The powerful Glorys of your Eyes;
To suffer young _Alexis_ to adore,
_Alexis_, whom Love made my slave before;
I first adorn’d him with my Chains, }
He Sigh’d beneath the rigour of my Reign; }
And can that Conquest now be worth your pain? }
A Votary you deserve who ne’er knew how,
To any Altars but your own to bow.
_Selinda._
Is it your Friendship or your Jealousie,
That brings this timely aid to me?
With Reason we that Empire quit,
Who so much Rigour shows,
And ‘twould declare more Love than Wit,
Not to recall his Vows.
If Beauty could _Alexis_ move,
He might as well be mine;
He saw the Errors of his Love,
He saw how long in vain he strove,
And did your scorn decline;
And, _Cloris_, I the Gods may imitate,
And humble Penitents receive, tho late.
_Cloris._
Mistaken Maid, can his Devotion prove
Agreeable or true,
Who only offers broken Vows of Love?
Vows which, _Selinda_, are my due.
How often prostrate at my feet h’as lain,
Imploring Pity for his Pain?
My heart a thousand ways he strove to win,
Before it let the Charming Conqueror in;
Ah then how soon the Amorous heat was laid!
How soon he broke the Vows he made!
Slighting the Trophies he had won.
And smiling saw me sigh for being undone.
_Selinda._
Enough, enough, my dear abandon’d Maid,
Enough thy Eyes, thy Sighs, thy Tongue have said,
In all the Groves, on all the Plains,
‘Mongst all the Shepherds, all the Swains,
I never saw the Charms cou’d move
My yet unconquer’d heart, to Love;
And tho a God _Alexis_ were,
He should not Rule the Empire here.
_Cloris._
Then from his charming Language fly;
Or thou’rt undone as well as I;
The God of Love is sure his Friend,
Who taught him all his Arts,
And when a Conquest he design’d,
He furnish’d him with Darts;
His Quiver, and his gilded Bow,
To his assistance brings,
And having given the fatal Blow,
Lends him his fleeting wings.
Tho not a Cottage-Slave, can be,
Before the Conquest, so submiss as he,
To Fold your sheep, to gather Flowers,
To Pipe and sing, and sigh away your hours;
Early your Flocks to fragrant Meads,
Or cooling shades, and Springs he Leads;
Weaves Garlands, or go seek your Lambs,
That struggle from their bleating Dams,
Or any humble bus’ness do,
But once a Victor, he’s a Tyrant too.
_Selinda._
_Cloris_, such little Services would prove
Too mean, to be repaid with Love;
A Look, a Nod, a Smile would quit that score,
And she deserves to be undone, that pays a Shepherd more.
_Cloris._
His new-blown Passion if _Selinda_ Scorn,
_Alexis_ may again to me return.
_Selinda._
Secure thy Fears, the Vows he makes to me
I send a Present, back to thee;
_Cloris._
Then we will sing, in every Grove,
The greatness of your Mind,--
_Selinda._
... And I your Love.
_Both._
And all the Day,
With Pride and Joy,
We’ll let the Neighb’ring Shepherds see,
That none like us,
Did e’er express,
The heights of Love and Amity;
And all the day, &c.
A PINDARIC _to Mr._ P. _who sings finely_. _By Mrs._ A. B.
_Damon_, altho you waste in vain
That pretious breath of thine,
Where lies a Pow’r in every strain,
To take in any other heart, but mine;
Yet do not cease to sing, that I may know,
By what soft Charms and Arts,
What more than Humane ‘tis you do,
To take, and keep your hearts;
Or have you Vow’d never to wast your breath,
But when some Maid must fall a Sacrifice,
As _Indian_ Priests prepare a death,
For Slaves t’addorn their Victories,
Your Charm’s as powerful, if I live,
For I as sensible shall be,
What wound you can, to all that hear you, give,
As if you wounded me;
And shall as much adore your wondrous skill,
As if my heart each dying Note cou’d kill.
And yet I should not tempt my Fate,
Nor trust my feeble strength,
Which does with ev’ry softning Note abate
And may at length
Reduce me to the wretched Slave I hate;
Tis strange extremity in me,
To venture on a doubtful Victory,
Where if you fail, I gain no more,
Than what I had before;
But ‘twill certain comfort bring,
If I unconquer’d do escape from you;
If I can live, and hear you sing,
No other Forces can my Soul subdue;
Sing, _Damon_, then, and let each Shade,
Which with thy Heavenly voice is happy made,
Bear witness if my courage be not great,
To hear thee sing, and make a safe retreat.
