I did my Soul Incline
To thy Soft Charmes of Eloquence,
And gave thee what was mine.
I had not one Reserve in Store,
But at thy Feet I lay’d
Those Arms that Conquer’d heretofore,
Tho’ now thy Trophies made.
IV.
Thy Eyes in Silence told their Tale
Of Love in such a way,
That ‘twas as easie to Prevail,
As after to Betray.
And when you spoke my Listning Soul,
Was on the Flattery Hung:
And I was lost without Controul,
Such Musick grac’d thy Tongue.
V.
Alas how long in vain you strove
My coldness to divert!
How long besieg’d it round with Love,
Before you won the Heart.
What Arts you us’d, what Presents made,
What Songs, what Letters writ:
And left no Charm that cou’d invade,
Or with your Eyes or Wit.
VI.
Till by such Obligations Prest,
By such dear Perjuries won:
I heedlesly Resign’d the rest,
And quickly was undone.
For as my Kindling Flames increase,
Yours glimeringly decay:
The Rifled Joys no more can Please,
That once oblig’d your Stay.
VII.
Witness ye Springs, ye Meads and Groves,
Who oft were conscious made
To all our Hours and Vows of Love;
Witness how I’m Betray’d.
Trees drop your Leaves, be Gay no more,
Ye Rivers waste and drye:
Whilst on your Melancholy Shore,
I lay me down and dye.
SONG.
_To Pesibles Tune._
I.
‘Twas when the Fields were gay,
The Groves and every Tree:
Just when the God of Day,
Grown weary of his Sway,
Descended to the Sea,
And Gloomy Light around did all the World survey.
‘Twas then the Hapless Swain,
_Amyntas_, to Complain
Of _Silvia’s_ cold Disdain,
Retir’d to Silent Shades;
Where by a Rivers Side,
His Tears did swell the Tide,
As he upon the Brink was lay’d.
II.
Ye Gods, he often cry’d,
Why did your Powers design
In _Silvia_ so much Pride,
Such Falshood too beside,
With Beauty so Divine?
Why should so much of Hell with so much Heaven joyn?
Be witness every Shade,
How oft the lovely Maid
Her tender Vows has paid;
Yet with the self-same Breath,
With which so oft before,
And solemnly she swore,
Pronounces now _Amyntas_ Death.
III.
But, Charming _Nymph_, beware,
Whilst _I_ your Victim die,
Some One, my Perjur’d Fair,
Revenging my Despair,
Will prove as false to thee;
Which yet my wandring Ghost wou’d look more pale to see.
For I shall break my Tomb,
And nightly as I rome,
Shall to my _Silvia_ come,
And show the Piteous Sight;
My bleeding Bosom too,
Which wounds were given by you;
Then vanish in the Shades of Night.
SONG.
_On her Loving Two Equally._
_Set by Captain_ Pack.
I.
How strongly does my Passion flow,
Divided equally ‘twixt two?
_Damon_ had ne’er subdu’d my Heart,
Had not _Alexis_ took his part;
Nor cou’d _Alexis_ pow’rful prove.
Without my _Damons_ Aid, to gain my Love.
II.
When my _Alexis_ present is,
Then I for _Damon_ sigh and mourn;
But when _Alexis_ I do miss,
_Damon_ gains nothing but my Scorn.
But if it chance they both are by,
For both alike I languish, sigh, and die.
III.
Cure then, thou mighty winged God,
This restless Feaver in my Blood;
One Golden-Pointed Dart take back:
But which, O _Cupid_, wilt thou take?
If _Damons_, all my Hopes are crost;
Or that of my _Alexis_, I am lost.
_The Counsel._ A Song.
_Set by Captain_ Pack.
I.
A Pox upon this needless Scorn:
_Sylvia_, for shame the Cheat give o’er:
The End to which the Fair are born,
Is not to keep their Charms in store:
But lavishly dispose in haste
Of Joys which none but Youth improve;
Joys which decay when Beauty’s past;
And who, when Beauty’s past, will love?
