With errors, which my soul do please and vex,
For superstition will survive,
Purer Religion to perplex.
Oh! tell me you, Philosophers, in love,
That can its burning feaverish fits controul,
By what strange Arts you cure the soul,
And the fierce Calenture remove?
Tell me, yee fair ones, that exchange desire,
How tis you hid the kindling fire.
Oh! wou’d you but confess the truth,
It is not real virtue makes you nice:
But when you do resist the pressing youth,
‘Tis want of dear desire, to thaw the Virgin Ice.
And while your young adorers lye
All languishing and hopeless at your feet,
Raising new Trophies to your chastity,
Oh tell me, how you do remain discreet?
How you suppress the rising sighs,
And the soft yeilding soul that wishes in your Eyes?
While to th’admiring crow’d you nice are found;
Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound
Informs you, all your virtu’s but a cheat
And Honour but a false disguise,
Your modesty a necessary bait
To gain the dull repute of being wise.
Deceive the foolish World--deceive it on,
And veil your passions in your pride;
But now I’ve found your feebles by my own,
From me the needful fraud you cannot hide.
Thô tis a mighty power must move
The soul to this degree of love,
And thô with virtue I the World perplex,
_Lysander_ finds the weakness of my sex,
So _Helen_ while from _Theseus_ arms she fled,
To charming _Paris_ yeilds her heart and Bed.
_To_ Amintas.
_Upon reading the Lives of some of the_ Romans. _by Mrs._ B.
Had’st thou, _Amintas_; liv’d in that great age,
When hardly Beauty was to nature known,
What numbers to thy side might’st thou engage
And conquer’d Kingdoms by thy looks alone?
That age when valor they did Beauty name,
When Men did justly our brave sex prefer,
‘Cause they durst dye, and scorn the publick shame
Of adding Glory to the conqueror.
Had mighty _Scipio_ had thy charming face,
Great _Sophonisbe_ had refus’d to dye,
Her passion o’re the sense of her disgrace
Had gain’d the more obliging victory.
Nor less wou’d _Massanissa_ too have done
But to such Eyes, as to his Sword wou’d bow,
For neither sex can here thy fetters shun,
Being all _Scipio_, and _Amintas_ too.
Had’st thou great _Cæsar_ been, the greater Queen,
Wou’d trembling have her mortal Asps lay’d by,
In thee she had not only _Cæsar_ seen,
But all she did adore in _Antony_.
Had daring _Sextus_ had thy lovely shape,
The fairest Woman living had not dy’d
But blest the darkness that secur’d the Rape,
Suffering her Pleasure to have debauch’t her Pride.
Nor had he stoln to _Rome_ to have quencht his fire,
If thee resistless in his Camp he’d seen,
Thy Eyes had kept his virtue all intire,
And _Rome_ a happy monarchy had been.
Had _Pompey_ lookt like thee, thô he had prov’d
The vanquisht, yet from _Egypts_ faithless King
He had receiv’d the vows of being belov’d,
In stead of Orders for his murdering.
But here, _Amintas_, thy misfortune lys,
Nor brave nor good are in our age esteem’d,
Content thee then with meaner victorys,
Unless that Glorious age cou’d be redeem’d.
_A. B._
_On the first discovery of falseness in_ Amintas.
_By Mrs._ B.
Make hast! make hast! my miserable soul,
To some unknown and solitary Grove,
Where nothing may thy Languishment controle
Where thou maist never hear the name of Love.
Where unconfin’d, and free, as whispering Air,
Thou maist caress and welcome thy despair:
Where no dissembl’d complisance may veil
The griefes with which, my soul, thou art opprest,
But dying, breath thyself out in a tale
That may declare the cause of thy unrest:
The toyles of Death ‘twill render far more light
And soon convey thee to the shades of night.
Search then, my soul, some unfrequented place,
Some place that nature meant her own repose:
When she herself withdrew from human race,
Displeas’d with wanton Lovers vows and oaths.
Where _Sol_ cou’d never dart a busy Ray,
And where the softer winds ne’re met to play.
