THE WORKS OF
APHRA BEHN.
VOL. VI.
THE WORKS
OF
APHRA BEHN
EDITED BY
MONTAGUE SUMMERS
VOL. VI
THE LOVER’S WATCH
POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS
A VOYAGE TO THE ISLE OF LOVE
LYCIDUS; OR, THE LOVER IN FASHION
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
[Illustration]
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
STRATFORD-ON-AVON: A. H. BULLEN
MCMXV
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE LOVER’S WATCH 1
POEMS UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS (1684) 113
A VOYAGE TO THE ISLE OF LOVE 223
LYCIDUS; OR, THE LOVER IN FASHION (1688) 293
POEMS APPENDED TO LYCIDUS 343
WESTMINSTER DROLLERY (1671) 364
MISCELLANY (1685) 365
GILDON’S MISCELLANY (1692) 387
GILDON’S CHORUS POETARUM (1694) 390
MUSES MERCURY (1707) 391
FAMILIAR LETTERS (1718) 395
PROLOGUE TO ROMULUS 398
EPILOGUE TO ROMULUS 399
SATYR ON DRYDEN 400
PROLOGUE TO VALENTINIAN 401
TO HENRY HIGDEN, ESQ. 403
ON THE DEATH OF E. WALLER, ESQ. 405
A PINDARIC POEM TO DR. BURNET 407
NOTES 411
INDEX OF FIRST LINES OF POEMS 439
GENERAL INDEX 446
THE LOVER’S WATCH.
INTRODUCTION.
_La Môntre: or, The Lover’s Watch_, ‘Licensed 2 Aug. 1686. R.L.S.’
is taken by Mrs. Behn from _La Môntre_ of Balthazar de Bonnecorse.
After having received an excellent education at Marseilles, where
he was born, de Bonnecorse was appointed consul at Cairo, and later
transferred to Sidon in the Levant. Whilst at Cairo he composed _La
Môntre_, a mixture of prose and verse, which he sent to the great
arbiter of Parisian taste, Georges de Scudéri, under whose care it was
printed in 1666 at Paris. It was followed in 1671 by the second part,
_la Boëte et le Miroir_, dedicated to the Duke de Vivonne. Upon his
return to France, de Bonnecorse abridged _La Môntre_ and put it wholly
into verse, in which form it appears in his collected (yet incomplete)
works, ‘Chez Theodore Haak.’ Leyden, 1720. Bonnecorse died at
Marseilles in 1706. He is always piquant and graceful in his madrigals
and songs, though both sentiment and verse have faded a little with the
passing of time. Boileau immortalized him in _Le Lutrin: la Môntre_ is
one of the missiles the enraged canons hurl at each other’s reverend
pates: ‘L’un prend _l’.dit d’amour_, l’autre en saisit _la Môntre_.’
Bonnecorse’s attempted parody on _Le Lutrin, le Lutrigot_ (Marseille,
1686), is of no value, and brought a caustic epigram down on his head.
To Peter Weston, Esq.; Of The Honourable Society Of The Inner-Temple.
Sir,
When I had ended this little unlaboured Piece, the _Watch_, I resolv’d
to dedicate it to some One, whom I cou’d fancy, the nearest approacht
the charming _Damon_. Many fine Gentlemen I had in view, of Wit and
Beauty; but still, through their Education, or a natural Propensity to
Debauchery, I found those Vertues wanting, that should compleat that
delicate Character, _Iris_ gives her Lover; and which, at first Thought
of You, I found center’d there to Perfection.
Yes, Sir, I found You had all the Youth of _Damon_; without the forward
noisy Confidence, which usually attends your Sex. You have all the
attracting Beauty of my young Hero; all that can charm the Fair;
without the Affectation of those, that set out for Conquests (though
You make a Thousand, without knowing it, or the Vanity of believing
it.) You have our _Damon’s_ Wit with all his agreeable Modesty: Two
Vertues that rarely shine together: And the last makes You conceal the
noble Sallies of the first, with that Industry and Care, You wou’d an
Amour: And You wou’d no more boast of either of these, than of your
undoubted Bravery.
You are (like our Lover too) so discreet, that the bashful Maid may,
without Fear or Blushing, venture the soft Confession of the Soul with
You; reposing the dear Secret in Yours, with more Safety than with her
own Thoughts. You have all the Sweetness of Youth, with the Sobriety
and Prudence of Age. You have all the Power of the gay Vices of Man;
but the Angel in your Mind, has subdu’d you to the Vertues of a God!
And all the vicious and industrious Examples of the roving Wits of
the mad Town, have only served to give You the greater Abhorrence to
Lewdness. And You look down with Contempt and Pity on that wretched
unthinking Number, who pride themselves in their mean Victories over
little Hearts; and boast their common Prizes with that Vanity, that
declares ‘em capable of no higher Joy, than that of the Ruin of some
credulous Unfortunate: And no Glory like that, of the Discovery of the
brave Achievement, over the next Bottle, to the Fool that shall applaud
’.m.
How does the Generosity, and Sweetness of your Disposition despise
these false Entertainments, that turns the noble Passion of Love into
Ridicule, and Man into Brute.
Methinks I cou’d form another _Watch_ (that should remain a Pattern
to succeeding Ages) how divinely you pass your more sacred Hours, how
nobly and usefully You divide your Time: in which, no precious minute
is lost, not one glides idly by; but all turns to wondrous Account. And
all Your Life is one continu’d Course of Vertue and Honour. Happy the
Parents that have the Glory to own You! Happy the Man, that has the
Honour of your Friendship! But, oh! How much more happy the fair She,
for whom you shall sigh! Which surely, can never be in vain.
There will be such a Purity in Your Flame: All You ask will be so
chaste and noble, and utter’d with a Voice so modest, and a Look so
charming, as must, by a gentle Force, compel that Heart to yield, that
knows the true Value of Wit, Beauty, and Vertue.
Since then, in all the Excellencies of Mind and Body (where no one
Grace is wanting) you so resemble the All-perfect _Damon_, suffer me
to dedicate this _Watch_ to You. It brings You nothing but Rules for
Love; delicate as Your Thoughts, and innocent as Your Conversation.
