creative fancy ever Springing more . Whilst the Idea feeds on new supplies , Whilst thro' my Soul her Charming Image flies , Joy , dancing , smiles in my Extatick Eyes . Trembling with eager Love would I approach , And as I rise , Bow Humbly , e'er I touch . Now like Love's self , with daz'ling sight , behold , Then , as all Wings , like the Flusht Hero , bold , Rush on — and clasp her fast , as Misers clasp their Gold . Seraphick Raptures Charm , while I embrace , And as more close my Eyes her Features trace , Fresh glories dawn in her Aerial Face . Ten thousand , thousand rising presses past , Still would I press her with such eager hast , That every close should seem the last of all the last . Each fainting Nerve new vigour should reserve , And press , as Jealous of some Rival Nerve . As light'nings flash on light'nings to each Pole , So should new presses on new presses roll , Fly thro' each part at once , dissolving thro' the whole . Lodg'd on the Fragrant Bosom of the fair , I spread in hast ten thousand Kisses there . Charm'd with those Sweets , strait to her Lips aspire , Breath there my Soul , there revel my desire , 'T is too , too much for Man — I tast of Heaven , and in a Trance expire . From my designs how widely do I rove ! Why did my Soul this fancy'd Beauty move ? I Sing of Art , and yet by Nature Love . Hence may the Youth , whom I instruct , believe , His Tutour would his utmost pains deceive . How can he think I 'll make the fair his prey ; Who in Idea bear the prize away ? Yet trust me , youth , whilst by Love's Pangs I 'm torn , By me Maids are but in Idea born .

To a Lady , who seeing me in a Languishing Sickness , call'd me — Poor Shadow of Love . WOunds got in War to Warriours graceful show , Wounds got in Love , are ridicul'd by you . But Oh! I acted not the Warriour's part , They lose their Limbs , but I have lost my Heart . Like wounded Cowards , I am heartless found , And every fair , who sees me , now may Wound . No , Charming Maid ! I yield not yet to die , The best defence of Cowards , is to fly . In vain , in vain your killing Darts pursue , I am Love's Shadow , Beauty's substance You.

To a Lady making me a second present of a Lock of her Hair , after I had in an humour return'd the first . NUmber thy Hairs , count then my summs of bliss ; The Golden Fleece was a mean prize to this . With Popish Superstition , every day , To this Lov'd guist , as to some Saint , I 'll pray . Far brighter this , than Ariadne's Hair Translated to the Gods , and made a Star . That sprung from earth , e'er to the Skies it flew , This grew in Paradise , in Heaven it grew . Thus , tho' the vanquish'd outworks I have won , Never , Oh! Never must I gain the Town . Twice ten Years Siege would here successless prove , War ends in Peace , but can Despair gain Love ? You gave the gift ; I did the gift restore , Again you gave , now to receive no more . My Heart was yours , you did the toy disdain , Again 't is yours , ne'er to return again . What shall I give , my gratitude to show ? O may your Hair , fast as you cut it , grow ; But Pray'rs are little , where my self I owe. See , how the Lock does my blest hands Embrace , As once it Curl'd about the Charmer's Face . What is my envy to thy present grown ! How do I envy what is now my own ! O could some God transform my shape to Hair , And would'st thou me , as once this present , wear , How were I blest ! I would around thee roll , And Curl , and clasp thy Breasts , and twine about thee whole . And then , if any Lover should but dare To Court , and beg the favour of thy Hair . Up would I start , to Vindicate my right , And stand an end , with horrour , and affright , Thy Lovely Hair , where Beauty now is sown , Should like Medusa's snaky Locks be shown , And turn the bold beholders stisten'd into Stone .

To a Lady Singing . MUsick has Charms no Poetry can raise . That silence , which your Song Commands , is praise .

The Health . After absence — To a Friend . AN absent Friend , long absent from my Arms , ( Long from my Breast , since I felt Love's alarms . Return'd — last Night , the Prodigal return'd , With gen'rous , kind , continu'd Friendship burn'd , And , in the closest folds , his ruin'd Sylvius Mourn'd . Both Mourn'd , at once in Pleasure and in pain , Both Mourn'd that loss , which both esteem'd , as gain . Strange force of Friendship ! Vain and indiscreet , We Mourn our absence most , when now we meet . Thus , when the Mariner has reacht the shore , Tho' he deplores not , till the Tempest 's o'er , Yet then he feels the late-past Anguish more . Then , when safe landed on the welcome Coast , Then , he perceives his vanisht dangers most . Srait , from my Friend a Flood of Questions Springs , Half Answers made , I ask ten thousand things , For meeting Friends — Grow highly ravish'd , as Triumphant Kings . Our hasty Joys such num'rous Queries Start , We seem'd not meeting then , but then to part . We stood , embrac'd , then walk'd , and chang'd the ground , We lodg'd — the Lov'd Amasia's Health flew round , Amasia's Health the Golden Goblets Crown'd .

To a Lady , holding her Picture in my Hand , and looking on her Face . THus , Ixion like , I have maintain'd the chace , Pursu'd the Goddess , and her Cloud embrace . O thou , who fly'st with my despairing Heart , Thou , more a Shadow than thy Picture , art. Whilst round this Shade my Circling Arms I cast , Thy Face , which shuns me , holds my Soul as fast . Here had the fond Narcissus chanc'd to rove , He and his Shadow too had dy'd for Love . Let none attempt thy Picture ; 't is in vain ; Ev'n Nature cannot paint it o'er again .

The Arms. Suavitate , aut Vi.

Written at the request of Amasia .

'T IS she Commands ; then , must her Poet Sing The first bold Man , from whence his race did Spring . First of the line , first noted of the Name , Who his by subtle brav'ry purchas'd Fame , Atchieving deeds , whence his long honours came . A Castle stood , impregnable of Old , Scorning assault , like Danae's Brazen hold ; By Steel unconquer'd , and unbrib'd by Gold . Long had the British Force besieg'd this Tow'r , Long had it Mock'd Britain's Enervate Pow'r . This subtle Hero , Champion of his race , With some few Troops , attempted , gain'd the Place . Naked of Martial Pomp , unarm'd in show , Deckt with Plum'd Casks , defenceless all below , For sook the Camp , revolting to the Foe . As Friends they came , and were , as Friends , let in , By which false Friendship they the Outworks win . Gallantly Courteous , Fashionably brave , Their long Plum'd Casks , as in Salute , they wave . From which , at once , soon as the Signal 's giv'n , Small Pistols drawn ; their Casks are tost to Heav'n . With a loud shout , charging the Guards , they Fire , Some Fall , some Fly , and Fighting , some Retire . At the rais'd Clamour , the Besiegers hast , Rush in , like Floods , the Gates defenceless past , And by Join'd Forces , Storm the Fort at last . Hence are his Honours Blazon'd , hence his Arms , For his close Valour , and secure Alarms . A Castle for his Crest the Helmet bore , Three Pistols added in his Field he wore , Three Roses only were his Arms before . I envy not , bold Ancestor ! Thy Fame , Amasia mine , I should despise a Name . Triumphs o'er Beauty I to Worlds prefer ; You Vanquish Castles , let me Vanquish her . Fam'd much for cunning , not for Courage less , Yet she 's a Fortress thou could'st ne'er possess . Inspire me , Parent Genius ! mild appear , Useless thy Roses , if they fail me here . Blushing they fall , her Cheeks more Sweetly Red , Now , Pale like me , their Sickly leaves they shed , Behold , they Wither now , and now are Dead . Degenerate Youth ! Thy Arms , thy Honours lost , What Fame has slothful Sylvius left to boast ? New Arms the Patron of his line had won ; Unworthy thou to be esteem'd a Son , Losing what long descent had made thy own . This points the Warriour's , this the Lover's course , That sweetness always must be Join'd with force .