By the sad purling of some Rivulet
O’re which the bending Yew and Willow grow,
That scarce the glimmerings of the day permit,
To view the melancholy Banks below,
Where dwells no noyse but what the murmurs make,
When the unwilling stream the shade forsakes.
There on a Bed of Moss and new-faln leaves,
Which the Triumphant Trees once proudly bore,
Thô now thrown off by every wind that breaths,
Despis’d by what they did adorn before,
And who, like useless me, regardless lye
While springing beautys do the boughs supply.
There lay thee down, my soul, and breath thy last,
And calmly to the unknown regions fly;
But e’re thou dost thy stock of life exhaust,
Let the ungrateful know, why tis you dye.
Perhaps the gentle winds may chance to bear
Thy dying accents to _Amintas_ ear.
Breath out thy Passion; tell him of his power
And how thy flame was once by thee approv’d.
How soon as wisht he was thy conqueror,
No sooner spoke of Love, but was belov’d.
His wonderous Eyes, what weak resistance found,
While every charming word begat a wound?
Here thou wilt grow impatient to be gone,
And thrô my willing Eyes will silent pass,
Into the stream that gently glides along,
But stay thy hasty flight, (my Soul,) alas,
A thought more cruel will thy flight secure,
Thought, that can no admittance give to cure.
Think, how the prostrate Infidel now lys,
An humble suppliant at anothers feet,
Think, while he begs for pity from her Eyes.
He sacrifices thee without regreet.
Think, how the faithless treated thee last night,
And then, my tortur’d soul, assume thy flight.
_To the fair_ Clarinda, _who made Love to me, imagin’d more than Woman.
By Mrs._ B.
Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be
Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee,
Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth:
And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth.
This last will justifie my soft complaint,
While that may serve to lessen my constraint;
And without Blushes I the Youth persue,
When so much beauteous Woman is in view.
Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain }
With thy deluding Form thou giv’st us pain, }
While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain. }
In pity to our Sex sure thou wer’t sent,
That we might Love, and yet be Innocent:
For sure no Crime with thee we can commit;
Or if we shou’d--thy Form excuses it.
For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes
A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves.
Thou beauteous Wonder of a different kind,
Soft _Cloris_ with the dear _Alexis_ join’d;
When e’r the Manly part of thee, wou’d plead
Thou tempts us with the Image of the Maid,
While we the noblest Passions do extend
The Love to _Hermes_, _Aphrodite_ the Friend.
FINIS.
WESTMINSTER DROLLERY, 1671.
A SONG.
That Beauty I ador’d before,
I now as much despise:
‘Tis Money only makes the Whore:
She that for love with her Crony lies,
_Is chaste: But that’s the Whore that kisses for prize._
Let _Jove_ with Gold his _Danae_ woo,
It shall be no rule for me:
Nay, ‘t may be I may do so too,
When I’me as old as he.
_Till then I’le never hire the thing that’s free._
If Coin must your affection Imp,
Pray get some other Friend:
My Pocket ne’re shall be my Pimp,
I never that intend,
_Yet can be noble too, if I see they mend._
Since Loving was a Liberal Art,
How canst thou trade for gain?
The pleasure is on your part,
‘Tis we Men take the pain:
_And being so, must Women have the gain?_
No, no, I’le never farm your Bed,
Nor your Smock-Tenant be:
I hate to rent your white and red,
You shall not let your Love to me:
_I court a Mistris, not a Landlady._
A Pox take him that first set up,
Th’ Excise of Flesh and Skin:
And since it will no better be,
Let’s both to kiss begin;
_To kiss freely: if not, you may go spin._
MISCELLANY, 1685.
To SIR WILLIAM CLIFTON.