II.
When Age those Glories shall deface,
Revenging all your cold Disdain;
And _Sylvia_ shall neglected pass,
By every once-admiring Swain;
And we no more shall Homage pay:
When you in vain too late shall burn,
If Love increase, and Youth decay,
Ah _Sylvia_! who will make Return?
III.
Then haste, my _Sylvia_, to the Grove,
Where all the Sweets of _May_ conspire
To teach us ev’ry Art of Love,
And raise our Joys of Pleasure higher:
Where while embracing we shall lie
Loosly in Shades on Beds of Flow’rs,
The duller World while we defie,
Years will be Minutes, Ages Hours.
SONG.
_The Surprize._
_Set by Mr._ Farmer.
I.
_Phillis_, whose Heart was Unconfin’d,
And free as Flow’rs on Meads and Plains,
None boasted of her being Kind,
‘Mong’st all the languishing and amorous Swains.
No Sighs or Tears the _Nymph_ cou’d move,
To pity or return their Love.
II.
Till on a time the hapless Maid
Retir’d to shun the Heat o’th’ Day
Into a Grove, beneath whose shade
_Strephon_ the careless _Shepherd_ sleeping lay:
But O such Charms the Youth adorn,
Love is reveng’d for all her Scorn.
III.
Her Cheeks with Blushes cover’d were,
And tender Sighs her Bosom warm,
A Softness in her Eyes appear;
Unusual Pain she feels from ev’ry Charm:
To Woods and Ecchoes now she cries,
For Modesty to speak denies.
SONG.
I.
Ah! what can mean that eager Joy
Transports my Heart when you appear?
Ah, _Strephon_! you my Thoughts imploy
In all that’s Charming, all that’s Dear.
When you your pleasing Story tell,
A Softness does invade each Part,
And I with Blushes own I feel
Something too tender at my Heart.
II.
At your approach my Blushes rise,
And I at once both wish and fear;
My wounded Soul mounts to my Eyes,
As it would prattle Stories there.
Take, take that Heart that needs must go;
But, _Shepherd_, see it kindly us’d:
For who such Presents will bestow,
If this, alas! should be abus’d?
_The Invitation_: A Song.
_To a New Scotch Tune._
I.
Come, my _Phillis_, let us improve
Both our Joyes of Equal Love:
While we in yonder Shady Grove,
Count Minutes by our Kisses.
See the Flowers how sweetly they spread,
And each Resigns his Gawdy Head,
To make for us a Fragrant Bed,
To practice o’er New Blisses.
II.
The Sun it self with Love does conspire,
And sends abroad his ardent Fire,
And kindly seems to bid us retire,
And shade us from his Glory;
Then come, my _Phillis_, do not fear;
All that your Swain desires there,
Is by those Eyes anew to swear
How much he does adore ye.
III.
_Phillis_, in vain you shed those Tears;
Why do you blush? Oh speak your Fears!
There’s none but your _Amyntas_ hears:
What means this pretty Passion?
Can you fear your Favours will cloy
Those that the Blessing does enjoy?
Ah no! such needless Thoughts destroy:
This Nicety’s out of Fashion.
IV.
When thou hast done, by _Pan_ I swear,
Thou wilt unto my Eyes appear
A thousand times more Charming and Fair,
Then thou wert to my first Desire:
That Smile was kind, and now thou’rt wise,
To throw away this Coy Disguise,
And by the vigor of thy Eyes,
Declare thy Youth and Fire.
_Silvio’s Complaint_: A Song.
_To a Fine Scotch Tune._
I.
In the Blooming Time o’th’ year,
In the Royal Month of _May_:
Au the Heaves were glad and clear,
Au the Earth was Fresh and Gay.
A noble Youth but all Forlorn,
Lig’d Sighing by a Spring:
‘Twere better I’s was nere Born,
Ere wisht to be a King.
II.
Then from his Starry Eyne,
Muckle Showers of Christal Fell:
To bedew the Roses Fine,
That on his Cheeks did dwell.