POEMS ON Several Occasions . The Complaint . TIr'd of the Town , and the Wild tumults there , Pensive I Walk'd , to Breath the Vernal Air. Along the Banks of Silver Thames I stray'd ; Alike both wander'd , thro' the grateful Mead. Only , more Calm the River glided by , Shook by no Storm , it murmur'd not , as I. Beneath a shade , form'd of a Shrubby Wood , I lay , and look'd on the adjacent Flood . The Beamy Sky All-lustrous from above , With wav'ring Light seem'd on the Streams to move . Heav'n , there display'd before me , I could boast , Yet Plunging in , I had been ever lost . Thus to those Wretches whom their Crimes pursue , Ev'n Heav'n shows false , and Damns them in the view . Strait , was the Sun o'ercast with sullen Clouds , And gloomy Mists sat heavy on the Floods . The Tempest gather'd , and from Pole to Pole , The light'nings Flash , and the loud Thunders roll . Whole Heav'n was darken'd — Calm I lay a while , And with a Pleasing sadness , seem'd to smile . But now , the Sun forc'd out 〈◊〉 Glorious way , Dispell'd the gloom , and made the Skies look gay , the Day . Clad thick in brightest Beams , and Flashing on On Airy Wings , the gloomy Mists were fled , And gladsome Sun-shine gilded every Shade , lay'd . But that , where Sylvius , where the Wretch was A thick , dark Fog spread horrid , all around , And dull'd the Springing Beauties of the ground . On both sides , near , I saw delightful Groves , And happy Lovers , Whisp'ring tender Loves . The Odorous Bow'rs , their Scenes of bliss , so nigh I heard the Swains protest , the Virgins sigh . Damp't with my fate , no wishing glance I cast , Gay looks of Pleasure die , when Joys are past . The Wretch his Courtship needs must purchase hate , For Beauty yields , but to the rich , and great . I saw — unenvying saw their rais'd delight , Blest both their day , and my own gloomy Night , That grateful Fog , which 〈◊〉 me from their sight . Hear me , I Cry'd , ye Heavens ! Auspicious hear , Kind Eccho too , part in my Sorrows bear . In that low Vale try there thy utmost Skill ; Now , if thou can'st , redouble all my ill . In vain , in vain — alas ! What speaks the wrong , In vain , in vain thou cry'st — 't is all thy Song . Be dumb — I 'll now a new Narcissus be , Fond of my grief , as of his Beauty he . More blest than him I shall appear in woe ; In this respect none will my Rival grow . In all the Crowd of that imperious Town , Find me that gen'rous Soul , find one alone , Willing to Join in any other's moan . Of all the shining Beauties , where 's the Maid , That sells her Love , where only Love is paid .

To Mr —

Written before the Representation of his First Comedy .

ENough — I know thy strength , nor need delay , The dawning Muse fore-shows the Springing Day , Nor will the rise of her own Phaebus stay . Let others wait the Glory of the Skies , I know , I know , the Sun and you must rise . Strong in thy solid Beams , maintain thy Sphere ; Thy vig'rous Fires will Foggy Vapours rear . I know thy Orb of Sence to fulness grown , And by thy kind Reflection , Judge my own . Thence , all my borrow'd , fainter glimm'rings shine , I can't be wholly dark , while thou art mine . In vain , once dampt , to weaker helps I run , Yet Vesta's Fire was kindl'd by the Sun . Hard fate of Debt ! if I return thee Praise , I send but smoak , for thy enliv'ning rays . Languid my heat , void of the Flame of Wit . Censur'd for what I have , and have not Writ . Against what 's mine , let Criticks Blunder on , They may excuse me , what I have not done . Tho' to no haughty Genius will I bend , My Muse must still her utmost Plumes extend , And clap her Wings , and soar , to reach my Friend . She , safe like Danae , from mortal Pow'rs , Yields but to Jove , in his Celestial show'rs . Tho' I , the weak born Castor , must decline , In thee , my stronger , Brother-star , I 'll shine . Go on , Lov'd Youth ! And lofty structures raise , Already founded strong , in solid praise . Congreve , Vanbrook , and Wicherly must sit , The great Triumvirate of Comick Wit . Where can I place my Friend ; and sense approve ? Do thou excel thy self , then rise above . Ascend not proudly , tho' thou can'st not fall , Be what thou art , thou art already all . Maintain thy own , nor scorn to Conquer slow , And Young Octavius shall Augustus grow . But Oh! Forgive thy undesigning Friend , I cannot all , tho' all be thine , commend , For thou , I own , ev'n thou thy self , may'st mend . Let nought , offending Chastest ears , be told ; Make thy Muse modest , she may still be bold . Safe shall you rise , from every Censure free , And still be Courted , as you pass , by me . Shun the Just rage of Collier's sacred Pen , The truly great , must be the best of Men. From Heav'n immediate , Flows such Sence as thine , Warm , like the Poet 's God , as well as shine . Let the strong Muse , Divine in Numbers rise , 'T is then , 't is only then , she strikes the Skies .

To Mr —

On his Second Comedy .

ALL Court the Rising Sun ; some , from the morn , Conclude what Lustre shall the Day adorn . Your earliest dawn , my Friend , was chearful day , You shone out first with a Meridian ray . Tho' dusky Clouds some Beams did hov'ring hide , The Work was Day , 't was perfect Day descry'd . This all infer from the succeeding Skies , After one Day , another Day must Rise . O may thy Phaebus never set in Night , For , all the God shines in each Scene you write . Why should my Voice pronounce the labour good ? 'T is praise enough to say 't is understood . Loud are the Clamours which applauses Fire ; You force much more , we silently admire ; When seen , you ravish , but when read , inspire . All Judge you hence , in the first piece you writ , Loose , but thro' Fashion , not thro' want of wit . For now , more new , ( tho' Genuine Garbs ) you choose , And deck , with modest Charms , the Comick Muse. At once such profit , such delight you raise , Collier himself ( if Collier can ) should praise . But hold — While here to stay the Reader 's Eyes I strive , You of your best Applause , by praising , I deprive .

The Petition . To her Royal , and Illustrious Highness , the Princess .