And possibly, ‘tis the only Vertue of the Mind, You are not perfectly
Master of; the only noble Mystery of the Soul, You have not yet
studied. And though they are Rules for every Hour, You will find,
they will neither rob Heaven, nor Your Friends of ther Due; those so
valuable Devoirs of Your Life; They will teach You Love; but Love, so
pure, and so devout, that You may mix it, even with Your Religion; and
I know, Your fine Mind can admit of no other. When ever the God enters
there (fond and wanton as he is, full of Arts and Guiles) he will be
reduc’d to that Native Innocency, that made him so ador’d, before
inconstant Man corrupted his Divinity, and made him wild and wandring.
How happy will _Iris’s_ Watch be, to inspire such a Heart! How honour’d
under the Patronage of so excellent a Man! Whose Wit will credit,
whose Goodness will defend it; and whose noble and vertuous Qualities
so justly merit the Character _Iris_ has given _Damon_: And which is
believed so very much your Due, by
Sir,
Your most Obliged, and
Most Humble Servant,
A. Behn.
_To the Admir’d_ ASTREA.
I Never mourn’d my Want of Wit, ‘till now;
That where I do so much Devotion vow,
Brightest _Astrea_, to your honour’d Name,
Find my Endeavour will become my Shame.
‘Tis you alone, who have the Art, and Wit
T’ involve those Praises in the Lines y’have writ,
That we should give you, could we have the Sp’rite,
Vigour, and Force, wherewith your self do write.
Too mean are all th’ Applauses we can give:
You in your self, and by your self, shall live;
When all we write will only serve to shew,
How much, in vain Attempt, we flag below.
Some Hands write some things well; are elsewhere lame:
But on all Theams, your Power is the same.
Of Buskin, and of Sock, you know the Pace;
And tread in both, with equal Skill and Grace,
But when you write of Love, _Astrea_, then
_Love_ dips his Arrows, where you wet your pen.
Such charming Lines did never Paper grace;
Soft, as your Sex; and smooth, as Beauty’s Face.
And ‘tis your Province, that belongs to you:
Men are so rude, they fright when they wou’d sue
You teach us gentler Methods; such as are
The fit and due Proceedings with the Fair.
But why should you, who can so well create,
So stoop, as but pretend, you do translate?
Could you, who have such a luxuriant Vein,
As nought but your own Judgment could restrain;
Who are, your self, of Poesie the Soul,
And whose brave fancy knocks at either Pole;
Descend so low, as poor Translation, }
To make an Author, that before was none? }
Oh! Give us, henceforth, what is all your own! }
Yet we can trace you here, in e’ery Line;
The Texture’s good, but some Threds are too fine:
We see where you let in your Silver Springs;
And know the Plumes, with which you imp his Wings.
But I’m too bold to question what you do,
And yet it is my Zeal that makes me so.
Which, in a Lover, you’ll not disapprove:
I am too dull to write, but I can love.
_Charles Cotton._
_To the Incomparable Author._
While this poor Homage of our Verse we give,
We own, at least, your just Prerogative:
And tho’ the Tribute’s needless, which we pay;
It serves to shew, you reign, and we obey.
Which, adding nothing to your perfect Store,
Yet makes your polisht Numbers shine the more:
As Gems in Foils, are with Advantage shown;
No Lustre take from them, but more exert their own.
Male Wits, from Authors of a former Date, }
Copy Applause; and but at best, translate; }
While you, like the immortal Pow’rs, Create. }
_Horace_ and _Pindar_ (tho’ attempted long }
In vain) at last, have learnt the British Tongue; }
Not so the Grecian Female Poet’s Song. }
The Pride of _Greece_ we now out-rival’d see:
_Greece_ boasts one _Sappho_; two _Orinda’s_, we.
But what unheard Applause shall we impart
To this most new, and happy piece of Art?
That renders our _Apollo_ more sublime }
In Num’rous Prose, but yet more num’rous Rhime; }
And makes the God of Love, the God of Time. }
_Love’s_ wandring Planet, you have made a Star:
‘Twas bright before, but now ‘tis _Regular_.
While _Love_ shall last, this Engine needs must vend: }
Each Nymph, this _Watch_ shall to her Lover send, }
That points him out his Hours, and how those Hours to spend. }
_N. Tate._
_To the most ingenious_ ASTREA, _upon her Book intituled_, La Môntre,
_or the_ Lover’s Watch.
To celebrate your Praise, no Muse can crown
You with that Glory, as this Piece hath done.
This Lover’s _Watch_, tho’ it was made in _France_,
By the fam’d _Bonnecorse_; yet you advance
The Value of its curious Work so far,
That as it shin’d there like a glitt’ring Star,
Yet here a Constellation it appears;
And in _Love’s_ Orb, with more Applause, it wears
_Astrea’s_ Name. Your Prose so delicate,
Your Verse so smooth and sweet, that they create
A lovely Wonder in each Lover’s Mind:
The envious Critick dares not be unkind.
_La Môntre_ cannot err, ‘tis set so well;
The Rules for Lovers Hours are like a Spell
To charm a Mistress with: The God of Love
Is highly pleas’d; and smiling, does approve
Of this rare Master piece: His Am’rous Game
Will more improve: This will support his Fame.
May your luxuriant Fancy ever flow
Like a Spring tide; no Bounds, or Limits know.
May you, in Story, for your Wit, live high:
And summon’d hence, to blest Eternity,
Aged with _Nestor’s_ Years, resign to Fate;
May your fam’d Works receive an endless Date.
_Rich. Faerrar._
_To the Divine_ ASTREA, _on her_ Môntre.
Thou Wonder of thy Sex! Thou greatest Good!
The Ages Glory, if but understood.
How are the _Britains_ bound to bless the Name
Of great _Astrea_! Whose Eternal Fame,
To Foreign Clymes, is most deserv’dly spread;
Where Thou, in thy great Works, shalt live, tho’ dead.
And mighty _France_, with Envy shall look on,
To see her greatest Wit by thee out-done:
And all their boasted Trophies are in vain,
Whilst thou, spight of their Salick Law, shall reign.