And ever ‘twixt his Sighs he’d cry,
How Bonny a Lad I’d been,
Had I, weys me, nere Aim’d high,
Or wisht to be a King.
III.
With Dying Clowdy Looks,
Au the Fields and Groves he kens:
Au the Gleeding Murmuring Brooks,
(Noo his Unambitious Friends)
Tol which he eance with Mickle Cheer
His Bleating Flocks woud bring:
And crys, woud God I’d dy’d here,
Ere wisht to be a King.
IV.
How oft in Yonder Mead,
Cover’d ore with Painted Flowers:
Au the Dancing Youth I’ve led,
Where we past our Blether Hours.
In Yonder Shade, in Yonder Grove,
How Blest the _Nymphs_ have been:
Ere I for Pow’r Debaucht Love,
Or wisht to be a King.
V.
Not add the _Arcadian Swains_,
In their Pride and Glory Clad:
Not au the Spacious Plains,
Ere cou’d Boast a Bleether Lad.
When ere I Pip’d, or Danc’d, or Ran,
Or leapt, or whirl’d the Sling:
The Flowry Wreaths I still won,
And wisht to be a King.
VI.
But Curst be yon Tall Oak,
And Old _Thirsis_ be accurst:
There I first my peace forsook,
There I learnt Ambition first.
Such Glorious Songs of _Hero’s_ Crown’d,
The Restless Swain woud Sing:
My Soul unknown desires found,
And Languisht to be King.
VII.
Ye Garlands, wither now,
Fickle Glories, vanish all:
Ye Wreaths that deckt my Brow,
To the ground neglected fall.
No more my sweet Repose molest,
Nor to my Fancies bring
The Golden Dreams of being Blest
With Titles of a King.
VIII.
Ye Noble Youths, beware,
Shun Ambitious powerful Tales:
Distructive, False, and Fair,
Like the Oceans Flattering Gales.
See how my Youth and Glories lye,
Like Blasted Flowers i’th’ Spring:
My Fame, Renown, and all dye,
For wishing to be King.
_In Imitation of_ Horace.
I.
What mean those Amorous Curles of Jet?
For what Heart-Ravisht Maid
Dost thou thy Hair in order set,
Thy Wanton Tresses Braid?
And thy vast Store of Beauties open lay,
That the deluded Fancy leads astray.
II.
For pitty hide thy Starry eyes,
Whose Languishments destroy:
And look not on the Slave that dyes
With an Excess of Joy.
Defend thy Coral Lips, thy Amber Breath;
To taste these Sweets lets in a Certain Death.
III.
Forbear, fond Charming Youth, forbear,
Thy words of Melting Love:
Thy Eyes thy Language well may spare,
One Dart enough can move.
And she that hears thy voice and sees thy Eyes
With too much Pleasure, too much Softness dies.
IV.
Cease, Cease, with Sighs to warm my Soul,
Or press me with thy Hand:
Who can the kindling fire controul,
The tender force withstand?
Thy Sighs and Touches like wing’d Lightning fly,
And are the Gods of Loves Artillery.
_To_ Lysander, _who made some Verses on a Discourse of Loves Fire._
I.
In vain, dear Youth, you say you love,
And yet my Marks of Passion blame:
Since Jealousie alone can prove,
The surest Witness of my Flame:
And she who without that, a Love can vow,
Believe me, _Shepherd_, does not merit you.
II.
Then give me leave to doubt, that Fire
I kindle, may another warm:
A Face that cannot move Desire,
May serve at least to end the Charm:
Love else were Witchcraft, that on malice bent,
Denies ye Joys, or makes ye Impotent.
III.
‘Tis true, when Cities are on Fire,
Men never wait for Christal Springs;
But to the Neighb’ring Pools retire;
Which nearest, best Assistance brings;
And serves as well to quench the raging Flame,
As if from God-delighting Streams it came.
IV.