Written in the Name of Mr. — , being deny'd to Tread the Stage .

WHat Theam so greatly glorious can I choose ? My Muse Courts you , 't is not a fawning Muse. Thus , may I thank my ills , for this success , Made greater still , by what would make me less ! Where can I nobler bend ? I stoop not low , When , ev'n by falling , I am rais'd to you , Yet , Prostrate lie , beneath your Royal Feet , Where so much Power , and so much goodness meet . Goodness so Sacred , and a Pow'r so High , The one alone can with the other vye . Yet the mean suppliant dares implore the grant , Mean tho' the suppliant be , yet good the Saint . Heroes oppress'd , invoke the Pow'r Divine , And here , the fancy'd Hero calls on thine . With all Submissive Worship he implores , Who serves the Sun , but Bows , and so adores . But such my Crime , no off'ring can Attone , Offending all , yet meant offence to none . Disrob'd of Passions , how would Players show , Yet , I offended , that I was not so . Hard fate of Mortals , which impending lies , Bearing such Tempests , in themselves to rise . Tempests , and Oceans threaten from afar , But O do thou protect , thou , the Auspicious Star . By thee I guide my course , to thee I pray , The Guardian Venus of our British Sea . One Breath from thee would soften Storms to Gales , Calm every Billow , and spread full the Sails . So with my Pageant Streamers once again , I shall beneath your Sun-shine Plow the main . But yet , till you , Propitious Princess , smile , I Steer , like Vessels , off , which shun the Isle . You , who to all the height of Goodness live , Instruct your gen'rous Brittons to forgive . Ev'n Heav'n , it self , receives affronts from Men , But , they repenting , it grows Calm again . So may'st , thou Flourish long , and bless the Age , So may thy Vertues Crown the future Stage . So , when great William shall in Heaven be seen , May you Reign long , the blest Britannia's Queen .

To a Lady , my Friend 's ingrateful Mistress . SUch are your proud , deluding ways to move , I hate you more , than ev'n my Friend can Love . A brave revenge inspires my swelling Soul , While Thoughts of thee in my rais'd Bosom roll . Be gone , yet Nine , your aid I now refuse , For , Indignation shall be here my Muse. Immortal hatred urge me on to think , And stain thy Name , with everlasting Ink. My Juster Pen shall Wound your Honour , more Than e'er it rais'd you , to esteem before . Gay you appear , where your false Beauties come , But I shall Rob you of your borrow'd Plume . My Mufe's Wings have soar'd , and born you high , Blown by my Breath , did the vain bubble fly , But now I laugh , to see it's glories die . Tow'ring so lofty , you are giddy grown , And , of necessity , must tumble down . Such Fogs of praises have you drawn from all , In show'rs of Tears the gather'd Mists must fall . Now , thro' those Clouds , my light'ning fancy flies , To blast thy Pride , which , when 't is 〈◊〉 , dies . Along the Airy confines of thy Fame , My Verse shall roll , charg'd with thy Sultry name . My Hand , now Arm'd , a fatal Pow'r does own , My Pen's the Thunder-bolt to dash thee down . My kindling Eyes with Flames so Furious move , They can't be fancy'd to arise from Love . My fiercer Satyr cannot so expire , For , Salamander like , 't is born , and Lives in Fire . With waxen Wings to Airy heights you flew , Which none durst ever yet attempt , but you . As some skill'd Fowler , who the Lark descrys , And from his Glass , darts Sun-beams in his Eyes , Beholds the prey , which he saw Tow'ring , lay'd In the low Net , which on the ground he spread ; So , in thy fall , I 'll see thy weakness try'd , When I glance , on thee , all thy rays of Pride . And know , proud she ! The Darts your Cupid threw , Were beardless toys , which my Friend Sporting drew . Yet still their Poyson swells his Venom'd Mind , The Hony Passion left a sting behind . Poor suppliant ways you use with sordid Art , And Cringe your self , to undermine a Heart . Yet , there are Nymphs , can with their coldness , move , More warmth , than you with your feign'd Fires of Love . Your Flag , all White , does innocent appear , And the false signs of a surrender bear , Peace it displays , and wantons with the Air. But when Besiegers would possess the Town , You Fire , like thunder , on the Wretches down . Mean , fawning thing ! Who to each Fop would Bow , And flatter him , that he might flatter you . Like Popular Knaves , a suppliant Soul you shew , Cry up the Crowd , to make them Cry up you . Just so , a Pebble struck on stony ground , Falls to that place , which makes it higher bound . 'T is but for praise , you , flatt'ring thing , have Bow'd , And you are humble that you may be proud . Thus , when the Cannon's Ball the highest flies , The Gun bends back , and near the Pavement lies . But while your baseness , and your Pride I blame , Your Judgment Justly should be rais'd to Fame . You know your want of Pow'rful Charms to move , Your Gold excepted , which Commands our Love . From Sulph'rous Mines Men still would dig the Oar , Tho' worse than those , which brought it forth before .

To Dr Gibbons . LET Gibbons Live , long let Great Gibbons Live , Possest of Health , which he so well can give . Such strength to sinking Patients you restore , Scarce Nature's Hand in bounteous Birth gave more . In Sickness plung'd , like Divers in the Main , We bring up Health , when we appear again ; Health is the Gemm , which by your Art we find , Firm in the Body set , and glitt'ring in the Mind . O Gibbons ! Whilst thy Name inspires my Muse , Thou dost fresh Vigour in her flights infuse . With Joy she soars to Sing her Patron 's praise , And stretch those Wings , which only you could raise . Thou gav'st her Life , and whilst she sings thy Name , Thou giv'st to her , as she to others , Fame . Fame she returns , given by the Justest Law , For thou draw'st Fame from every Breath I draw . What can I give , my gratitude to show ? My Thanks ? my Thanks are Poor , my self I owe. Gen'rous like Heav'n , our Vital heat you give , And in return , would'st only that we live . Such is your care for all your Patients shown , As if from others Health you drew your own . O would our God , the Radiant Phaebus shine , And bless my skill , as he has Cherish'd thine . Then should thy Art be in my Song Renown'd , And Verse and Physick should at once be Crown'd . Then might I Sing the vigour you impart , But artless Verse can never reach thy Art . From thee the darkest Black distempers run , As Shades and Phantoms from the mounting Sun . Thy Power whole Legions of Diseases fly , You Cure the Sick , and make the Sickness die . Nature to thee does all her secrets show , And all her secrets are improv'd by you . New Life , new force to Nature you impart , And Nature's self we find reviv'd by Art . Wisely to you her choicest seeds she gives , 〈◊〉 , who grants all Life , thro' Gibbons Lives . In vain the Poet boasts Immortal Pow'rs , 〈◊〉 is Heaven's gift , 't is only Heaven's , and Yours .

