_Damon_ might justly you accuse;
Why do you Scorn, and with a proud Disdain
Receive the Vow, and slight the Swain?
You say you cannot Love, you know no Cause:
May I not prove my Love by your own Laws?
V.
Am not I Youthful, and as gay a Swain,
As e’er appeared upon the Plain?
Have I not courted you with all th’ Address
An am’rous Shepherd cou’d profess?
And add to this, my Flocks and Herds are great,
But _Phillis_ only can my Joy compleat.
VI.
Yet you no Reason for your Coldness give,
And ‘tis but just you shou’d believe
That all your Beauties unadorn’d by Art,
Have hurt and not oblig’d my Heart.
Be kind to that, my hearty Vows return
And then I’ll tell you why, for what I burn.
FAMILIAR LETTERS, 1718.
_A Letter to the Earl of_ Kildare, _dissuading him from marrying_ Moll
Howard.
My Lord,
We pity such as are by Tempest lost,
And those by Fortune’s blind Disposal crost;
But when Men see, and may the Danger shun,
Yet headlong into certain Ruin run:
To pity such, must needs be Ridicule;
Do not (my Lord) be that unpity’d Fool.
There’s a report, which round the Town is spread, }
The fam’d _Moll Howard_ you intend to Wed; }
If it be true, my Lord, then guard your Head: }
Horns, Horns, by wholesale, will adorn your Brows,
If e’r you make that rampant Whore your Spouse.
Think on the lewd Debauches of her Life;
Then tell me, if she’s fit to be your Wife.
She that to quench her lustful, hot Desire, }
Has Kiss’d with Dukes, Lords, Knights, and Country Squire; }
Nay, Grooms and Footmen have been claw’d off by her. }
Whoring has all her Life-time been her Trade,
And _D----set_ says, she is an exc’lent Baud:
But finding both will not defray Expence,
She lately is become an _Evidence_;
Swears against all that won’t her Lust supply,
And says, they’re false as Hell to Monarchy.
You had a Wife; but, rest her Soul, she’s dead,
By whom your Lordship by the Nose was led:
And will you run into that Noose again,
To be the greatest Monster among Men?
Think on the Horns that will adorn your Head,
And the Diseases that will fill your Bed:
Pox upon Pox, most horrid and most dire!
And Ulcers filled with Hell’s Eternal Fire.
Forbear therefore, and call your Senses home;
Let Reason Love’s blind Passion overcome:
For, if you make this base Report once true,
You’ll wound your Honour, Purse, and Body too.
_To Mrs._ Price.
My Dear,
In your last, you admir’d how I cou’d pass my Time so long in the
Country: I am sorry your Taste is so deprav’d, as not to relish a
Country-Life. Now I think there’s no Satisfaction to be found amidst an
Urban Throng (as Mr. _Bayes_ calls it).
The peaceful Place where gladly I resort,
Is freed from noisy Factions of the Court:
There joy’d with viewing o’er the rural Scene,
Pleas’d with the Meadows ever green,
The Woods and Groves with tuneful Anger move,
And nought is heard but gentle Sighs of Love:
The Nymphs and Swains for rural Sports prepare,
And each kind Youth diverts his smiling Fair.
But if by Chance is found a flinty Maid,
Whose cruel Eyes has Shepherds Hearts betray’d,
In other Climes a Refuge she must find,
Banish’d from hence Society of Kind.
Here gentle _Isis_, with a Bridegroom’s Haste,
Glides to o’ertake the _Thame_, as fair, as chaste;
Then mixt, embracing, they together flie;
They Live together, and together Die.
Here ev’ry Object adds to our Delight,
Calm is our Day, and peaceful is our Night.
Then, kind _Æmilia_, flie that hated Town,
Where’s not a Moment thou canst call thy own:
Haste for to meet a Happiness divine,
And share the Pleasures I count only mine.
_P. S._ A SONG.
1.
‘Tis not your saying that you love,
Can ease me of my Smart;
Your Actions must your Words approve,
Or else you break my Heart.
2.
In vain you bid my Passion cease,
And ease my troubled Breast;
Your Love alone must give me Peace,
Restore my wonted Rest.
3.
But, if I fail your Heart to move,
And ‘tis not yours to give;
I cannot, wonnot cease to love,
But I will cease to live.
_A. Behn._
PROLOGUE _to_ ROMULUS,
_Spoken by Mrs._ Butler.
_Written by Mrs._ Behn.
How we shall please ye now I cannot say;
But, Sirs, ‘Faith here is _News from Rome_ to day;
Yet know withal, we’ve no such PACKETS here,
As you read once a week from Monkey CARE.