_On the Author of that Excellent Book Intituled The Way to Health, Long
Life, and Happiness._
_By Mrs._ A. B.
Hail, Learned Bard! who dost thy power dispence,
And show’st us the first State of Innocence
In that blest golden Age, when Man was young,
When the whole Race was Vigorous and strong;
When Nature did her wond’rous dictates give,
And taught the Noble Savage how to live;
When Christal Streams, and every plenteous Wood
Afforded harmless drink, and wholsom food;
E’er that ingratitude in Man was found,
His Mother Earth with Iron Ploughs to wound;
When unconfin’d, the spacious Plains produc’d
What Nature crav’d, and more than Nature us’d;
When every Sense to innocent delight
Th’ agreeing Elements unforc’d invite;
When Earth was gay, and Heaven was kind and bright,
And nothing horrid did perplex the sight;
Unprun’d the Roses and the Jes’min grew, }
Nature each day drest all the World anew, }
And Sweets without Mans aid each Moment grew; }
Till wild Debauchery did Mens minds invade,
And Vice, and Luxury became a Trade;
Surer than War it laid whole Countrys wast,
Not Plague nor Famine ruins half so fast;
By swift degrees we took that Poison in,
Regarding not the danger, nor the sin;
Delightful, Gay, and Charming was the Bait,
While Death did on th’ inviting Pleasure wait,
And ev’ry Age produc’d a feebler Race, }
Sickly their days, and those declin’d apace, }
Scarce Blossoms Blow, and Wither in less space. }
Till Nature thus declining by degrees,
We have recourse to rich restoratives,
By dull advice from some of Learned Note,
We take the Poison for the Antidote;
Till sinking Nature cloy’d with full supplys,
O’er-charg’d grows fainter, Languishes and dies.
These are the Plagues that o’er this Island reign,
And have so many threescore thousands slain;
Till you the saving Angel, whose blest hand
Have sheath’d that Sword, that threatned half the Land;
More than a Parent, Sir, we you must own,
They give but life, but you prolong it on;
You even an equal power with Heav’n do shew,
Give us long life, and lasting Vertue too:
Such were the mighty Patriarchs, of old,
Who God in all his Glory did behold,
Inspir’d like you, they Heavens Instructions show’d,
And were as Gods amidst the wandring Croud;
Not he that bore th’ Almighty Wand cou’d give
Diviner Dictates, how to eat, and live.
And so essential was this cleanly Food,
For Mans eternal health, eternal good,
That God did for his first-lov’d Race provide,
What thou by Gods example hast prescrib’d:
O mai’st thou live to justifie thy fame,
To Ages lasting as thy glorious Name!
May thy own life make thy vast Reasons good,
(Philosophy admir’d and understood,)
To every sense ‘tis plain, ‘tis great, and clear,
And Divine Wisdom does o’er all appear;
Learning and Knowledge do support the whole,
And nothing can the mighty truth controul;
Let Fools and Mad-men thy great work condemn,
I’ve tri’d thy Method, and adore thy Theme;
Adore the Soul that you’d such truths discern,
And scorn the fools that want the sense to learn.
_Epitaph on the Tombstone of a Child, the last of Seven that died
before. By Mrs._ A. B.
This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument,
Contains all that was sweet and innocent;
The softest pratler that e’er found a Tongue,
His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song;
Which now each List’ning Angel smiling hears,
Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres;
Wanton as unfledg’d Cupids, ere their Charms
Had learn’d the little arts of doing harms;
Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind,
And tho translated could not be refin’d;
The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given,
Toil’d here on Earth, retir’d to rest in Heaven;
Where they the shining Host of Angels fill,
Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.
_Epilogue to the Jealous Lovers._
_By Mrs._ Behn, _in_ 1682.
And how, and how, _Mesieurs_! what do you say
To our good Moderate, Conscientious Play?
Not Whig, nor Tory, here can take Offence;
It Libels neither _Patriot_, _Peer_, nor _Prince_,
Nor _Shrieve_, nor _Burgess_, nor the Reverend _Gown_. }
Faith here’s no Scandal worth eight hundred pound; }
Your Damage is at most but half-a-Crown. }
Only this difference you must allow, }
‘Tis you receive th’ Affront and pay us too, }
Wou’d Rebell WARD had manag’d matters so. }
Here’s no Reflections on Damn’d Witnesses, }
We scorn such out-of-Fash’on’d Things as These; }
They fail to be believ’d, and fail to please. }
No _Salamanca_ Doctor-ship abus’d,
Not a Malicious _States-man_ here accus’d;
No Smutty Scenes, no intrigues up Stairs,
That make your _City_ Wives in Love with _Players_.