To a Lady , asking me why I did not apply to Dr. Gibbons to be Cur'd of my Love too . PHaebus himself , who did the pain endure , In all his Art of Physick found no Cure . All means I try'd , all means have Fruitless prov'd ; Art only Cures , where Art the Passion mov'd . Love is like Poyson ; by some secret spell , Poyson does Poyson , Love does Love expel . But this , ev'n this , should I attempt , were vain ; 'T is Poyson ; nay , 't is Death , and Damning pain , To think she Lives , and I should Love again . Love is like Death to me ; I will not try , For I can Love but once , but once can die . Gibbons has Art , Gibbons has Matchless skill , Gibbons can save more Lives , than others Kill . Love 's a Disease free from ill-temper'd Air , And ev'n Great Gibbons self is Artless there . Life he restor'd , by Neighb'ring Death Annoy'd . But Life is easier rais'd , than Love Destroy'd . The cause dies not , till the effect remove , We know that Life is but the Act of Love . This too we know from all Conclusions try'd , Love shall leave me , when you abandon Pride .

The Charmer . EAch Love-sick Youth , by partial Passion torn , Thinks that faint Star the brightest Fires adorn , Beneath whose smiling Reign the Youth was born . That Planet Clouded , and depriv'd of Light , He thinks some other , and some other bright . Amasia thus , shed pointed glories far , In the first dawn , the Poet's Morning Star . Yet still new Beams her Charming aspect wears , Daily ador'd twice six long rolling Years . First in Hibernia was the Nymph admir'd , There first her Charms the ravisht Sylvius Fir'd . Blest Gallia now is with her influence Crown'd , Not shining still on his sad , Native ground , What he thought sixt , a wand'ring Star is found . Tho' long remov'd from my deluded Eyes , She seems the brightest Planet of the skies , In France she sets , nor must in Brittain rise . Whilst Lov'd Amasia's Charms the Poet Sings , He speaks , admiring Subsolary things . Sol's stronger rise we see Aurora shun ; Here , none compares , Grafton is Beauty's Sun . If to her Face our Sick'ning Eyes we move , Blind grows all Admiration , Blind as Love . Sight , not Immortal , should not rashly dare To tempt that Lustrous view it cannot bear . Conscious of Fires , which by Reflection warm , I stand at distance , and perceive the Charm . View Grafton's Face reflected by her Fame , As Men view Phaebus in the Silver Stream . This bliss , in pity to our weakness giv'n , We view the Sun , but gaze not at the Heaven . Next her , immediate , Shall Amasia shine In every dazzled sight , as well as mine . While Grafton's self , first shall the Throne maintain , Let her , the fairest Fair Vicegerent Reign . The Poet 's Venus , whom his Muse has Sung , Not from the Sea , but from a Deluge Sprung . Greatly deriv'd , the Beautous Charmer Flow'd From a long line of Royal , old Hibernian Blood . Her Country delug'd in a fatal War , Her House's Ark tost on rude Billows far . Succeeding Wars , to me more fatal bred ; From the curs'd Land this fair Astraea fled . To her , their Regent Queen , does Gallia Bow , The Fruitful Gallia is her Empire now . Her Eyes their Souls at once inspire and awe , Imperial grown , spight of their Salick Law . O'er Spacious France her shining Scepter 's hurl'd , She Reigns o'er France and me , but Grafton o'er the World .

The Vision of the MUSE . TELL me , false Muse ! What Joys can we propose When Wit , and Fortune , are such Mortal Foes ? All that the most inspir'd can hope to find , Is to Charm Nymphs , to sordid int'rest Blind . Whilst others rise , by every vulgar skill ; But only Poets , must be Poets still . Forgive me , Muse , for I must needs complain ; Sure there 's some Pleasure in indulging Pain . 〈◊〉 I Where she comes ; behold ! Unusual bright , And Flashes on me , with a Flood of Light . From open'd Heav'n she Posts , and in the sky , A Train of glitt'ring Thoughts behind her fly . So when a Comet ceases to appear , A Thousand little Glories gild the Air. Ah! I repent ; my weak resolves are gone , The Muse has now put Heav'nly Beauties on . See , on a Rain-Bow , seated all Divine , The Angel-Muse in Native Lustre shine . I can't the Genius of my Soul refuse , Welcome , O ever welcome , Heaven-Sprung Muse ! Hark , I am Charm'd , she strikes her lyre , and Sings , See how her Fingers beat the Dancing Strings , She Tunes , to mighty Heroes , mighty things . But , loe ! She calls me — loe ! I mount thro' Air , Fly to her stand , and am already there . Most gracious Muse — — Rise my Repentant Son , 'T is done , thy Fate is fixt , 't is done , 't is done . I Pardon all thy mean distrusts , and fears , Forget the past , no room for new appears . Thy gen'rous Patron shall at length be free , From Pompous business , and provide for thee . Tho' 't is the Radiant God's to drive the day , He gilds those Clouds , which wait him in the way . What can you doubt ! He now affords a Theme , Should wing each Muse , and fire the Sons of Fame . But here to praise , excels the Poet's skill , 'T is beyond thought he should grow greater still . Not unsuccessful was thy latest flight , But now , my Son , soar to a nobler height . Sincere , thy grief did his lost Charmer mourn , Whose Hearse the Laureat did more rich adorn , Whilst all his willing Wreaths to Cypress turn . For a lost Wife with Plaints you fill'd the plain , But now the Hero is espous'd again . He weds Religion with Immortal Joy , A Virgin still , still Chast , yet never Coy . Ambrosial , Balmy , sweets bedew her Wings , And in great Dowry , the whole Heavens she brings . Yet , with such Zeal , he makes his Passion known , He seems to Court her , for her self alone . O what can equal such exalted State ! So great a Hero ! — Yet as good as great ! Well has his Sword made haughty Armies Bow , Well has he Conquer'd , for he Triumphs now . Still next his leading Monarch firm he stood , In things not only great , but greatly good . Now , with Ambitious Zeal , himself would head , And ev'n by Nassau , cannot here be led . Heav'n still the cause , they fought for , did maintain , And William , ever glorious in his Reign , With his best chief , espouses Heaven again . Here praise , my Son , for here all praise is due , Their glory flies , where never Mortal's flew . Extol him far — far , as my Wings can soar , Give almost all to him , to Nassau only , more . Thus , as thy Fate has fixt , thy Fortune lies , Assume thou sacred Fires , but dare , and rise . When Heaven and Nassau raises , who can fall ! And both , with gen'rous Zeal , would Cherish all . To Camps , to glorious Camps prepare to flee , Fir'd by thy Patron 's Actions may'st thou be , And grow — As Godlike great , if possible , as he .

The End of the Second Book .

AMASIA , OR , THE Works of the Muses . Containing the FRIENDSHIP of LOVE . Vol. III. Book III. Per Superos juro testes , pompamqque deorum , Te Dominam nobis tempus in Omne fore .

TO THE MEMORY OF AMASIA . Infandum , Regina , jubes renovare dolorem . AMASIA ,

ONly Amasia ; for a Name is all of you that lives ; O racking thought ! Sufficient to destroy the Power of thinking . But why do I repine ? for you were never more to me .