A Fancy strong may do the Feat
Yet this to Love a Riddle is,
And shows that Passion but a Cheat;
Which Men but with their Tongues Confess.
For ‘tis a Maxime in Loves learned School,
Who blows the Fire, the flame can only Rule.
V.
Though Honour does your Wish deny,
Honour! the Foe to your Repose;
Yet ‘tis more Noble far to dye,
Then break Loves known and Sacred Laws:
What Lover wou’d pursue a single Game,
That cou’d amongst the Fair deal out his flame?
VI.
Since then, _Lysander_, you desire,
_Amynta_ only to adore;
Take in no Partners to your Fire,
For who well Loves, that Loves one more?
And if such Rivals in your Heart I find,
Tis in My Power to die, but not be kind.
_A Dialogue for an Entertainment at Court, between_ Damon _and_ Sylvia.
_Damon._
Ah, _Sylvia_! if I still pursue,
Whilst you in vain your Scorn improve;
What wonders might your Eies not do:
If they would dress themselves in _Love_.
_Sylvia._
_Shepherd_, you urge my Love in vain,
For I can ne’er Reward your pain;
_A Slave_ each Smile of mine can win,
And all my softning Darts,
When e’er I please, can bring me in
A Thousand Yeilding Hearts.
_Damon._
Yet if those _Slaves_ you treat with Cruelty,
‘Tis an Inglorious Victory;
And those unhappy _Swaines_ you so subdue,
May Learn at last to scorn, as well as you;
Your Beauty though the Gods design’d
Shou’d be Ador’d by all below;
Yet if you want a God-like Pittying Mind,
Our Adoration soon will colder grow:
‘Tis Pitty makes a Deity,
Ah, _Sylvia_! daine to pitty me,
And I will worship none but thee.
_Sylvia._
Perhaps I may your Councel take,
And Pitty, tho’ not Love, for _Damons_ sake;
Love is a Flame my Heart ne’er knew,
Nor knows how to begin to burn for you.
_Damon._
Ah, _Sylvia_, who’s the happy _Swain_,
For whom that Glory you ordain!
Has _Strephon_, _Pithius_, _Hilus_, more
Of Youth, of Love, or Flocks a greater store?
My flame pursues you too, with that Address,
Which they want Passion to Profess:
Ah then make some Returns my Charming _Shepherdess_.
_Sylvia._
Too Faithful _Shepherd_, I will try my Heart,
And if I can will give you part.
_Damon._
Oh that was like your self exprest,
Give me but part, and I will steal the rest.
_Sylvia._
Take care, _Young Swain_, you treat it well,
If you wou’d have it in your Bosom dwell;
Now let us to the Shades Retreat,
Where all the _Nymphs_ and _Shepherds_ meet.
_Damon._
And give me there your leave my Pride to show,
For having but the hopes of Conquering you;
Where all the _Swaines_ shall Passion learn of me:
And all the _Nymphs_ to bless like thee.
_Sylvia._
Where every Grace I will bestow,
And every Look and Smile, shall show
How much above the rest I vallue you.
_Damon._
And I those Blessings will improve;
By constant Faith, and tender Love.
[_A Chorus of Satyrs and Nymphs
made by another hand._]
_On Mr._ J. H. _In a Fit of Sickness._
I.
If when the God of Day retires,
The Pride of all the Spring decays and dies:
Wanting those Life-begetting Fires
From whence they draw their Excellencies;
Each little Flower hangs down its Gawdy Head,
Losing the Luster which it did Retain;
No longer will its fragrant face be spread,
But Languishes into a Bud again:
So with the Sighing Crowd it fares
Since you, _Amyntas_, have your Eies withdrawn,
Ours Lose themselves in Silent Tears,
Our days are Melancholy Dawn;
The _Groves_ are Unfrequented now,
The Shady Walks are all Forlorn;
Who still were throng to gaze on you:
With Nymphs, whom your Retirement has undone.
II.