But here are fools of every sort and Fashion, }
Except State-Fools, the Tools of _Reformation_, }
Or Cullys of the Court--_Association_. }
And those Originals decline so fast
We shall have none to Copy by at last;
Here’s _Jo_, and _Jack_ a pair of whining Fools,
And _L[e]igh_ and _I_ brisk Lavish keeping Fools,
He’s for Mischief all, and carry’s it on
With Fawne and Sneere as Jilting _Whigg_ has done.
And like theirs too his Projects are o’rethrown.
A PASTORAL _to Mr._ Stafford, _Under the Name of_ SILVIO _on his
Translation of the Death of_ Camilla: _out of_ VIRGIL. _By Mrs._ Behn.
THIRSIS _and_ AMARILLIS.
_Thirsis._
Why, _Amarillis_, dost thou walk alone,
And the gay pleasures of the Meadows shun?
Why to the silent Groves dost thou retire,
When uncompell’d by the Suns scorching fire?
Musing with folded Arms, and down-cast look,
Or pensive yield to thy supporting _Hook_:
Is _Damon_ false? and has his Vows betray’d,
And born the Trophies to some other Maid?
_Amarillis._
The Gods forbid I should survive to see
The fatal day he were unjust to me.
Nor is my Courage, or my Love so poor }
T’ out-live that Scorn’d, and miserable hour; }
Rather let _Wolves_ my new-yean’d Lambs devour, }
Wither ye Verdant Grass, dry up ye Streams,
And let all Nature turn to vast extreams:
In Summer let the Boughs be cale and dry, }
And now gay Flowers the wandring Spring supply, }
But with my _Damons_ Love, Let all that’s charming die. }
_Thirsis._
Why then this dull retreat, if he be true,
Or, _Amarillis_, is the change in you?
You love some Swains more rich in Herds and Flocks,
For none can be more powerful in his looks;
His shape, his meen, his hair, his wondrous face,
And on the Plaines, none _dances_ with his Grace;
‘Tis true, in _Piping_ he does less excell.
_Amarillis._
The Musick of his _Voice_ can Charm as well,
When tun’d to words of Love, and sighs among,
With the soft tremblings of his bashful tongue,
And, _Thirsis_, you accuse my Faith in vain,
To think it wavering, for another Swain;
‘Tis admiration now that fills my soul,
And does ev’n love suspend, if not controul.
My thoughts are solemn all, and do appear
With wonder in my Eyes, and not despair!
My heart is entertain’d with silent Joys,
And I am pleas’d above the Mirth of Noise.
_Thirsis._
What new-born pleasure can divert you so?
Pray let me hear, that I may wonder too.
_Amarillis._
Last night, by yonder purling stream I stood,
Pleas’d with the murmurs of the little Flood,
Who in its rapid glidings bore away
The Fringing Flow’rs, that made the Bank so gay,
Which I compar’d to fickle _Swains_, who invade
First this, then that deceiv’d, and yielding _Maid_:
Whose flattering Vows an easie passage find, }
Then unregarded leave ‘em far behind, }
To sigh their Ruin to the flying Wind. }
So the soild flow’rs their rifled Beaut[i]es hung,
While the triumphant Ravisher passes on.
This while I sighing view’d, I heard a voice
That made the Woods, the Groves, and Hills rejoyce.
Who eccho’d back the charming sound again, }
Answering the Musick of each softning strain, }
And told the wonder over all the Plain. }
Young _Silvio_ ‘twas that tun’d his happy Pipe,
The best that ever grac’d a Shepherds Lip!
_Silvio_ of Noble Race, yet not disdains
To mix his harmony with Rustic _Swains_,
To th’ humble Shades th’ _Illustrious Youth_ resorts, }
Shunning the false delights of gaudy Courts, }
For the more solid happiness of Rural sports. }
Courts which his _Noble Father_ long pursu’d,
And Serv’d till he out-serv’d their gratitude.