AMASIA !

That Name is all ; Elyzium , Paradise , and almost Heaven , are in the sound . How I have lov'd you , how I love you still , your Death , ( for that involves mine too ) will testify ; I Pine , I Languish , and shall meet you , e'er 't is long , somewhere , I know not where , but I am sure that I shall meet you . Your Soul was surely made for mine , for mine was made for yours , and wheresoe'er they Join , the place must be in earnest , more than a Fictitious Heaven , more than a Poet's fancy can Create ; and such , as a Poet and a Lover too must be most ravish'd in , with Rapture Exquisitely Charming .

How , Orpheus , shall I call to Mind thy turn of fate ? O Poet happy , and accurst ! You knew , when you had lost the last short sight of your Eurydice , you knew , you saw a glimpse of what I suffer . Despair and Hell are diff'rent but in Name .

To thee , Amasia , to thy Memory , which still must Charm me , The Friendship of Love is Dedicated : The perusal of some Letters written to Acquaintance gave me the Occasion of the Title ; the word Friendship is wholly Titular , for I had never any Friend but thee ; O no , I never had so great an Enemy ; the Bane , and the Destroyer of my Hopes and Life ! And yet I Love thee ; living I Lov'd thee , and revere thee Dead . O that the Lover might be Happy at the Poet's loss ! O that Fame might be a Sacrifice to Love ! O that thy very Name and Memory might die ! O Laethe ! I 'll Court the Streams of thy forgetful Fountain , and Celebrate thy dull Oblivion beyond the inspiration of the Muses Helicon . Farewel — my Friend , for I can boast a real Friend , shall now be my Amasia : I hope he wont disdain me but for being his , as you have done , when yours . Farewel — give me but leave to assure you , no second Beauty ( for all Beauty will to your's be second ) shall deface your Image from my Soul . Once more Adieu — and yet , methinks I cannot leave thy Memory , E'en Death wants Power to part us . O Laethe ! Where are now thy Streams ? Thou River , not of the Vnhappy , but the blest . Farewel — yet Men are very loath to die — Farewel —

You know , you know How much I am Amasia's . Sylvius .

THE FRIENDSHIP of LOVE . To Mr — IN vain , My Friend , your kind advice you send , Bid me Love on , you will be more my Friend , The Fetter'd Wretch , not strugling , feels no pain , 'T is he 's Tormented , who would stretch the Chain , Not the Eternal links of fate can prove , More firm and strong , than are my links of Love . Bound to my fair Amasia I appear , ( O would to Heav'n , I were bound truly here ! ) 'T is more than freedom , to be so confin'd , She 's all the Charm of her whole Beauteous kind . Homage to her would you consinement call ? We know the Deity is every where , and all . Confin'd to her ! alas ! it cannot be , But bless me , Heaven 's ! Make her confin'd to me . No more advise me to forsake my fair , I must Love on , yet , while I Love , Despair . In vain you strive my Passion to remove , For Oh! I cannot live , unless I Love . If you are griev'd I bear Amasia's scorn , Quench not my Fires , but make her kindly burn . Love is a Weight to me indeed severe , But should she help , I could the burthen bear . Beneath the load I should no longer Bow , For that would raise me , which depresses now . Tho' no such hope does to your Friend remain , I boast the freedom to embrace my Chain . A Slave how Wretched must your Sylvius grow , When not permitted to be longer so ? Kind tho' you are , you seem not kind to me , For he Enthrals me , who would set me free . By no device you can obtain your end , I can't my Mistress lose , but may my Friend . In vain , oft practis'd methods you devise , 'T is all in vain , Amasia still has Eyes . No more to me your hard addresses move , For , I assure you , by the Gods above , I can't — I will not part from what so dear I Love .

To Mr — MUch am I pleas'd , to hear your new design , For , my Friend's happiness I reckon mine . I should repine , to bid these Shades adieu , Not fond of praise my self , but wish it you . Still may applause your undertakings bless , Your rising Muse be Wing'd with swift success , Esteem'd by all , for you deserve no less . As some young Bird , who late has taken Wing , With fond desire in the warm Air to Sing . When he has felt the Sun's enliv'ning Ray , Flutt'ring sometimes around his Nest does Play , And Chirps to call his Fellow Bird away . So you , now Cherish'd by your Patron 's Love , With fonder hopes of a warm Season move , And Sing to me , to meet you , in the Air above . But more assurance than the Bird 's you find , For , trusting him , you do not beat on Wind. Scarce can I hold , for I would fain commend That gen'rous Man , who is the Muses Friend . Long in full Tides may his smooth Fortunes flow , He Merits Plenty , who bestows it so . Whilst from his lasting Springs small Streams distill , His over-flowings shall your Current fill . Such bounty sure may be dispens'd to you , Poets , like Kings , are Heav'n's Anointed too . But ah ! Their Art is now debas'd , and low , It only serves to make a gawdy show . The shining Light their Phaebus gives , they use , But the productive , vig'rous heat , abuse . They , whose true merits can a Patron claim , ( And such there are , who part with Gold for Fame , ) Should Honours , worthy their true greatness , raise , The gen'rous few deserve the nobler praise . You , to grow fam'd , must lofty'st Subjects choose , For still applause bears up the Tow'ring Muse. While round your Head a Crown of Laurel spreads , Me shall my Groves content , and grateful Shades . I on no other's greatness would depend , But make my own Humility my Friend . On Flow'ry Banks , in Bow'rs the Lover Lies , He wants no Prop , who will not strive to rise . 'T is not thro' Pride , I am thus careless grown , And slight applause , to make it more my own . I don't disclaim the Favours of the great , But I can't stoop , and Cringe to meer estate . If from great Men to me their Favours came , I should respect the Person , not the Name . Thro' me , the World should his kind bounty know ' And my rais'd Muse should tell who rais'd her so . Nay , from a Prosp'rous Friend , I could receive , Favours , I found him truly fond to give . This , as my highest Friendship , I may boast , For grateful sense in this still struggles most . To be oblig'd , costs gen'rous Souls some pain , When in Despair to make returns again . Your Sylvius only to his fair one sues , Her , only her , I for my Subject choose , Amasia's both my Patroness , and Muse. My Love for her no Rival Charm endures , Were I not her's intire , I should be Yours