Sir,
I am very sensible how the ill-natur’d World has been pleased to Judge
of almost all Dedications, and when not addrest to themselves will not
let ‘em pass without the imputation of Flattery; for there is scarce
any Man so just to allow those Praises to another in which he does not
immediately share in some degree himself, nor can the Fantastic Humors
of the Age agree in point of Merit, but every Mans Vertue is measured
according to the sence another has of it, and not by its own intrinsic
value, so that if another does not see with my Eyes and judge with
my Sence, I must be Branded with the Crime of Fools and Cowards; nor
will they be undeceived in an Error that so agreeably flatters them,
either by a better knowledge of the Person commended, or by a right
understanding from any other Judgment; they hate to be convinced of
what will make no part of their satisfaction when they are so, for as
’.is natural to despise all those that have no vertue at all, so ‘tis
as natural to Envy those we find have more than our selves instead
of imitating ‘em: and I have heard a Man rail at a Dedication for
being all over Flattery, and Damn it in gross, who when it has been
laid before him, and he has been asked to answer according to his
Conscience, and upon Honour to every particular, could not contradict
one single Vertue that has been justly given there, yet angry at being
convinced has cry’d, with a peevish, uneasie tone.--YET I DON’T KNOW
HOW, NOR I DON’T KNOW WHAT-BUT ‘TIS ALL TOGETHER METHINKS A PIECE OF
FLATTERY--When indeed the business was, _he did not know how_ to afford
him so good a Character, nor _he did not know what_ other reason he had
to find fault with it, and was only now afflicted to find ‘twas all
true; whereas before he charged it all on the effects of some little
sinister end or advantage of the Author.
’.is therefore, Sir, that I have taken the Liberty here of addressing
my self to one, whose Generosity and Goodness has prevented any such
Scandal, and secured me from the imputation of Flattery by rend’ring
this, but a small part of that Duty only, which I have so long owed
you; ‘tis only, Sir, my debt of gratitude I pay, or rather an humble
acknowledgment of what I ought to pay you; for favours of that nature
are not easily returned, and one must be a great while discharging it
out of the Barren Stock of Poetry; but where my own failed, I borrowed
of my Friends, who were all ready to give me Credit for so good and
just an occasion, and we all soon agreed where first we should begin
the work of gratitude. For, Sir, your worth is every where known,
and valued; it bears the Royal stamp and passes for currant to every
ready hand; Loyalty being that standard Vertue of the Soul which finds
its price all over the World; nor is it in these our glorious days,
who bears that Rate now, but who has always done so through Fate and
Fortune; dyed in the true Grain, not to be varied with every glittering
Sun-shine, nor lost in every falling Shower, but stanch to its first
beautiful colour, endures all weathers.