Witness _La Môntre_, from their Rubbish rais’d:
A Piece, for which, thou shalt be ever prais’d.
The beauteous Work is with such Order laid, }
And all the Movement so divinely made, }
As cannot of dull Criticks be afraid. }
Such Nature in the Truths of Love thou’st shew’d,
As the All-loving _Ovid_ never cou’d.
Thy Rules so soft, so modest, and so right,
The list’ning Youths will follow with Delight:
To thy blest Name will all their Homage pay,
Who taught ‘em how to love the noblest Way.
_G. J._
_To his admired Friend, the most ingenious Author._
Once more my Muse is blest; her humble Voice
Does in thy wondrous Works, once more, rejoyce.
Not the bright Mount, where e’ery sacred Tongue,
In skilful Choirs, immortal Numbers sung
Not great _Apollo’s_ own inspiring Beams,
Nor sweet _Castalia’s_ consecrated Streams,
To thy learn’d Sisters could so charming be.
As are thy Songs, and thou thy self, to me.
Æthereal Air, soft Springs, and verdant Fields;
Cool Shades, and Sunny Banks, thy Presence yields.
Never were Soul and Body better joyn’d;
A Mansion, worthy so divine a Mind!
No wonder e’ery Swain adores thy Name,
And e’ery Tongue proclaims thy Deathless Fame;
For who can such resistless Power controul,
Where Wit and Beauty both invade the Soul?
Beauty, that still does her fresh Conquests find;
And _Sacred Wit_, that ever charms the Mind:
Through all its Forms, that lovely _Proteus_ chase;
And e’ery Shape has its Peculiar Grace.
Hail, _Thou Heav’n-Born_! Thou most transcendent _Good_!
If Mortals their chief Blessings understood!
Thou that, while Kingdoms, Thrones, and Pow’rs decay,
Hast, with Eternity, one constant Stay:
Liv’st, and will live, like the great God of _Love_;
For ever young, although as old as _Jove_.
While we, alas! in dark Oblivion lye,
Thou ne’er wilt let thy lov’d _Astrea_ dye.
No, my good Friend, Thy Works will mount the Skies,
And see their Author’s learned Ashes rise.
Much to the Fame of thy fair Sex of Old,
By skilful Writers, has been greatly told:
But all the boasted Titles they have gain’d
By others Labours, weakly are sustain’d;
While thou look’st down, and scorn’st so mean a Praise:
Thy own just Hands do thy own Trophies raise.
Rich is the Soil, and vast thy Native Store;
Yet Thou (Wit’s Great _Columbus_) seek’st out more.
Through distant Regions spread’st thy Towring Wings,
And Foreign Treasure to thy Country brings.
This Work let no Censorious Tongue despise,
And judge thee wealthy with unlawful Prize,
We owe to thee, our best Refiner, more
Than him, who first dig’d up the rugged Ore.
Tho’ this vast Frame were from a _Chaos_ rais’d,
The great Creator should not less be prais’d:
By its bright Form, his Pow’rs as much display’d,
As if the World had been from Nothing made.
And if we may compare great Things with Small,
Thou therefore canst not by just Censure fall;
While the rude Heap, which lay before unform’d,
To Life and Sense, is by thy Spirit warm’d.
_Geo. Jenkins._
La Monstre.
The LOVER’S WATCH: or, the ART of making LOVE.
The ARGUMENT.
‘Tis in the most happy and august Court of the best and greatest
Monarch of the World, that _Damon_, a young Nobleman, whom we will
render under that Name, languishes for a Maid of Quality, who will
give us leave to call her _Iris_.
Their Births are equally illustrious; they are both rich, and both
young; their Beauty such as I dare not too nicely particularize,
lest I should discover (which I am not permitted to do) who these
charming Lovers are. Let it suffice, that _Iris_ is the most fair
and accomplisht Person that ever adorn’d a Court; and that _Damon_
is only worthy of the Glory of her Favour; for he has all that
can render him lovely in the fair Eyes of the amiable _Iris_. Nor
is he Master of those superficial Beauties alone, that please at
first sight; he can charm the Soul with a thousand Arts of Wit and
Gallantry. And, in a word, I may say, without flattering either,
that there is no one Beauty, no one Grace, no Perfection of Mind
and Body, that wants to compleat a Victory on both sides.
The agreement of Age, Fortunes, Quality and Humours in the two fair
Lovers, made the impatient _Damon_ hope, that no thing would oppose
his Passion; and if he saw himself every hour languishing for the
adorable Maid, he did not however despair: And if _Iris_ sigh’d, it
was not for fear of being one day more happy.
In the midst of the Tranquillity of these two Lovers, _Iris_ was
obliged to go into the Country for some Months, whither ‘twas
impossible for _Damon_ to wait on her, he being oblig’d to attend
the King his Master; and being the most amorous of his Sex,
suffer’d with extreme Impatience the Absence of his Mistress.
Nevertheless, he fail’d not to send to her every day, and gave
up all his melancholy Hours to Thinking, Sighing, and Writing to
her the softest Letters that Love could inspire. So that _Iris_
even blessed that Absence that gave her so tender and convincing
Proofs of his Passion; and found this dear way of Conversing, even
recompensed all her Sighs for his Absence.
After a little Intercourse of this kind, _Damon_ bethought himself
to ask _Iris_ a _Discretion_ which he had won of her before she
left the Town; and in a _Billetdoux_ to that purpose, prest her
very earnestly for it. _Iris_ being infinitely pleas’d with his
Importunity, suffer’d him to ask it often; and he never fail’d of
doing so.
But as I do not here design to relate the Adventures of these two
amiable Persons, nor to give you all the _Billet-doux_ that past
between them; you shall here find nothing but the _Watch_ this
charming Maid sent her impatient Lover.
_IRIS_ to _DAMON_.