_Thirsis._
Oh _Amarillis_, let that tale no more
Remembred be on the _Arcadian_ Shore,
Lest Mirth should on our Meads no more be found,
But _Stafford’s_ Story should throughout resound,
And fill with pitying cryes the Echoes all around.
_Amarillis._
_Arcadia_, keep your peace, but give me leave,
Who knew the _Heroes Loyalty_, to grieve;
Once, _Thirsis_, by th’ _Arcadian_ Kings Commands,
I left these Shades, to visit foreign Lands;
Imploy’d in public toils of State Affairs,
Unusual with my Sex, or to my Years;
There ‘twas my chance, so Fortune did ordain,
To see this great, this good, this God-like Man:
Brave, Pious, Loyal, Just, without constraint,
The Soul all _Angell_, and the Man a _Saint_;
His temper’d mind no Passion e’er inflam’d,
But when his _King_ and _Countrey_ were profan’d;
Then oft I’ve seen his generous blood o’er spread
His awful face, with a resenting Red,
In Anger quit the Room, and would disdain
To herd with the Rebellious _Publican_.
But, _Thirsis_, ‘twould a worship’d Volume fill,
If I the _Heroes_ wondrous Life should tell;
His Vertues were his Crime, like _God_ he bow’d
A necessary Victim to the frantick Croud;
So a tall sheltring _Oak_ that long had stood,
The mid-days shade, and glory of the _Wood_;
Whose aged boughs a reverence did command,
Fell lop’d at last by an Ignoble hand:
And all his branches are in pieces torn,
That _Victors_ grac’d, and did the Wood adorn.
--With him young _Silvio_, who compos’d his Joys,
The darling of his Soul and of his Eyes,
Inheriting the Vertues of his _Sire_,
But all his own is his Poetic fire;
When young, the _Gods_ of _Love_, and _Wit_ did grace
The pointed, promis’d Beautys of his face,
Which ripening years did to perfection bring,
And taught him how to _Love_, and how to _Sing_.
_Thirsis._
But what, dear _Amarillis_, was the Theam
The Noble _Silvio_ Sung by yonder Stream?
_Amarillis._
Not of the _Shepherds_, nor their Rural _Loves_.
The Song was Glorious tho ‘twas sung in Groves!
_Camilla’s_ Death the skilful _Youth_ inspir’d,
As if th’ Heroic _Maid_ his Soul had fir’d;
Such life was in his Song, such heat, such flight,
As he had seen the Royal _Virgin_ fight.
He made her deal her wounds with Graceful Art, }
With vigorous Air fling the unfailing Dart, }
And form’d her Courage to his own great heart. }
Never was fighting in our _Sex_ a Charm,
Till _Silvio_ did the bright _Camilla_ Arm;
With Noble Modesty he shews us how
To be at once _Hero_ and _Woman_ too.
Oh Conquering _Maid_! how much thy Fame has won, }
In the _Arcadian_ Language to be sung, }
And by a Swain so soft, so sweet, so young. }
_Thirsis._
Well hast thou spoke the noble _Silvio’s_ Praise,
For I have often heard his charming lays;
Oft has he blest the Shades with strains Divine,
Took many a _Virgins_ heart, and Ravish’d mine.
Long may he sing in every Field and Grove,
And teach the Swains to Pipe, the _Maids_ to Love.
_Amarillis._
_Daphnis_, and _Colin_ Pipe not half so well,
E’en _Dions_ mighty self he does excell;
As the last Lover of the _Muses_, blest,
The last and young in Love are always best;
And _She_ her darling Lover does requite
With all the softest Arts of Noblest _Wit_.
_Thirsis._
Oh may he dedicate his Youth to her!
Thus let ‘em live, and love upon the square,
But see _Alexis_ homeward leads his Flock,
And brouzing Goats descend from yonder Rock;
The Sun is hasting on to _Thetis_ Bed,
See his faint Beams have streak’d the Sky with Red.
Let’s home e’er night approach, and all the way
You shall of _Silvio_ sing, while I will play.
GILDON’S MISCELLANY, 1692.
VENUS _and_ CUPID.
_Venus._
_Cupid_, my darling _Cupid_, and my Joy,
Thy Mother _Venus_ calls, come away, come away.
_Cupid._
Alas! I cannot, I am at Play.
_Venus._
Fond Boy, I do command thee, haste;
Thy precious Hours no longer waste:
In Groves and Cottages you make abode,
Too mean a Condescention for a God!
On barren Mountains idly play,
For shame thou Wanton, come away, come away!