Nor is it enough that where you are known, you are beloved and blest,
but you, whose Quality and Fortune elevate you above the common Crowd,
ought to have your Loyal Names fixed every where, as great and leading
Examples to the rest, as the Genius of your Country and the Star
that influences, where your Lustre shines. You, who in spight of all
the Follies we import from _France_ so much in fashion here, still
retain, and still maintain the good old _English_ Customs of Noble
Hospitality, and treat the underworld about you, even into good nature
and Loyalty; and have kept your Country honest, while elsewhere for
want of such great Patrons and Presidents, Faction and Sedition have
over-run those Villages where Ignorance abounded, and got footing
almost every where, whose Inhabitants are a sort of Bruits, that ought
no more to be left to themselves than Fire, and are as Mischievous and
as Destructive. While every great Landlord is a kind of Monarch that
awes and civilizes ‘em into Duty and Allegiance, and whom because they
know, they Worship with a Reverence equal to what they would pay their
King, whose Representative they take him at least to be if not that
of God himself, since they know no greater or more indulgent; and are
sure to be of his opinion, he’s their Oracle, their very Gospel, and
whom they’ll sooner credit; never was new Religion, Misunderstanding,
and Rebellion known in Countries till Gentlemen of ancient Families
reformed their way of living to the new Mode, pulled down their great
Halls, retrenched their Servants, and confined themselves to scanty
lodgings in the City, starved the Poor of their Parish, and rackt their
Tenants to keep the Tawdry Jilt in Town a hundred times more expensive,
but you, Sir, retain still the perfect measure of true Honour, you
understand the joys and comforts of life and blest retreat; you value
Courts tho you do not always shine there, you dare be brave, liberal,
and honest tho you do not always behold the Illustrious Pattern of all
Glorious Vertue in your King, and absent from the lavish City. You are
pleased and contented with the favour of your Monarch, tho you have
no need of his Bounty, dare serve him with your Life and Fortune, and
can find your reward in your own Vertue and Merit; this I dare avow to
all the World is your Character in short, for which your lasting Name
shall live, when the turbulent, busie hot-brain’d disturbers of their
own tranquillity and the Kingdoms Peace, shall live in fear, die in
Shame and their memory rot in the forgotten Grave, or stand to after
Ages Branded and Reproached, while we can never enough Celebrate that
Glorious one of yours; nor knew we where to fix it to render it Durable
to all Eternity so well as to lasting Verse, that out-wears Time and
Marble. If anything within can contribute to the diversion of your
Hours of least concern, ‘twill be sufficient recompence to all who beg
your Patronage here, especially
Sir,
Your obliged
and most humble Servant,
A. BEHN.
MISCELLANY, 1685.
_On the Death of the late Earl of_ Rochester, _by Mrs._ A. B.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
The Young, the Noble _Strephon_ is no more.
Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light,
And ne’re shall rise from Deaths eternal Night,
So rich a Prize the _Stygian_ Gods ne’re bore,
Such Wit, such Beauty, never grac’d their Shore.
He was but lent this duller World t’ improve
In all the charms of Poetry, and Love;
Both were his gift, which freely he bestow’d,
And like a God, dealt to the wond’ring Crowd.
Scorning the little Vanity of Fame,
Spight of himself attain’d a Glorious name.
But oh! in vain was all his peevish Pride,
The Sun as soon might his vast Lustre hide,
As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright,
As suffering no vicissitudes of Night.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
The Young, the Noble _Strephon_ is no more.
Now uninspir’d upon your Banks we lye,
Unless when we wou’d mourn his Elegie;
His name’s a Genius that wou’d Wit dispense,
And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Sense.
But all fine thought that Ravisht when it spoke,
With the soft Youth eternal leave has took;
Uncommon Wit that did the soul o’recome,
Is buried all in _Strephon’s_ Worship’d Tomb;
Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone,
The Fop and Cully now may be undone;
That dear instructing Rage is now allay’d,
And no sharp Pen dares tell ‘em how they’ve stray’d;
Bold as a God was ev’ry lash he took,
But kind and gentle the chastising stroke.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Youths, whom Fortune has betray’d,
The last Reproacher of your Vice is dead.
Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your _Cyprus_ on,
The truest Swain that e’re Ador’d you’s gone;
Think how he lov’d, and writ, and sigh’d, and spoke,
Recall his Meen, his Fashion, and his Look.
By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize,
Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes.
Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow’rs,
Bedew’d with everlasting falling Show’rs;
Fix your fair eyes upon your victim’d Slave,
Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave.
See where the Noble Swain Extended lies,
Too sad a Triumph of your Victories;
Adorn’d with all the Graces Heav’n e’re lent, }
All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent }
You’ve laid into his early Monument. }
Mourn, Mourn, ye Beauties, your sad loss deplore,
The Young, the Charming _Strephon_ is no more.
Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whose Darts
Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts;
Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow,
The useless Toys can do no Mischief now,
Those Eyes that all your Arrows points inspir’d,
Those Lights that gave ye fire are now retir’d,
Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mothers Doves;
Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves,
For you the humblest Votary have lost
That ever your Divinities could boast;
Upon your hands your weeping Heads decline,
And let your wings encompass round his Shrine;
In stead of Flow’rs your broken Arrows strow,
And at his feet lay the neglected Bow.
Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore,
The soft, the Charming _Strephon_ is no more.
Large was his Fame, but short his Glorious Race,
Like young _Lucretius_ liv’d and dy’d apace.