It must be confest, _Damon_, that you are the most importuning Man in
the World. Your Billets have a hundred times demanded a _Discretion_,
which you won of me; and tell me, you will not wait my Return to be
paid. You are either a very faithless Creditor, or believe me very
unjust, that you dun with such impatience. But to let you see that
I am a Maid of Honour, and value my Word, I will acquit my self of
this Obligation I have to you, and send you a _Watch_ of my fashion;
perhaps you never saw any so good. It is not one of those that have
always something to be mended in it: but one that is without fault,
very just and good, and will remain so as long as you continue to love
me: But _Damon_, know, the very Minute you cease to do so, the String
will break, and it will go no more. ‘Tis only useful in my Absence, and
when I return ‘twill change its Motion: and though I have set it but
for the Spring-time, ‘twill serve you the whole Year round: and ‘twill
be necessary only that you alter the Business of the Hours (which my
_Cupid_, in the middle of my _Watch_, points you out) according to
the length of the Days and Nights. Nor is the Dart of that little God
directed to those Hours, so much to inform you how they pass, as how
you ought to pass them; how you ought to employ those of your Absence
from _Iris_. ‘Tis there you shall find the whole Business of a Lover,
from his Mistress; for I have design’d it a Rule to all your Actions.
The Consideration of the Work-man ought to make you set a Value upon
the Work: And though it be not an accomplisht and perfect piece; yet,
_Damon_, you ought to be grateful and esteem it, since I have made it
for you alone. But however I may boast of the Design, I know, as well
as I believe you love me, that you will not suffer me to have the Glory
of it wholly, but will say in your Heart,
_That_ Love, _the great Instructor of the Mind,_
_That forms anew, and fashions every Soul,_
_Refines the gross Defects of human Kind;_
_Humbles the proud and vain, inspires the dull;_
_Gives Cowards noble Heat in Fight,_
_And teaches feeble Women how to write:_
_That doth the Universe Command,_
_Does from my_ Iris’ _Heart direct her Hand._
I give you the Liberty to say this to your Heart, if you please: And
that you may know with what Justice you do so, I will confess in my
turn.
The Confession.
_That_ Love’s _my Conduct where I go,_
_And_ Love _instructs me all I do._
_Prudence no longer is my Guide,_
_Nor take I Counsel of my Pride._
_In vain does Honour now invade,_
_In vain does Reason take my part,_
_If against_ Love _it do persuade,_
_If it rebel against my Heart._
_If the soft Ev’ning do invite,_
_And I incline to take the Air,_
_The Birds, the Spring, the Flow’rs no more delight;_
_’.is_ Love _makes all the Pleasure there:_
_Love, which about me still I bear;_
_I’m charm’d with what I thither bring,_
_And add a Softness to the Spring._
_If for Devotion I design,_
Love _meets me, even at the Shrine;_
_In all my Worships claims a part,_
_And robs even Heaven of my Heart:_
_All Day does counsel aud controul,_
_And all the Night employs my Soul._
_No wonder then if all you think be true,_
_That_ Love’s _concern’d in all I do for you._
And, _Damon_, you, know that _Love_ is no ill Master; and I must say,
with a Blush, that he has found me no unapt Scholar; and he instructs
too agreeably not to succeed in all he undertakes.
_Who can resist his soft Commands?_
_When he resolves, what God withstands?_
But I ought to explain to you my _Watch_: The naked _Love_ which you
will find in the middle of it, with his Wings clipp’d, to shew you he
is fixed and constant, and will not fly away, points you out with his
Arrow the four and twenty Hours that compose the Day and the Night:
Over every Hour you will find written what you ought to do, during its
Course; and every Half-hour is marked with a Sigh, since the quality of
a Lover is, to sigh day and night: Sighs are the Children of Lovers,
that are born every Hour. And that my _Watch_ may always be just,
_Love_ himself ought to conduct it; and your Heart should keep time
with the Movement:
_My Present’s delicate and new,_
_If by your Heart the Motion’s set;_
_According as that’s false or true,_
_You’ll find my_ Watch _will answer it._
Every Hour is tedious to a Lover separated from his Mistress: and to
shew you how good I am, I will have my _Watch_ instruct you, to pass
some of them without Inquietude; that the force of your Imagination
may sometimes charm the Trouble you have for my Absence:
_Perhaps I am mistaken here,_
_My Heart may too much Credit give:_
_But,_ Damon, _you can charm my Fear,_
_And soon my Error undeceive._
But I will not disturb my Repose at this time with a Jealousy, which I
hope is altogether frivolous and vain; but begin to instruct you in the
Mysteries of my _Watch_. Cast then your Eyes upon the eighth Hour in
the Morning, which is the Hour I would have you begin to wake: you will
find there written,
EIGHT o’.LOCK.
_Agreeable Reverie._
Do not rise yet; you may find Thoughts agreeable enough, when you
awake, to entertain you longer in Bed. And ‘tis in that Hour you ought
to recollect all the Dreams you had in the Night. If you had dream’d
any thing to my advantage, confirm your self in that thought; but if to
my disadvantage, renounce it, and disown the injurious Dream. ‘Tis in
this Hour also that I give you leave to reflect on all that I have ever
said and done, that has been most obliging to you, and that gives you
the most tender Sentiments.
The Reflections.
_Remember,_ Damon, _while your Mind_
_Reflects on things that charm and please,_
_You give me Proofs that you are kind,_
_And set my doubting Soul at ease:_
_For when your Heart receives with Joy_
_The thoughts of Favours which I give,_
_My Smiles in vain I not employ,_
_And on the Square we love and live._
_Think then on all I ever did,_
_That e’er was charming, e’er was dear;_
_Let nothing from that Soul be hid,_
_Whose Griefs and Joys I feel and share._
_All that your Love and Faith have sought,_ }
_All that your Vows and Sighs have bought,_ }
_Now render present to your Thought._ }
And for what’s to come, I give you leave, _Damon_, to flatter your
self, and to expect, I shall still pursue those Methods, whose
Remembrance charms so well: But, if it be possible, conceive these
kind Thoughts between sleeping and waking, that all my too forward
Complaisance, my Goodness, and my Tenderness, which I confess to have
for you, may pass for Half Dreams: for ‘tis most certain,
_That tho’ the Favours of the Fair_
_Are ever to the Lover dear;_
_Yet, lest he should reproach that easy Flame,_
_That buys its Satisfaction with its Shame;_
_She ought but rarely to confess_
_How much she finds of Tenderness;_
_Nicely to guard the yielding part,_
_And hide the hard-kept Secret in her Heart._
For, let me tell you, _Damon_, tho’ the Passion of a Woman of Honour
be ever so innocent, and the Lover never so discreet and honest; her
Heart feels I know not what of Reproach within, at the reflection of
any Favours she has allow’d him. For my part, I never call to mind
the least soft or kind Word I have spoken to _Damon_, without finding
at the same instant my Face cover’d over with Blushes, and my Heart
with sensible Pain. I sigh at the Remembrance of every Touch I have
stolen from his Hand, and have upbraided my Soul, which confesses so
much guilty Love, as that secret Desire of touching him made appear.