To Mr — AS some blest Youth , who , led by chance , has found A blooming Maid , that has his longings Crown'd . Whose every Charming Beauty can surprize , And draw soft glances , from his wishing Eyes . Stands silent long , and in a fond amaze , Admires , what 't is , that thus his Soul could raise , Above his wonder , and beyond his praise . But when he finds the gen'rous fair inclin'd To Love like him , like him , intirely kind , Gush'd with the Joys , he no endearments shows , Because , he can't express , to the vast height he owes . So , you , dear Daphnis , I admir'd , and prais'd , In me , long since , you have fond wishes rais'd . I view'd you always with a Loving Eye , Yet fear'd to Court you , for I thought you shy . But , when I found that I had ought could move , In you a fondness to return my Love . I grew amaz'd , and strugling I supprest The soft Emotions of my swelling Breast . Ev'n now I feel the Flowings of my Soul With an Unusual , Ardent vigour roll , I can't the risings of my Thoughts express , Inlarging on them , does but show them less . I , like the Sybils , by Strange heats inspir'd , Am with a rage of Sacred Friendship Fir'd . In Verse , like them , I my Conceptions show , They by their God possess'd , and I by you . But mine , not dubious as their Speech , assures That I am certainly , and wholly yours . As the fond Youth , who has divulg'd his pain , Has own'd his Love , and is belov'd again . Burns , for the dear enjoyment , of that fair Who heard his Vows , and who receiv'd his Pray'r . So I , who Justly may my self commend A constant Lover , and a real Friend . Long to enjoy you , to possess you whole , For , he does truly so , who gains the Soul . In your Embrace , I would my Thoughts express , Declare my Love , and hear from you no less . This fond desire , no hope of int'rest Frames , For I feel earnest , and transporting Flames . I would the dearest Friendship here improve , Not a dull Duty like Eraternal Love . A near Alliance Nature form'd before , Blest me with that , but you have blest me more . Your gen'rous Temper does your greatness show , And proves you highest , when you stoop so low . To what excess must my vast Blessings fly , If we grow nigher , when already nigh ! The strictest Union moves the most delight , And that must needs be so , where Hearts and Souls Unite .

To Mr — TIr'd of Mankind , I long have born in vain With silent greatness , my encreasing pain , But now , my Friend , I must at last complain . My growing ills , in swelling Torrents roll , And , with impetuous Tides , o'er-flow my Soul . All my desires and wishes fly me far , My Fortunes wreck'd in the loud Storms of War . Happy I liv'd , while Childish Years did last , But our best Pleasures are but Dreams , when past . The Thoughts of those disturb my present rest , I were not Wretched now , had I not then been blest . Born to be curst by Destiny , I stand , And can't , so much as view the happy Land . Friendless , and all , but Resolution lost , A mark for Fate I seem , upon a ruin'd Coast. Kept back by Winds , and tides which loudly roar , I sit deserted on the Barren shore , And view the Sea of Time , which I must yet pass o'er . Heaven's utmost rage , and tortures here I see ; Ill do my Fortunes with my Soul agree ; I have a Spirit form'd to be above A low submission to ought else than Love . None but Amasia can my mind controul , She melts my Thoughts , and softens all my Soul . How could I hope she should my Flames prefer , If I knew how to stoop to ought , but her ? Blest were my days , while here the Charmer stay'd , But I lost all , soon as I lost the Maid . In her alone , was all my valu'd store , And rob'd of her , I could be rob'd no more . War's threat'ning Tempest bore the Nymph away , This Venus took her flight upon the boist'rous Sea . The Gallick Court with joy the Virgin saw , There still she Reigns , spite of the Salick Law . Of wish'd success , and Triumph I Despair , France can't be vanquish'd , while Amasia's there . Her Charms give Courage the to Youth , to wield Their brandish'd Swords , bold , in the dusty Field . Bravely they Fight , and Venture for the spoil , They hope her smiles will soon reward their toil . For her bright Charms they dare encounter far , 'T is she's the Goddess , that sustains their War . She gives them Valour , sets their Souls on Fire , And so , her Eyes against themselves conspire . Warm'd by their rays , they to the onset move , The Youth , so rais'd , must needs successful prove , And then they claim , for their exploits , her Love . Around her Brows their Wreaths of Laurel rise , But all can't Shade them from her Radiant Eyes . By force , they Conquer Squad'rons in the Field , Oppose whole Armies , yet to her they yield . Her dearer Chains to freedom they prefer , And stoop , when Conqu'rours , to be Slaves to her . While I , with folded Arms , in fond Despair , Clasp my sad Breast , to press her Image there , O let me rush impatient to the War , Drive , and pursue my flying Rivals far . None great in Battles should like Sylvius prove , He should Fight best , who best knows how to Love . 'T is then resolv'd I 'll boldly charge my foes , For Nassau Conquers , wheresoe'er he goes . Plac'd in Command beneath a Chief so great , I 'll force my Fortune , or I 'll urge my fate . But ah ! I would not undistinguish'd fall , Grant this , ye Gods ! And ye have granted all . Grant that brave Death I may to flight prefer , And let Amasia know , I fought , and dy'd for her . To hopes of Joys , and peaceful Thoughts adieu , Farewel to them for ever , now to you . No Words my Melancholy Thoughts can tell , Let them die with me too ; once more , Farewel .

To Mr — AS two dear Friends , who , by some fate unkind , Wreck'd by the Seas , and by the faithless Wind , Had liv'd a tedious , Melancholy while In some dark , barren , unfrequented Isle , Together still , 'till one , unsit to bear Unpractis'd Hunger , and so bleak an Air. Urg'd by Prophetick Dreams of Feasts to come , With Weepings parts , and round the Isle does roam . Both for the suff'rings of each other Mourn , And he that stay'd , prays for his Friend's return . So , you and I , from the World's noise remov'd , A Fate like theirs , have in some Measure prov'd , Alone we Liv'd , and so alone we Lov'd . Whilst busy Slaves , yet , an unthinking herd , Past Salvage by , and like meer Brutes appear'd . 'Till diff'rent Thoughts , and some designs that please , Urg'd me from you , to follow purpos'd ways . As Famish'd Men , who long had Dreamt of Meats , Of fancy'd Dainties , in delightful Seats , Yet still , not they , but their starv'd fancy Eats . And between slumbers , with regret they find It was meer Hunger , that had fed their Mind . 'Till some kind hand spreads Spatious Tables o'er , With choicer Banquets , and with greater store , Than what were furnish'd by their sleep before . So , what the Muses did in Visions shew , Of Love , and Friendship Daphnis proves is true , For he 's at once a Friend , and Mistress too . The richest Feasts of fondness he prepares , And fills my Soul with the most pleasing Ayres . My Thoughs for him rise up to such excess , As to Amasia in a dear Address , Her I Love more , yet him esteem not less . And now , Adonis , since that Name you choose , And Cytherea , for your Mistress use ; The softest Titles , for the softest Muse. I wish success , but that I need not do , For it attends , and waits to fly to you . Among the rest , two Charming Beauties shine , Painting , and Poetry intirely thine . Scarce can I tell , both are so well exprest , Which takes me most , or draws an image best . Nature to you those Charming Arts procures , I Court them most , yet they the most are yours . Fortune has giv'n you all , to make you great , All she could give you , but a large Estate . And had you that , the rest would useless prove , For that alone can gain a Virgin 's Love . Then Cytherea , that proud fair , would sue , And beg her self , to be belov'd by you . But she deserves not the fond Name you give , If she 's like Venus , fair , she should like Venus live . But you indeed your Title Justly claim , Soft as Adonis , and as full of Flame . Your Breast , pierc'd deeper than his Thigh is found , For Love 's the Salvage , that gave you your Wound . Yours , and my Mistress are almost alike , With equal Pow'r on both our Hearts they strike . She with Amasia may for scorn compare , Amasia is like Cytherea fair . I , tho' despis'd , for want of 〈◊〉 and show , Am pleas'd as you are , when my self I know Above those Slaves , who think me much below . Alike our Souls , alike our wishes move , The same our Friendship , and the same our Love . I never yet to Honour'd Fools have Bow'd , Born to be slighted , and to slight the proud . And you I know , as well as I , can boast , That , where despis'd , you can despise the most . Yet Cytherea still exempted stands , Spight of her Pride , she your fond Heart Commands . So I Amasia Love , but Love in vain , Tho' she too , proudly Triumphs in my pain . Believe me , Friend , I have a Miser's Mind , For , tho' I here my best Lov'd Treasure find , I want my other store , you , whom I left behind .