So early Roses fade, so over all
They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall,
While all the scatter’d perfum’d leaves declare,
How lovely ‘twas when whole, how sweet, how fair.
Had he been to the _Roman_ Empire known,
When great _Augustus_ fill’d the peaceful Throne;
Had he the noble wond’rous Poet seen,
And known his Genius, and survey’d his Meen,
(When Wits, and Heroes grac’d Divine abodes,)
He had increas’d the number of their Gods;
The Royal Judge had Temples rear’d to’s name.
And made him as Immortal as his Fame;
In Love and Verse his _Ovid_ he’ad out-done,
And all his Laurels, and his _Julia_ won.
Mourn, Mourn, unhappy World, his loss deplore,
The great, the charming _Strephon_ is no more.
SONG. _By_ A. B.
Cease, cease, _Aminta_, to complain,
Thy Languishment give o’re,
Why shoud’st thou sigh because the Swain
Another does Adore?
Those Charms, fond Maid, that vanquish’d thee,
Have many a Conquest won,
And sure he could not cruel be,
And leave ‘em all undon.
The Youth a Noble temper bears,
Soft and compassionate,
And thou canst only blame thy Stars,
That made thee love too late;
Yet had their Influence all been kind
They had not cross’d my Fate,
The tend’rest hours must have an end,
And Passion has its date.
The softest love grows cold and shy,
The face so late ador’d,
Now unregarded passes by,
Or grows at last abhorr’d;
All things in Nature fickle prove,
See how they glide away;
Think so in time thy hopeless love
Will die, as Flowers decay.
A SONG. _By Mrs._ A. B.
While, _Iris_, I at distance gaze,
And feed my greedy eyes,
That wounded heart, that dyes for you,
Dull gazing can’t suffice;
Hope is the Food of Love-sick minds,
On that alone ‘twill Feast,
The nobler part which Loves refines,
No other can digest.
In vain, too nice and Charming Maid,
I did suppress my Cares;
In vain my rising sighs I stay’d,
And stop’d my falling tears;
The Flood would swell, the Tempest rise,
As my despair came on;
When from her Lovely cruel Eyes,
I found I was undone.
Yet at your feet while thus I lye,
And languish by your Eyes,
‘Tis far more glorious here to dye,
Than gain another Prize.
Here let me sigh, here let me gaze,
And wish at least to find
As raptur’d nights, and tender days,
As he to whom you’re kind.
A PARAPHRASE _on the_ LORDS PRAYER. _By Mrs._ A. B.
_OUR FATHER_,
O Wondrous condescention of a God!
To poor unworthy sinful flesh and blood;
Lest the high Mistery of Divinity,
Thy sacred Title, shou’d too Awful be;
Lest trembling prostrates should not freely come,
As to their Parent, to their native home;
Lest Thy incomprehensible God-head shou’d
Not by dull Man; be rightly understood;
Thou deignst to take a name, that fits our sense,
Yet lessens not Thy glorious Excellence.
_WHICH ART IN HEAVEN_,
Thy Mercy ended not, when thou didst own
Poor lost and out-cast Man to be thy Son;
‘Twas not enough the Father to dispense,
In Heaven thou gav’st us an Inheritance;
A Province, where thou’st deign’d each Child a share;
Advance, my tim’rous Soul, thou needst not fear,
Thou hast a God! a God and Father! there.
_HALLOWED BE THY NAME_,
For ever be it, may my Pious Verse,
That shall thy great and glorious name rehearse,
By singing Angels still repeated be,
And tune a Song that may be worthy thee;
While all the Earth with Ecchoing Heav’n shall joyn,
To Magnifie a Being so Divine.
_THY KINGDOM COME_,
Prepare, my Soul, ‘gainst that Triumphant day,
Adorn thy self with all that’s Heavenly gay,
Put on the Garment, which no spot can stain,
And with thy God! thy King! and Father! Reign;
When all the Joyful Court of Heaven shall be
One everlasting day of Jubilee;
Make my Soul fit but there to find a room,
Then when thou wilt, Lord let thy Kingdom come.