Our Bag-pipes now away are flung,
Our Flocks a Wandering go;
Garlands neglected on the Boughs are hung,
That us’d to adorn each Chearful Brow,
Forsaken looks the enameld _May_:
And all its wealth Uncourted dies;
Each little Bird forgets its wonted Lay,
That Sung Good Morrow to the welcome Day.
Or rather to thy Lovely Eies.
The Cooling Streams do backward glide:
Since on their Banks they saw not thee,
Losing the Order of their Tide,
And Murmuring chide thy Cruelty;
Then hast to lose themselves i’th’ Angry Sea.
III.
Thus every thing in its Degree,
Thy sad Retreat Deplore;
Hast then _Amyntas_, and Restore;
The whole Worlds Loss in thee.
For like an Eastern Monarch, when you go,
(If such a Fate the World must know)
A Beautious and a Numerous Host
Of Love-sick Maids, will wait upon thy Ghost;
And Death that Secret will Reveal,
Which Pride and Shame did here Conceal;
Live then thou Lovelyest of the Plaines,
Thou Beauty of the Envying _Swaines_;
Whose Charms even Death it self wou’d court,
And of his Solemn Business make a Sport.
IV.
In Pitty to each Sighing Maid,
Revive, come forth, be Gay and Glad;
Let the Young God of Love implore,
In Pity lend him Darts,
For when thy Charming Eies shall shoot no more;
He’ll lose his Title of the God of Hearts.
In Pity to _Astrea_ live,
_Astrea_, whom from all the Sighing Throng,
You did your oft-won Garlands give:
For which she paid you back in Grateful Song:
_Astrea_ who did still the Glory boast,
To be ador’d by thee, and to adore thee most.
V.
With Pride she saw her Rivals Sigh and Pine,
And vainly cry’d, The lovely Youth is mine!
By all thy Charms _I_ do Conjure thee, live;
By all the Joys thou canst receive, and give:
By each Recess and Shade where thou and I,
Loves Secrets did Unfold;
And did the dull Unloving World defy:
Whilst each the Hearts fond Story told.
If all these Conjurations nought Prevail,
Not Prayers or Sighs, or Tears avail,
But Heaven has Destin’d we Depriv’d must be,
Of so much _Youth_, _Wit_, _Beauty_, and of Thee;
I will the Deaf and Angry Powers defie,
Curse thy Decease, Bless thee, and with thee die.
_To_ Lysander, _on some Verses he writ, and asking more for his Heart
then ‘twas worth._
I.
Take back that Heart, you with such Caution give,
Take the fond valu’d Trifle back;
I hate Love-Merchants that a Trade wou’d drive;
And meanly cunning Bargains make.
II.
I care not how the busy Market goes,
And scorn to Chaffer for a price:
Love does one Staple Rate on all impose,
Nor leaves it to the Traders Choice.
III.
A Heart requires a Heart Unfeign’d and True,
Though Subt’ly you advance the Price,
And ask a Rate that Simple Love ne’er knew:
And the free Trade Monopolize.
IV.
An Humble _Slave_ the Buyer must become,
She must not bate a Look or Glance,
You will have all, or you’ll have none;
See how Loves Market you inhaunce.
V.
Is’t not enough, I gave you Heart for Heart,
But I must add my Lips and Eies;
I must no friendly Smile or Kiss impart;
But you must _Dun_ me with Advice.
VI.
And every Hour still more unjust you grow,
Those Freedoms you my life deny,
You to _Adraste_ are oblig’d to show,
And give her all my Rifled Joy.
VII.
Without Controul she gazes on that Face,
And all the happy Envyed Night,
In the pleas’d Circle of your fond imbrace:
She takes away the Lovers Right.
VIII.
From me she Ravishes those silent hours,
That are by Sacred Love my due;
Whilst _I_ in vain accuse the angry Powers,
That make me hopeless Love pursue.
IX.
_Adrastes_ Ears with that dear Voice are blest,
That Charms my Soul at every Sound,
And with those _Love-Inchanting_ Touches prest,
Which _I_ ne’er felt without a Wound.