All useless lies thy Bow and Darts,
That should be wounding heedless Hearts:
The Swain that guards his Dove,
Alas! no Leisure has for Love:
His Flocks and Heards are all his Joy,
Then leave the Shades and come away, come away.
_Cupid._
Alas! what would you have me do?
Command and I’ll Obedience shew.
_Venus._
Hye then to Cities and to Court,
Where all the Young and Fair resort;
There try thy Power, let fly thy Darts,
And bring me in some noble Hearts,
Worthy to be by thee undone,
For here’s no Glory to be won.
_Cupid._
Mistaken Queen, look down and see, }
What Trophies are prepar’d for thee, }
What glorious Slaves are destin’d me. }
_Venus._
Now, by my self, a Noble Throng;
How Fair the Nymphs, the Swains how Young!
No wonder if my little Loves
Delight and play in Shades and Groves.
_Cupid._
Then, Mother, here I’ll bend my Bow,
And bring you wounded Hearts enough.
_Venus._
My pretty Charming Wanton, do.
_Chorus._
‘Tis thus we over Mortals reign,
And thus we Adoration gain
From the proud Monarch to the humble Swain.
_Verses design’d by Mrs._ A. Behn _to be sent to a fair Lady, that
desir’d she would absent herself to cure her Love. Left unfinish’d._
In vain to Woods and Deserts I retire, }
To shun the lovely Charmer I admire, }
Where the soft Breezes do but fann my Fire! }
In vain in Grotto’s dark unseen I lie,
Love pierces where the Sun could never spy.
No place, no Art his _God-head_ can exclude,
The _Dear_ Distemper reigns in Solitude:
Distance, alas, contributes to my Grief;
No more, of what fond Lovers call, Relief
Than to the wounded Hind does sudden Flight
From the chast Goddesses pursuing Sight:
When in the Heart the fatal Shaft remains,
And darts the Venom through our bleeding Veins.
If I resolve no longer to submit
My self a wretched Conquest to your Wit,
More swift than fleeting Shades, ten thousand Charms
From your bright Eyes that Rebel Thought disarms:
The more I strugl’d, to my Grief I found
My self in _Cupid’s_ Chains more surely bound:
Like Birds in Nets, the more I strive, I find
My self the faster in the Snare confin’d.
_Verses by Madam_ Behn, _never before printed_.
_On a Conventicle_.
Behold that Race, whence _England’s_ Woes proceed,
The Viper’s Nest, where all our Mischiefs breed,
There, guided, by _Inspiration_, Treason speaks,
And through the Holy Bag-pipe _Legion_ squeaks.
The Nation’s Curse, Religion’s ridicule,
The Rabble’s _God_, the Politicians _Tool_,
_Scorn_ of the Wise, and _Scandal_ of the Just,
The Villain’s _Refuge_, and the Women’s Lust.
GILDON’S CHORUS POETARUM, 1694.
_By Madam_ Behn.
1.
The Gods are not more blest than he,
Who fixing his glad eyes on thee,
With thy bright Rays his senses chears,
And drinks with ever thirsty Ears,
The charming Musick of thy Tongue
Does ever hear and ever long,
That sees with more than humane Grace
Sweet smiles adorn thy Angel Face.
2.
So when with kinder Beams you shine,
And so appear much more Divine,
My feebled Sense and dazzled Sight }
No more support the glorious Light, }
And the fierce torrent of Delight. }
O then I feel my Life decay,
My ravish’d Soul then flies away;
Then Faintness does my Limbs surprize,
And Darkness swims before my Eyes.
3.
Then my Tongue fails, and from my Brow
The Liquid Drops in Silence flow;
Then wand’ring Fires run thro my Blood,
Then Cold binds up the languid Flood;
All Pale and Breathless then I lie,
I sigh, I tremble, and I die.
MUSES MERCURY, _June, 1707_.
_The Complaint of the poor_ Cavaliers.
I.
Give me the Man that’s hollow
Since he is the only Fellow,
For Honesty’s out of Date;
And he’s the only Gallant
That shew’d himself so Valiant,
To cut off his Master’s Pate.
These--these be the Men that flaunt,
As if they were Sons of Gaunt,
And ev’ry Knave
Is Fine and Brave,
While the poor _Cavalier’s_ in want.
II.
The Man that chang’d his Note,
And he who has turn’d his Coat,
Shall now have a good Reward;
He’s either made a Knight,
Or else by this good Light,
A very Reverend Lord:
And let him be so for me,
I’m as gay and as good as he.