_THY WILL BE DONE_
With all submission prostrate I resign
My Soul, my Faculties, and Will to thine;
For thou, Oh Lord, art Holy, Wise, and Just,
And raising Man from forth the common dust,
Hast set thy Sacred Image on his Soul,
And shall the Pot the Potters hand controul?
Poor boasting feeble Clay, that Error shun,
Submit and let th’ Almighty’s Will be done.
_IN EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN_.
For there the Angels, and the Saints rejoyce,
Resigning all to the blest Heavenly Voice;
Behold the Seraphins his Will obey,
Wilt thou less humble be, fond Man, than they?
Behold the Cherubins and Pow’rs Divine, }
And all the Heavenly Host in Homage joyn; }
Shall their Submission yield, and shall not thine? }
Nay, shall even God submit to Flesh and Blood?
For our Redemption, our Eternal good,
Shall he submit to stripes, nay even to die }
A Death reproachful, and of Infamy? }
Shall God himself submit, and shall not I? }
Vain, stubborn Fool, draw not thy ruine on,
But as in Heav’n; on Earth God’s Will be done;
_GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD_,
For oh my God! as boasting as we are,
We cannot live without thy heavenly care,
With all our Pride, not one poor Morsel’s gain’d,
Till by thy wondrous Bounty first obtain’d;
With all our flatter’d Wit, our fanci’d sense, }
We have not to one Mercy a pretence }
Without the aid of thy Omnipotence. }
Oh God, so fit my soul, that I may prove
A pitied Object of thy Grace and Love;
May my soul be with Heavenly Manna fed,
And deign my grosser part thy daily bread.
_AND FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES_
How prone we are to Sin, how sweet were made
The pleasures, our resistless hearts invade!
Of all my Crimes, the breach of all thy Laws
Love, soft bewitching Love! has been the cause;
Of all the Paths that Vanity has trod,
That sure will soonest be forgiven of God;
If things on Earth may be to Heaven resembled,
It must be love, pure, constant, undissembled:
But if to Sin by chance the Charmer press,
Forgive, O Lord, forgive our Trespasses.
_AS WE FORGIVE THEM THAT TRESPASS AGAINST US_,
Oh that this grateful, little Charity, }
Forgiving others all their sins to me, }
May with my God for mine attoning be. }
I’ve sought around, and found no foe in view, }
Whom with the least Revenge I would pursue, }
My God, my God, dispense thy Mercies too. }
_LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION_
Thou but permits it, Lord, ‘tis we go on,
And give our selves the Provocation;
‘Tis we, that prone to pleasures which invite,
Seek all the Arts to heighten vain delight;
But if without some Sin we cannot move,
May mine proceed no higher than to love;
And may thy vengeance be the less severe,
Since thou hast made the object lov’d so fair.
_BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL._
From all the hasty Fury Passion breeds,
And into deaf and blinded Error leads,
From words that bear Damnation in the sound,
And do the Soul as well as Honour wound,
That by degrees of Madness lead us on
To Indiscretion, Shame, Confusion;
From Fondness, Lying, and Hypocrisie,
From my neglect of what I ow to thee;
From Scandal, and from Pride, divert my thought,
And from my Neighbour grant I covet nought;
From black Ingratitude, and Treason, Lord,
Guard me, even in the least unreverend word.
In my Opinion, grant, O Lord, I may, }
Be guided in the true and rightful way, }
And he that guides me may not go astray; }
Do thou, oh Lord, instruct me how to know
Not whither, but which way I am to go;
For how should I an unknown passage find,
When my instructing Guide himself is blind.
All Honour, Glory, and all Praise be given
To Kings on Earth, and to our God in Heaven.
--_Amen._
SELINDA _and_ CLORIS, _made in an Entertainment at Court. By Mrs._ A. B.
_Selinda._
As young _Selinda_ led her Flock,
Beneath the Shelter of a shaded Rock,
The Melancholy _Cloris_ by,
Thus to the Lovely Maid did sighing cry.
_Cloris._