X.
She has thee all: whilst _I_ with silent Greif,
The Fragments of thy Softness feel,
Yet dare not blame the happy licenc’d Thief:
That does my Dear-bought Pleasures steal.
XI.
Whilst like a Glimering Taper still _I_ burn,
And waste my self in my own flame,
_Adraste_ takes the welcome rich Return:
And leaves me all the hopeless Pain.
XII.
Be just, my lovely _Swain_, and do not take
Freedoms you’ll not to me allow;
Or give _Amynta_ so much Freedom back:
That she may Rove as well as you.
XIII.
Let us then love upon the honest Square,
Since Interest neither have design’d,
For the sly Gamester, who ne’er plays me fair,
Must Trick for Trick expect to find.
_To the Honourable_ Edward Howard, _on his Comedy called The New_
Utopia.
I.
Beyond the Merit of the Age,
You have adorn’d the Stage;
So from rude Farce, to Comick Order brought,
Each Action, and each Thought;
To so Sublime a Method, as yet none
(But Mighty _Ben_ alone)
Cou’d e’er arive, and he at distance too;
Were he alive he must resign to you:
You have out-done what e’er he writ,
In this last great Example of your Wit.
Your _Solymour_ does his _Morose_ destroy,
And your _Black Page_ undoes his _Barbers Boy_;
All his Collegiate Ladies must retire,
While we thy braver _Heroins_ do admire.
This new _Utopia_ rais’d by thee,
Shall stand a Structure to be wondered at,
And men shall cry, this--this--is he
Who that Poetick City did create:
Of which _Moor_ only did the Model draw,
You did Compleat that little World, and gave it Law.
II.
If you too great a Prospect doe allow
To those whom Ignorance does at distance Seat,
‘Tis not to say, the Object is less great,
But they want sight to apprehend it so:
The ancient Poets in their times,
When thro’ the Peopl’d Streets they sung their Rhimes,
Found small applause; they sung but still were poor;
Repeated Wit enough at every door.
T’have made ‘em demy Gods! but ‘twou’d not do,
Till Ages more refin’d esteem’d ‘em so.
The Modern Poets have with like Success,
Quitted the Stage, and Sallyed from the Press.
Great _Johnson_ scarce a Play brought forth,
But Monster-like it frighted at its Birth:
Yet he continued still to write,
And still his Satyr did more sharply bite.
He writ tho certain of his Doom,
Knowing his Pow’r in Comedy:
To please a wiser Age to come:
And though he Weapons wore to Justify
The reasons of his Pen; he cou’d not bring,
Dull Souls to Sense by Satyr, nor by Cudgelling.
III.
In vain the Errors of the Times,
You strive by wholesom Precepts to Confute,
Not all your Pow’r in Prose or Rhimes,
Can finish the Dispute:
‘Twixt those that damn, and those that do admire:
The heat of your Poetick fire.
Your Soul of Thought you may imploy
A Nobler way,
Then in revenge upon a Multitude,
Whose Ignorance only makes ‘em rude.
Shou’d you that Justice do,
You must for ever bid adieu,
To Poetry divine,
And ev’ry Muse o’th’ Nine:
For Malice then with Ignorance would join,
And so undo the World and You:
So ravish from us that delight,
Of seeing the Wonders which you Write:
And all your Glories unadmir’d must lye,
As Vestal Beauties are Intomb’d before they dye.
IV.
Consider and Consult your Wit,
Despise those Ills you must indure:
And raise your Scorne as great as it,
Be Confident and then Secure.
And let your rich-fraught Pen,
Adventure our again;
Maugre the Stormes that do opose its course,
Stormes that destroy without remorse:
It may new Worlds decry,
Which Peopl’d from thy Brain may know
More than the Universe besides can show:
More Arts of Love, and more of Gallantry.