To Mr — O quam te memorem virgo ! O Dea certe . TO you , dear Youth , did Sylvius oft complain , I took delight to tell you all my pain . I did a Melancholy Pleasure feel , Breathing the Thoughts of my bewitching ill . But now , my Muse no more such suff'rings Sings , My flowing Sorrows damp her Flagging Wings . Her Tow'ring flight oft Lov'd Amasia bore , But ah ! That Lovely Fair must now be Sung no more Gods ! Let 〈◊〉 Happy , who your Blessings know , Adore your Pow'r , to keep them ever so . O with what Justice may the Wretch repine ! Amasia's Dead ! She 's Dead ! and dy'd not mine ! Yet do I live , and the Earth's surface Tread ? Meanly survive , when dear Amasia's Dead ! God's ! Can I say she dy'd — can I believe She was not born , that she might ever live ! Eccho my Plaints , ye Groves , and Vales around , Let the Word Death from all the Hills rebound , That I , at last , may Credit the repeated sound . From hollow Rocks , in Murmurs be it made , For nought , but hardest Rocks , should speak Amasia Dead . With Sickly Voice , let fainting Ecchoes try But to reflect Amasia's Name , and die . Let each return in so much softness break , As if the very Ecchoes fear'd to speak . As if they dreaded , least some place might hear , That would send back the sound , to be repeated there . Ah! Grieve , dear Youth , think on your Sylvius woe , Mourn , Mourn , my Friend , if you are truly so . I ask you not to share in what I feel , Oh! no — I would be greatly Wretched , and engross my ill . But bear your part , upon a Friendly score , To make the mighty Pomp of Sorrow more . Let meaner Souls in sighs , and Tears complain , And , with their fond indulgence , soften pain . Whilst I , with lofty Pride , my suff'rings bear , And with a sort of Joy , pursue Despair . What off'rings , Gods ! Should at her Shrine be paid , Had the dear , fatal Charmer dy'd a Maid ! But ah ! For Gold she gave up all her Charms , And , meanly sold , fled to my Rival's Arms. Hymen incens'd , far off took speedy flight , Death , with his Torches , did her Nuptials Light . Oh! Had she liv'd , I might some Blessings know , I should be Happy still , if she were so . Her , in my Rival's Arms I could adore , With Flames as Sacred , as I felt before , Love her as much , and let her know it more . But now what satisfaction can there be ? Nought but Despair is left , for Wretched me ; Death is a Rival , more unkind than he . You kept ( False Muse ) Amasia in my view , Thy Fairy Pleasures I 'll no more pursue , To fancy'd Dreams of Happy Loves — Adieu . All that I hop'd from Poetry to find , Was to gain praise , to make Amasia kind . But now , what other Mistress can I choose , Worthy my Love , and to deserve my Muse ? Now , many shining Nymphs may Justly claim Some small pretence to an immortal Fame , And , who deserves it best , shall bear Amasia's Name . So , when some great , some mighty Conqu'ror dies , Many , less noted Heroes , share the prize , And he 's Nam'd Caesar , who does highest rise . Thus the Pellaean Monarch born away , Made room for Princes , to divide the sway . If any fair , henceforth , has Pow'r to move , With my Amasia's Charms she must renew my Love . I From my Joys of Paradise am hurl'd , Condemn'd — Condemn'd alone to wander thro' the World . Farewel , to all that please the ravish'd view , Farewel , to Love , with my Amasia too , To Shades , and seats of bliss , and Golden Dreams , Adieu .

To Mr — AS parted Lovers , who a while complain , And then in fears , and Anxious Thoughts remain , Least they should never meet in Joys again . Make hast to write , and so , some ease they find , Tell all their troubles , and reveal their mind . So , me as much does your short absence move , Friendship for you is like an other 's Love . What Swain is here , and you departed hence , Or who instructed by the Muses since ? Dull , Thoughtless Hinds , with lifeless aspects Plow , And bleaker Groves , with furious Tempests , Bow . These are the Scenes , which to my view appear , The only prospects , to delight me here . No Beauteous Maid is seen in all the plains , To raise my vigour , or to Fire my Veins . My Youthful Blood must in one motion roll , None knows to Charm , or to surprise the Soul . In vain I walk thro' any pleasing Shade , With you the Nymphs , and tender Virgins fled . You , who alone are still successful there , And gain new Conquests o'er the yielding fair . But I , whose Flames boast no engaging Pow'rs , I , whose low Fortunes flow not smooth as yours . Fam'd for no Arts , nor in the Field renown'd , Must still Despair to have my Passion Crown'd . Should now some fair one , shining in her Charms , Prefer my Fires , and raise me to her Arms. Exalt me so , nor let me fondly die , But lift my Passion , and my Fortunes high , No Man alive could Love her , sixt , as I. How would that Gen'rous , and that Noble she Deserve indeed to be belov'd by me ! Success like this , I must not hope to find , For rarely Virgins are so nobly kind . Not Daphnis self , whose Wit is vastly great , Who Lov'd , as never any Swain Lov'd yet , Could boast a Triumph , perfectly compleat . His frequent praise Fame's hundred Mouths shall fill , Her loudest Trumpet is his lofty quill . His latest Work his greatest glories shews , The noblest War Sung by the noblest Muse. Of British Arms such mighty deeds he tells , As prove that Island the Whole World excells . Late did his Verse the ravish'd Swains improve , Taught them to Sing , and Blooming Maids to Love . But now he 's fled , from these Neglected Fields , To dear delights , the grateful City yields . Each fair one there shall be his shining prize , He Charms all Hearts , as he bewitches Eyes . To share such Joys , I value Groves no more , Since you and he have left their Shades before . I come , Dear Youth , past Pleasures to renew , Pleasures , which none could ever give , but you , And hast to see you soon , Adieu , Adieu .