I am angry at the Discovery, though I am pleas’d at the same time
with the Satisfaction I take in doing so; and ever disorder’d at the
Remembrance of such Arguments of too much Love. And these unquiet
Sentiments alone are sufficient to persuade me, that our Sex cannot be
reserv’d too much. And I have often, on these occasions, said to my
self,
The Reserve.
_Tho’. Damon _every Virtue have,_
_With all that pleases in his Form,_
_That can adorn the Just and Brave,_
_That can the coldest Bosom warm;_
_Tho’ Wit and Honour there abound,_
_Yet the Pursuer’s ne’er pursu’d,_
_And when my Weakness he has found,_
_His Love will sink to Gratitude:_
_While on the asking part he lives,_
_’.is she th’ Obliger is who gives._
_And he that at one Throw the Stake has won_
_Gives over play, since all the Stock is gone._
_And what dull Gamester ventures certain Store_
_With Losers who can set no more?_
NINE o’.LOCK.
_Design to please no body._
I should continue to accuse you of that Vice I have often done, that
of Laziness, if you remain’d past this Hour in bed: ‘tis time for you
to rise; my _Watch_ tells you ‘tis nine o’clock. Remember that I am
absent, therefore do not take too much pains in dressing your self, and
setting your Person off.
The Question.
_Tell me! What can he design,_
_Who in his Mistress’ absence will be fine?_
_Why does he cock, and comb, and dress?_
_Why is his Cravat String in Print?_
_What does th’ Embroider’d Coat confess?_
_Why to the Glass this long Address,_
_If there be nothing in’t?_
_If no new Conquest is design’d,_
_If no new Beauty fill his Mind?_
_Let Fools and Fops, whose Talents lie_
_In being neat, in being spruce,_
_Be drest in Vain, and Tawdery;_
_With Men of Sense, ‘tis out of use:_
_The only Folly that Distinction sets_
_Between the noisy fluttering Fools and Wits._
_Remember,_ Iris _is away;_
_And sighing to your Valet cry,_
_Spare your Perfumes and Care, to-day_
_I have no business to be gay,_
_Since_ Iris _is not by._
_I’ll be all negligent in Dress,_
_And scarce set off for Complaisance;_
_Put me on nothing that may please,_
_But only such as may give no Offence._
Say to your self, as you are dressing, ‘Would it please Heaven, that I
might see _Iris_ to-day! But oh! ‘tis impossible: Therefore all that I
shall see will be but indifferent Objects, since ‘tis _Iris_ only that
I wish to see.’ And sighing, whisper to your self:
The Sigh.
_Ah! charming Object of my wishing Thought!_
_Ah! soft Idea of a distant Bliss!_
_That only art in Dreams and Fancy brought,_
_To give short Intervals of Happiness._
_But when I waking find thou absent art,_
_And with thee, all that I adore,_
_What Pains, what Anguish fills my Heart!_
_What Sadness seizes me all o’er!_
_All Entertainments I neglect,_
_Since_ Iris _is no longer there:_
_Beauty scarce claims my bare Respect,_
_Since in the Throng I find not her._
_Ah then! how vain it were to dress, and show;_
_Since all I wish to please, is absent now!_
’.is with these Thoughts, _Damon_, that your Mind ought to be employ’d,
during your time of Dressing. And you are too knowing in Love, to be
ignorant,
_That when a Lover ceases to be blest_
_With the dear Object he desires,_
_Ah! how indifferent are the rest!_
_How soon their Conversation tires!_
_Tho’ they a thousand Arts to please invent,_
_Their Charms are dull, their Wit impertinent._
TEN o’.LOCK.
_Reading of Letters._
My _Cupid_ points you now to the Hour in which you ought to retire
into your Cabinet, having already past an Hour in Dressing: and for a
Lover, who is sure not to appear before his Mistress, even that Hour is
too much to be so employ’d. But I will think, you thought of nothing
less than Dressing while you were about it. Lose then no more Minutes,
but open your Scrutore, and read over some of those Billets you have
received from me. Oh! what Pleasures a Lover feels about his Heart, in
reading those from a Mistress he entirely loves!
The Joy.
_Who, but a Lover, can express_
_The Joys, the Pants, the Tenderness,_
_That the soft amorous Soul invades,_
_While the dear_ Billetdoux _he reads:_
_Raptures Divine the Heart o’erflow,_
_Which he that loves not cannot know._
_A thousand Tremblings, thousand Fears,_
_The short-breath’d Sighs, the joyful Tears!_
_The Transport, where the Love’s confest;_
_The Change, where Coldness is exprest;_
_The diff’ring Flames the Lover burns,_
_As those are shy, or kind, by turns._
However you find’em, _Damon_, construe ‘em all to my advantage:
Possibly, some of them have an Air of Coldness, something different
from that Softness they are usually too amply fill’d with; but where
you find they have, believe there, that the Sense of Honour, and my
Sex’s Modesty, guided my Hand a little against the Inclinations of my
Heart; and that it was as a kind of an Atonement, I believed I ought
to make, for something I feared I had said too kind, and too obliging
before. But where-ever you find that Stop, that Check in my Career of
Love, you will be sure to find something that follows it to favour
you, and deny that unwilling Imposition upon my Heart; which, lest you
should mistake, Love shews himself in Smiles again, and flatters more
agreeably, disdaining the Tyranny of Honour and rigid Custom, that
Imposition on our Sex; and will, in spite of me, let you see he reigns
absolutely in my Soul.