Write on! and let not after Ages say,
The Whistle or rude Hiss cou’d lay
Thy mighty Spright of Poetry,
Which but the Fools and Guilty fly;
Who dare not in thy Mirror see
Their own Deformity:
Where thou in two, the World dost Character,
Since most of Men Sir _Graves_, or _Peacocks_ are.
V.
And shall that Muse that did ere while,
Chant forth the Glories of the British Isle,
Shall shee who lowder was than Fame;
Now useless lie, and tame?
Shee who late made the _Amazons_ so Great,
And shee who Conquered _Scythia_ too;
(Which _Alexander_ ne’re cou’d do)
Will you permitt her to retreat?
Silence will like Submission show:
And give Advantage to the Foe!
Undaunted let her once gain appear,
And let her lowdly Sing in every Ear:
Then like thy Mistris Eyes, who have the skill,
Both to preserve and kill;
So thou at once maist be revenged on those
That are thy Foes,
And on thy Friends such Obligations lay,
As nothing but the Deed the Doer can repay.
_To_ Lysander _at the_ Musick-Meeting.
It was too much, ye Gods, to see and hear;
Receiving wounds both from the Eye and Ear:
One Charme might have secur’d a Victory,
Both, rais’d the Pleasure even to Extasie:
So Ravisht Lovers in each others Armes,
Faint with excess of Joy, excess of Charmes:
Had I but gaz’d and fed my greedy Eyes,
Perhaps you’d pleas’d no farther than surprize.
That Heav’nly Form might Admiration move,
But, not without the _Musick_, charm’d with _Love_:
At least so quick the Conquest had not been;
You storm’d without, and Harmony within:
Nor cou’d I listen to the sound alone,
But I alas must look--and was undone:
I saw the Softness that compos’d your Face,
While your Attention heightend every Grace:
Your Mouth all full of Sweetness and Content,
And your fine killing Eyes of Languishment:
Your Bosom now and then a sigh wou’d move,
(For _Musick_ has the same effects with Love.)
Your Body easey and all tempting lay, }
Inspiring wishes which the Eyes betray, }
In all that have the fate to glance that way: }
A careless and a lovely Negligence,
Did a new Charm to every Limb dispence:
So look young Angels, Listening to the sound,
When the Tun’d Spheres Glad all the Heav’ns around:
So Raptur’d lie amidst the wondering Crowd,
So Charmingly Extended on a Cloud.
When from so many ways Loves Arrows storm, }
Who can the heedless Heart defend from harm? }
Beauty and _Musick_ must the Soul disarme; }
Since Harmony, like Fire to Wax, does fit
The softned Heart Impressions to admit:
As the brisk sounds of Warr the Courage move,
Musick prepares and warms the Soul to Love.
But when the kindling Sparks such Fuel meet,
No wonder if the Flame inspir’d be great.
_An_ Ode _to_ Love.
I.
Dull Love no more thy Senceless Arrows prize,
Damn thy Gay Quiver, break thy Bow;
‘Tis only young _Lysanders_ Eyes,
That all the Arts of Wounding know.
II.
A Pox of Foolish Politicks in Love,
A wise delay in Warr the Foe may harme:
By Lazy Siege while you to Conquest move;
His fiercer Beautys vanquish by a Storme.
III.
Some wounded God, to be reveng’d on thee,
The Charming Youth form’d in a _lucky_ houre,
Drest him in all that fond Divinity,
That has out-Rivall’d thee, a God, in Pow’r.
IV.
Or else while thou supinely laid
Basking beneath som Mirtle shade,
In careless sleepe, or tir’d with play,
When all thy Shafts did scatterd ly;
Th’unguarded Spoyles he bore away,
And Arm’d himself with the Artillery.
V.
The Sweetness from thy Eyes he took,
The Charming Dimples from thy Mouth,
That wonderous Softness when you spoke;
And all thy Everlasting Youth.
VI.
Thy bow, thy Quiver, and thy Darts:
Even of thy Painted Wing has rifled thee,
To bear him from his Conquer’d broken Hearts,
To the next Fair and Yeilding She.
_Love Reveng’d_, A Song.
I.