III.
Hang Sorrow, why should we repine,
We’ll drive down our Grief with good Wine,
Not caring for those that rise;
For had they been but true Men,
They never had been new Men,
And we had ne’er been wise.
The Blockhead that merits most,
That has all his Fortune lost,
Must now be turn’d out
And a new-found Rout,
Of Courtiers rule the Roast.
The next Verses are so tender, that one may see the Author writ ‘em
with no affected Passion. And indeed she had no need to affect what was
so natural to her.
_On a Pin that hurt_ Amintas’ _Eye_.
Injurious Pin, how durst thou steal so nigh?
To touch, nay worse, to hurt his precious Eye.
Base Instrument, so ill thou’st play’d thy part,
Wounding his Eye, thou’st wounded my poor Heart,
And for each pity’d Drop his Eye did shed,
My sympathizing Heart a thousand bled:
Too daring Pin, was there no Tincture good,
To bath thy Point, but my _Amintas’. Blood?
Cou’d thy Ambition teach thee so to sin?
Was that a Place for thee to revel in?
‘Twas there thy Mistress had design’d to be,
And must she find a Rival too in thee?
Curs’d Fate! that I shou’d harbour thee so long,
And thou at last conspire to do me wrong:
Tho well I knew thy Nature to be rude,
And all thy Kin full of Ingratitude,
I little thought thou wouldst presume so far,
To aim thy Malice at so bright a Star.
Now all the Service thou canst render me
Will never recompense this Injury.
Well, get thee gone--for thou shalt never more
Have Power to hurt what I so much adore.
Hence from my Sight, and mayst thou ever lie
A crooked Object to each scornful Eye.
_To Mrs._ Harsenet, _on the Report of a Beauty, which she went to see
at Church._
As when a Monarch does in Triumph come,
And proudly leads the vanquish’d Captive home,
The joyful People swarm in ev’ry Street,
And with loud Shouts the glorious Victor meet.
But others whom Misfortune kept away
Desire to hear the Story of the Day,
How brave the Prince, how brave his Chariot was,
How beautiful he look’d, with what a Grace;
How rich his Habit, if he Plumes did wear,
Or if a Wreath of Bays adorn’d his Hair:
They think ‘twas wondrous fine, and long much more,
To see the Conqu’ror than they did before.
So when at first by Fame I only knew
The Charms so much admir’d and prais’d in you;
How many Slaves your conqu’ring Eyes had won,
And how the wond’ring Crowd did gazing throng;
I wish’d to see, and half a Lover grew,
Of so much Beauty, tho my Rival too.
I came, I saw you, and I must confess,
I wish’d my Beauty greater, or yours less;
Alas! My whole Devotion you betray’d,
I only thought of you, and only pray’d,
That you might all your jealous Sex out-do
In Cruelty as well as Beauty too.
I call’d _Amintas_ faithless Man before,
But now I find ‘tis just he should adore.
Not to love you, if such a Sin could be,
Were greater than his Perjury to me;
Thus while I blame him, I excuse him too,
Who can be innocent that looks on you?
But, lovely _Chloris_, you too meanly prize
The Treasures of your Youth, and of your Eyes;
Ne’re hear his Vows that he to others swore,
Nor let him be your Slave, that was a Slave before;
He oft has Fetters worn, and can with Ease
Admit them, or dismiss them, as he please.
A Virgin Heart you merit, that ne’re found
It could receive, till from your Eyes, a Wound,
The Soul that nothing but their Force could fear,
As great, if that can be, as you are fair.
_For_ Damon, _being ask’d a Reason for his Love_.
I.
You ask me, _Phillis_, why I still pursue,
And court no other Nymph but you;
And why with Looks and Sighs I still betray
A Passion which I dare not say.
‘Tis all, Because I do: you ask me why,
And with a Woman’s Reason, I reply.
II.
You ask what Argument I have to prove,
That my _Unrest_ proceeds from Love,
You’ll not believe my Passion till you know,
A better Reason why ‘tis so.
Then, _Phillis_, let this Reason go for one,
I know I love because my Reason’s gone.
III.
You say a Love like mine must needs declare
The Object so belov’d not fair;
That neither Wit nor Beauty in her dwell,
Whose Lover can no Reason tell,
What ‘tis that he adores, and why he burns:
_Phillis_, let those give such that have returns.
IV.