The reading my _Billetdoux_ may detain you an Hour: I have had so much
Goodness to write you enow to entertain you for so long at least, and
sometimes reproach my self for it; but, contrary to all my Scruples,
I find my self disposed to give you those frequent Marks of my
Tenderness. If yours be so great as you express it, you ought to kiss
my Letters a thousand times; you ought to read them with Attention, and
weigh every Word, and value every Line. A Lover may receive a thousand
endearing Words from a Mistress, more easily than a Billet. One says a
great many kind things of course to a Lover, which one is not willing
to write, or to give testify’d under one’s Hand, signed and sealed. But
when once a Lover has brought his Mistress to that degree of Love, he
ought to assure himself, she loves not at the common rate.
Love’s Witness.
_Slight unpremeditated Words are borne_
_By every common Wind into the Air;_
_Carelessly utter’d, die as soon as born,_
_And in one instant give both Hope and Fear:_
_Breathing all Contraries with the same Wind,_
_According to the Caprice of the Mind._
_But_ Billetdoux _are constant Witnesses,_
_Substantial Records to Eternity;_
_Just Evidences, who the Truth confess,_
_On which the Lover safely may rely;_
_They’re serious Thoughts, digested and resolv’d;_
_And last, when Words are into Clouds devolv’d._
I will not doubt, but you give credit to all that is kind in
my Letters; and I will believe, you find a Satisfaction in the
Entertainment they give you, and that the Hour of reading ‘em is not
disagreeable to you. I could wish, your Pleasure might be extreme, even
to the degree of suffering the Thought of my Absence not to diminish
any part of it. And I could wish too, at the end of your Reading, you
would sigh with Pleasure, and say to your self--
The Transport.
_O_ Iris! _While you thus can charm,_
_While at this Distance you can wound and warm;_
_My absent Torments I will bless and bear,_
_That give me such dear Proofs how kind you are._
_Present, the valu’d Store was only seen,_
_Now I am rifling the bright Mass within._
_Every dear, past, and happy Day,_
_When languishing at_ Iris’ _Feet I lay;_
_When all my Prayers and all my Tears could move_
_No more than her Permission, I should love:_
_Vain with my Glorious Destiny,_
_I thought, beyond, scarce any Heaven cou’d be._
_But, charming Maid, now I am taught,_
_That Absence has a thousand Joys to give,_
_On which the Lover present never thought,_
_That recompense the Hours we grieve._
_Rather by Absence let me be undone,_
_Than forfeit all the Pleasures that has won._
With this little Rapture, I wish you wou’d finish the reading my
Letters, shut your Scrutore, and quit your Cabinet; for my Love leads
to eleven o’clock.
ELEVEN o’.LOCK.
_The Hour to write in._
If my _Watch_ did not inform you ‘tis now time to write, I believe,
_Damon_, your Heart wou’d, and tell you also that I should take it
kindly, if you would employ a whole Hour that way; and that you should
never lose an Occasion of writing to me, since you are assured of the
Welcome I give your Letters. Perhaps you will say, an Hour is too
much, and that ‘tis not the mode to write long Letters. I grant you,
_Damon_, when we write those indifferent ones of Gallantry in course,
or necessary Compliment; the handsome comprizing of which in the fewest
Words, renders ‘em the most agreeable: But in Love we have a thousand
foolish things to say, that of themselves bear no great Sound, but have
a mighty Sense in Love; for there is a peculiar Eloquence natural alone
to a Lover, and to be understood by no other Creature: To those, Words
have a thousand Graces and Sweetnesses; which, to the Unconcerned,
appear Meanness, and easy Sense, at the best. But, _Damon_, you and I
are none of those ill Judges of the Beauties of Love; we can penetrate
beyond the Vulgar, and perceive the fine Soul in every Line, thro’ all
the humble Dress of Phrase; when possibly they who think they discern
it best in florid Language, do not see it at all. _Love_ was not born
or bred in Courts, but Cottages; and, nurs’d in Groves and Shades,
smiles on the Plains, and wantons in the Streams; all unador’d and
harmless. Therefore, _Damon_, do not consult your Wit in this Affair,
but _Love_ alone; speak all that he and Nature taught you, and let the
fine Things you learn in Schools alone: Make use of those Flowers you
have gather’d there, when you converst with States-men and the Gown.
Let _Iris_ possess your Heart in all its simple Innocence, that’s the
best Eloquence to her that loves: and that is my Instruction to a Lover
that would succeed in his Amours; for I have a Heart very difficult to
please, and this is the nearest way to it.
Advice to Lovers.
Lovers, _if you wou’d gain a Heart,_
_Of_ Damon _learn to win the Prize;_
_He’ll shew you all its tend’rest part,_
_And where its greatest Danger lies;_
_The Magazine of its Disdain,_
_Where Honour, feebly guarded, does remain._
_If present, do but little say;_
_Enough the silent Lover speaks:_
_But wait, and sigh, and gaze all day;_
_Such Rhet’rick more than Language takes._
_For Words the dullest way do move;_
_And utter’d more to shew your Wit than Love._
_Let your Eyes tell her of your Heart;_
_Its Story is, for Words, too delicate._
_Souls thus exchange, and thus impart,_
_And all their Secrets can relate._
_A Tear, a broken Sigh, she’ll understand;_
_Or the soft trembling Pressings of the Hand._
_Or if your Pain must be in Words exprest,_
_Let ‘em fall gently, unassur’d and slow;_
_And where they fail, your Looks may tell the rest:_
_Thus_ Damon _spoke, and I was conquer’d so._
_The witty Talker has mistook his Art;_
_The modest Lover only charms the Heart._
_Thus, while all day you gazing sit,_
_And fear to speak, and fear your Fate,_
_You more Advantages by Silence get,_
_Than the gay forward Youth with all his Prate._
_Let him be silent here; but when away,_
_Whatever Love can dictate, let him say._
_There let the bashful Soul unveil,_
_And give a loose to Love and Truth:_
_Let him improve the amorous Tale,_
_With all the Force of Words, and Fire of Youth:_
_There all, and any thing let him express;_
_Too long he cannot write, too much confess._
O _Damon_! How well have you made me understand this soft Pleasure! You
know my Tenderness too well, not to be sensible how I am charmed with
your agreeable long Letters.