To Mr — WIth such delight I did your lines receive , Your presence only could more transport give . Tho' here retir'd in close recess I dwell , I Joy to hear my City Friends are well . The World 's vain noise I can no longer shun . Since my Amasia dy'd , all hopes are gone . Perplext , curs'd Thoughts desir'd repose remove , I find deep Sorrow worse than slighted Love . For my own quiet I must hast to Town , I want retirement most , when most alone . To shun himself your Sylvius flies to you , And be assur'd 't is what all Friends may do . Whatever Youthful Thoughts your Breast may bear , I can't believe that I inhabit there , Such Fond , Dear , Airy Notions suit the fair . Youth does to vain , Fantastick fancies bend , And Courts , Romantick , Courts a Bosom Friend . Ravish'd with darling hopes , you entertain , You view gay Pleasures in the fairy Scene . So in our sleep , delightful Groves we frame , But when awake , we know we did but Dream . Trust me , dear Youth , Friendship is all a cheat , A light there is , but void of real heat . No Swain can Passion in another move , For Man can ne'er Love Man , with Woman's Love . Friendship indeed bears in it some desires , It raises wishes , but Creates no Fires . Such , for my best Acquaintance long I knew , I boast not many , for my Friends are few , But of that Number still I reckon'd you . Thus far a Friend serves his Acquaintance best , To raise his Fortunes , when by chance deprest , But Man can ne'er Lodge Man , within his inmost Breast . Love lives in Sun-shine , or that Storm , Despair , But gentler Friendship Breaths a Mod'rate Air. Do not infer , from what my Muse assures , My Soul feels Passions , less extream than Yours . No , with such transports , as should never end , I could 〈◊〉 the darling Name of Friend My Thoughts would still with ravish'd fondness Flow ; And from a Friend , I should a Lover grow . But here 's the curse impos'd on all Mankind , This dear , imagin'd Friend no search can find . Alike , the Youths must both , by Fortune , stand , For Friendship stoops not , but goes hand in hand . Whatever Swain an other's Friend would be , Must find his humour , with his own , agree . Thus far indeed may real Friendship rise , As to stand sirm , but sure it never flies . He that pretends it can a Passion prove , Makes it much blinder , than we fancy Love . Believe the honest real Truths I tell , Withal , believe thus far , I wish you well .

To Mr — TO you , dear Youth , now Banish'd from the Swains , Your Rural Friend , in Rural Notes , complains , From my blest Groves , those long Lov'd Mansions , hurl'd , Urg'd by misfortunes , I must view the World . But with as much regret , to see it , fly , As they to leave it , who are doom'd to die . From these dear Shades unwillingly I go , As Men , Condemn'd to visit Shades below . Since my late ills , which will be ever new , Still Fresh misfortunes your lost Friend pursue . Amasia's fall struck me to deep Despair , And now Fate 's utmost Malice I can bear . Inur'd to Storms , now let the Billows roar , With full spread Sails , I 'll shun the lazy shore , He who has once been Wreck'd — Has felt the worst , and cannot suffer more . Just o'er my Head the breaking Clouds have gone , The Bolts have struck ; then sure their fury 's done , I fear no Flashes now — let the Heav'ns thunder on . By grave Acquaintance , whom the world calls Friends , I am 〈◊〉 to quit my purpos'd ends . But now , long Planted in the Muses Land , I can no other Language understand . All Worldly gains beyond my reach must prove , For I am bent on Poetry , and Love . Should frowning Heav'n it 's usual Storms abate , ( Which I can't think , without a wrong to Fate , ) My Joys would grow , as now my Sorrows , great . But should no Fortunes , no success attend The bold , aspiring Fondness of your Friend . Trust me , no disappointment shall I find , Nor be deceiv'd , unless the Gods grow kind . In vain you move me with your Charming strain , And tell of Fancy'd , Gen'rous Nymphs , in vain . The British Beauties sure have noble Souls , But still 't is Gold , 't is Gold , my Friend , controuls . No Charming Fair will hear the suppliant sue , Who speaks not Golden Words , 't is Gold must woe , And all Despair , who want it , all — but you . O should some Beauty , in her Heav'nly bloom , To the Embraces of your Sylvius come . Some bright , dear Maid , fram'd of a nobler mould , Who scorns to sell her Charms for sordid Gold , Above her Sex's meanest Pride , and generously bold . Blest by our Nuptials , sure , we both should grow , I , tho' the Husband , still the Lover too ; A Mistress , so Divine , should be for ever so . My loftiest Muse should Sing her Matchless Fame , The Fires of Love should yield my fancy Flame , She should for ever live — Nam'd my Amasia , and adorn the Name . Give my respects to those few Friend we know , To those few Friends , whom I found always so . My real Service , and Chief Thoughts commend , Who Serves no Mistress , best can Serve his Friend . Born on my Muses Wings , I hast to you , Leave these low Vales , and glory's heights pursue , Adieu , my Friend — Adieu , dear Shades , Adieu .

MARTIN , THE FRIEND . Nos quoque per totum pariter cantabimur orbem ; Junctaque semper erunt nomina nostra tuis , O Martin ! I grow ravish'd , while I write , And Friendship Works me to a Sacred height . Martin the Friend ! When will the transport end ! Martin , the best , the truest , only Friend ! So much I Love thee , more than Poets Fame , That I could dwell for ever on the Name . O Martin ! Martin ! — Let the grateful sound Crown'd . Reach to that Heaven , which has our Friendship And like our endless Friendship , meet no bound . Friendship , the truest Blessing Heaven can give , From Heaven descended , does in Martin live . Heaven gave me you , in you was Friendship giv'n , Heaven gave me you , and you would give me Heav'n . O Friend ! O Sacred ! Ever-Charming Word ! Poetick fury can no sense afford Fit for the Ecchoes of that sound restor'd . If e'er we meet , then shall we best commend The Sense , the Name , the Nature of a Friend . Sure we meet now , with thine I mix my Soul , And all , all Friendship does my sense controul , Exalt the Man , and high as Passion rowl . Beyond all thought transcendent Friendship Tow'rs , Beyond the faculties of Mortal Pow'rs , While with Extatick Pride my ravish'd Soul grows yours . Fain would I speak ; but how can Words express The Debt I owe ? To own would make it less . You Love with fondness , not Austere , tho' Wise , Blind to my Faults , yet still with sense advise . Believe me , Friend , since you the Name will own , And since my welfare so much yours is grown , When ever Heaven shall the blest change permit , The Muse , your Rival long , at last I 'll quit . I 'll make no Poet 's unsuccessful vow , The Friend protests , and 't is to Martin now . But if by wit , the worst of Follies , curst , I must write on , still wretched as at worst . To you I 'll still appeal , to you who know I never thought that Verse was fated so . Who only errs , his errour may excuse ; I own the Folly , and condemn the Muse. What 's past the World forgive — forgive me Friend , And , if a Poet ever can — I 'll mend . No more shall Verse delude with hopes of Fame , No more the Muse my Senses Empire claim , No more shall numbers Charm — Nor with Amasia's , nor with Martin's Name . No more shall Love be as an Art display'd , Only I 'll cure those Wounds my Verse has made . To every Name , to all , but Heaven and you , The best-good Man , Martin , my Friend — Adieu .

FINIS .