The Invention.
_Ah! he who first found out the way_
_Souls to each other to convey,_
_Without dull Speaking, sure must be_
_Something above Humanity._
_Let the fond World in vain dispute,_
_And the first Sacred Mystery impute_
_Of Letters to the learned Brood,_
_And of the Glory cheat a God:_
_’.was_ Love _alone that first the Art essay’d,_ }
_And_ Psyche _was the first fair yielding Maid,_ }
_That was by the dear_ Billetdoux _betray’d._ }
It is an Art too ingenious to have been found out by Man, and too
necessary to Lovers, not to have been invented by the God of Love
himself. But, _Damon_, I do not pretend to exact from you those Letters
of Gallantry, which, I have told you, are filled with nothing but fine
Thoughts, and writ with all the Arts of Wit and Subtilty: I would
have yours still all tender unaffected Love, Words unchosen, Thoughts
unstudied, and Love unfeign’d. I had rather find more Softness than Wit
in your Passion; more of Nature than of Art; more of the Lover than the
Poet.
Nor would I have you write any of those little short Letters, that are
read over in a Minute; in Love, long Letters bring a long Pleasure: Do
not trouble your self to make ‘em fine, or write a great deal of Wit
and Sense in a few Lines; that is the Notion of a witty Billet, in any
Affair but that of Love. And have a care rather to avoid these Graces
to a Mistress; and assure your self, dear _Damon_, that what pleases
the Soul pleases the Eye, and the Largeness or Bulk of your Letter
shall never offend me; and that I only am displeased when I find them
small. A Letter is ever the best and most powerful Agent to a Mistress,
it almost always persuades, ‘tis always renewing little Impressions,
that possibly otherwise Absence would deface. Make use then, _Damon_,
of your Time while it is given you, and thank me that I permit you
to write to me: Perhaps I shall not always continue in the Humour of
suffering you to do so; and it may so happen, by some turn of Chance
and Fortune, that you may be deprived, at the same time, both of my
Presence, and of the Means of sending to me. I will believe that such
an Accident would be a great Misfortune to you, for I have often heard
you say, that, ‘To make the most happy Lover suffer Martyrdom, one need
only forbid him Seeing, Speaking and Writing to the Object he loves.’
Take all the Advantages then you can, you cannot give me too often
Marks too powerful of your Passion: Write therefore during this Hour,
every Day. I give you leave to believe, that while you do so, you are
serving me the most obligingly and agreeably you can, while absent;
and that you are giving me a Remedy against all Grief, Uneasiness,
Melancholy, and Despair; nay, if you exceed your Hour, you need not
be asham’d. The Time you employ in this kind Devoir, is the Time that
I shall be grateful for, and no doubt will recompense it. You ought
not however to neglect Heaven for me; I will give you time for your
Devotion, for my _Watch_ tells you ‘tis time to go to the Temple.
TWELVE o’.LOCK.
_Indispensible Duty._
There are certain Duties which one ought never to neglect: That of
adoring the Gods is of this nature; and which we ought to pay, from
the bottom of our Hearts: And that, _Damon_, is the only time I will
dispense with your not thinking on me. But I would not have you go to
one of those Temples, where the celebrated Beauties, and those that
make a profession of Gallantry, go; and who come thither only to see,
and be seen; and whither they repair, more to shew their Beauty and
Dress, than to honour the Gods. If you will take my advice, and oblige
my wish, you shall go to those that are least frequented, and you shall
appear there like a Man that has a perfect Veneration for all things
Sacred.
The Instruction.
Damon, _if your Heart and Flame,_
_You wish, should always be the same,_
_Do not give it leave to rove,_
_Nor expose it to new Harms:_
_Ere you think on’t, you may love,_
_If you gaze on Beauty’s Charms:_
_If with me you wou’d not part,_
_Turn your Eyes into your Heart._
_If you find a new Desire_
_In your easy Soul take fire,_
_From the tempting Ruin fly;_
_Think it faithless, think it base:_
_Fancy soon will fade and die,_
_If you wisely cease to gaze._
_Lovers should have Honour too,_
_Or they pay but half Love’s due._
_Do not to the Temple go,_
_With design to gaze or show:_
_Whate’er Thoughts you have abroad,_
_Tho’ you can deceive elsewhere,_
_There’s no feigning with your God;_
_Souls should be all perfect there._
_The Heart that’s to the Altar brought,_
_Only Heaven should fill its Thought._
_Do not your sober Thoughts perplex,_
_By gazing on the Ogling Sex:_
_Or if Beauty call your Eyes,_
_Do not on the Object dwell;_
_Guard your Heart from the Surprize,_
_By thinking_ Iris _doth excell._
_Above all Earthly Things I’d be,_ }
Damon, _most belov’d by thee;_ }
_And only Heaven must rival me._ }
ONE o’.LOCK.
_Forc’d Entertainment._
I Perceive it will be very difficult for you to quit the Temple,
without being surrounded with Compliments from People of Ceremony,
Friends, and Newsmongers, and several of those sorts of Persons, who
afflict and busy themselves, and rejoice at a hundred things they have
no Interest in; Coquets and Politicians, who make it the Business
of their whole Lives, to gather all the News of the Town; adding
or diminishing according to the Stock of their Wit and Invention,
and spreading it all abroad to the believing Fools and Gossips; and
perplexing every body with a hundred ridiculous Novels, which they
pass off for Wit and Entertainment; or else some of those Recounters
of Adventures, that are always telling of Intrigues, and that make
a Secret to a hundred People of a thousand foolish things they have
heard: Like a certain pert and impertinent Lady of the Town, whose
Youth and Beauty being past, sets up for Wit, to uphold a feeble Empire
over idle Hearts; and whose Character is this:
The Coquet.
Melinda, _who had never been_
_Esteem’d a Beauty at fifteen,_
_Always amorous was, and kind:_
_To every Swain she lent an Ear;_
_Free as Air, but false as Wind;_
_Yet none complain’d, she was severe._
_She eas’d more than she made complain;_
_Was always singing, pert, and vain._
_Where-e’er the Throng was, she was seen,_
_And swept the Youths along the Green;_
_With equal Grace she flatter’d all;_
_And fondly proud of all Address,_
_Her Smiles invite, her Eyes do call,_
_And her vain Heart her Looks confess._
_She rallies this, to that she bow’d,_
_Was talking ever, laughing loud._
_On every side she makes advance,_
_And every where a Confidence;_
_She tells for Secrets all she knows,_
_And all to know she does pretend:_
_Beauty in Maids she treats as Foes:_
_But every handsome Youth as Friend._
_Scandal still passes off for Truth;_
_And Noise and Nonsense, Wit and Youth._
Coquet _all o’er, and every part,_
_Yet wanting Beauty, even of Art;_
_Herds with the ugly, and the old;_
_And plays the Critick on the rest:_
_Of Men, the bashful, and the bold,_
_Either, and all, by turns, likes best:_
_Even now, tho’ Youth be langisht, she_
_Sets up for Love and Gallantry._
This sort of Creature, _Damon_, is very dangerous; not that I fear
you will squander away a Heart upon her, but your Hours; for in
spight of you, she’ll detain you with a thousand Impertinencies, and
eternal Tattle. She passes for a judging Wit; and there is nothing so
troublesome as such a Pretender. She, perhaps, may get some knowledge
of our Correspondence; and then, no doubt, will improve it to my
Disadvantage. Possibly she may rail at me; that is her fashion by
the way of friendly Speaking; and an aukward Commendation, the most
effectual way of Defaming and Traducing. Perhaps she tells you, in a
cold Tone, that you are a happy Man to be belov’d by me: That _Iris_
indeed is handsome, and she wonders she has no more Lovers; but the
Men are not of her mind; if they were, you should have more Rivals.
She commends my Face, but that I have blue Eyes, and ‘tis pity my
Complexion is no better: My Shape but too much inclining to fat.
Cries--She would charm infinitely with her Wit, but that she knows too
well she is Mistress of it. And concludes,--But all together she is
well enough.--Thus she runs on without giving you leave to edge in a
word in my defence; and ever and anon crying up her own Conduct and
Management: Tells you how she is opprest with Lovers, and fatigu’d
with Addresses; and recommending her self, at every turn, with a
perceivable Cunning: And all the while is jilting you of your good
Opinion; which she would buy at the price of any body’s Repose, or
her own Fame, tho’ but for the Vanity of adding to the number of
her Lovers. When she sees a new Spark, the first thing she does, she
enquires into his Estate; if she find it such as may (if the Coxcomb
be well manag’d) supply her Vanity, she makes advances to him, and
applies her self to those little Arts she usually makes use of to gain
her Fools; and according to his Humour dresses and affects her own.
But, _Damon_, since I point to no particular Person in this Character,
I will not name who you shall avoid; but all of this sort I conjure
you, wheresoever you find ‘em. But if unlucky Chance throw you in their
way, hear all they say, without credit or regard, as far as Decency
will suffer you; hear ‘em without approving their Foppery; and hear ‘em
without giving ‘em cause to censure you. But ‘tis so much Time lost to
listen to all the Novels this sort of People will perplex you with;
whose Business is to be idle, and who even tire themselves with their
own Impertinencies. And be assur’d after all there is nothing they can
tell you that is worth your knowing. And _Damon_, a perfect Lover never
asks any News but of the Maid he loves.
The Enquiry.
Damon, _if your Love be true_
_To the Heart that you possess,_
_Tell me what have you to do_
_Where you have no Tenderness?_
_Her Affairs who cares to learn,_
_For whom he has not some Concern?_
_If a Lover fain would know_
_If the Object lov’d be true,_
_Let her but industrious be_
_To watch his Curiosity;_
_Tho’ ne’er so cold his Questions seem,_
_They come from warmer Thoughts within._
_When I hear a Swain enquire_
_What gay_ Melinda _does to live,_
_I conclude there is some Fire_
_In a Heart inquisitive;_
_Or ‘tis, at least, the Bill that’s set_
_To shew_, The Heart is to be let.
TWO o’.LOCK.
_Dinner-Time._
Leave all those fond Entertainments, or you will disoblige me, and
make Dinner wait for you; for my _Cupid_ tells you ‘tis that Hour.
_Love_ does not pretend to make you lose that; nor is it my Province to
order you your Diet. Here I give you a perfect Liberty to do what you
please; and possibly, ‘tis the only Hour in the whole four and twenty
that I will absolutely resign you, or dispense with your even so much
as thinking on me. ‘Tis true, in seating your self at Table, I would
not have you placed over-against a very beautiful Object; for in such
a one there are a thousand little Graces in Speaking, Looking, and
Laughing that fail not to charm, if one gives way to the Eyes, to gaze
and wander that way; in which, perhaps, in spight of you, you will find
a Pleasure: And while you do so, tho’ without design or concern, you
give the fair Charmer a sort of Vanity, in believing you have placed
your self there, only for the advantage of looking on her; and she
assumes a hundred little Graces and Affectations which are not natural
to her, to compleat a Conquest, which she believes so well begun
already. She softens her Eyes, and sweetens her Mouth; and in fine,
puts on another Air than when she had no Design, and when you did not,
by your continual looking on her, rouze her Vanity, and encrease her
easy Opinion of her own Charms. Perhaps she knows I have some Interest
in your Heart, and prides her self, at least, with believing she has
attracted the Eyes of my Lover, if not his Heart; and thinks it easy to
vanquish the whole, if she pleases; and triumphs over me in her secret
Imaginations. Remember, _Damon_, that while you act thus in the Company
and Conversation of other Beauties, every Look or Word you give in
favour of ‘em, is an Indignity to my Reputation; and which you cannot
suffer if you love me truly, and with Honour: and assure your self,
so much Vanity as you inspire in her, so much Fame you rob me of; for
whatever Praises you give another Beauty, so much you take away from
mine. Therefore, if you dine in Company, do as others do: Be generally
civil, not applying your self by Words or Looks to any particular
Person: Be as gay as you please: Talk and laugh with all, for this is
not the Hour for Chagrin.
The Permission.