But ‘stead of that Lewd Stuff (that cloys the Nation)
Plain Love and Honour; (tho quite out of Fashion;)
Ours is a Virgin ROME, long, long, before
Pious GENEVA Rhetorick call’d her Whore;
For be it known to their Eternal Shames,
Those Saints were always good at calling Names;
Of _Scarlet Whores_ let ‘em their Wills devise,
But let ‘em raise no other _Scarlet Lies_;
LIES that advance the _Good Old Cause_, and bring
Into Contempt the PRELATES with the KING.
Why shou’d the _Rebel Party_ be affraid?
They’re _Ratts_ and _Weazles_ gnaw the _Lyon’s_ Beard,
And then in IGNORAMUS Holes they think,
Like other Vermin, to lie close, and stink.
What have ye got, ye _Conscientious Knaves_,
With all your _Fancy’d Power_, and _Bully Braves_?
With all your standing to’t; your _Zealous Furies_;
Your _Lawless Tongues_, and _Arbitrary Juries_?
Your _Burlesque Oaths_, when one _Green-Ribbon-Brother_
In Conscience will be _Perjur’d for another_?
Your PLOTS, _Cabals_, your _Treats_, _Association_,
Ye shame, ye very Nusance of the Nation,
What have ye got but one poor Word? Such Tools
Were _Knaves_ before; to which you’ve added _Fools_.
Now I dare swear, some of you _Whigsters_ say,
_Come on, now for a swinging_ TORY PLAY.
But, Noble _Whigs_, pray let not those _Fears_ start ye,
Nor fright hence any of the _Sham Sheriff’s Party_;
For, if you’ll take my censure of the Story, }
It is as harmless as e’re came before ye, }
And writ before the times of _Whig_ and _Tory_. }
EPILOGUE _to the Same_.
_Spoken by the Lady_ SLINGSBY.
Fair Ladies, pity an unhappy Maid,
By Fortune, and by faithless Love betray’d.
Innocent once--I scarce knew how to sin,
Till that unlucky Devil entring in,
Did all my Honour, all my Faith undo:
LOVE! like _Ambition_ makes us Rebels too:
And of all Treasons, mine was most accurst;
Rebelling ‘gainst a KING and FATHER first.
A Sin, which Heav’n nor Man can e’re forgive;
Nor could I _Act_ it with the Face to live.
My Dagger did my Honours cause redress;
But Oh! my blushing Ghost must needs confess,
Had my young Charming Lover faithful been,
I fear I dy’d with unrepented Sin.
There’s nothing can my Reputation save
With all the _True_, the _Loyal_ and the _Brave_;
Not my Remorse, or Death can expiate
With them a Treason ‘gainst the KING and _State_.
Some Love-sick Maid perhaps, now I am gone,
(Raging with Love, and by that Love undone,)
May form some little _Argument_ for me,
T’ excuse m’ _Ingratitude_ and _Treachery_.
Some of the Sparks too, that infect the _Pit_,
(Whose Honesty is equal to their Wit,
And think _Rebellion_ but a petty Crime,
Can turn to all sides Int’rest does incline,)
May cry ‘_I gad I think the Wench is wise;_
_’.ad it prov’d Lucky, ‘twas the Way to rise._
_’.he had a_ Roman _Spirit, that disdains_
_’.ull Loyalty, and the Yoke of Sovereigns._
_’. Pox of Fathers, and Reproach to come;_
_’.he was the first and Noblest_ Whig _of_ Rome.
But may that Ghost in quiet never rest,
Who thinks it self with Traytors Praises blest.
_Mrs._ Behn’s _Satyr on_ Dryden.
(_On Mr._ Dryden, _Renegate_.)
Scorning religion all thy life time past,
And now embracing popery at last,
Is like thyself; & what thou’st done before
Defying wife and marrying a whore.
Alas! how leering Hereticks will laugh
To see a gray old hedge bird caught with chaffe.
A Poet too from great heroick theames
And inspiration, fallen to dreaming dreams.
But this the priests will get by thee at least
That if they mend thee, miracles are not ceast.
For ‘tis not more to cure the lame & blind,
Than heal an impious ulcerated mind.
This if they do, and give thee but a grain
Of common honesty, or common shame,
‘Twill be more credit to their cause I grant,
Than ‘twould to make another man a saint.
But thou noe party ever shalt adorn,
To thy own shame & Nature’s scandall borne:
All shun alike thy ugly outward part,
Whilest none have right or title to thy heart.
Resolved to stand & constant to the time,
Fix’d in thy lewdness, settled in thy crime.
Whilest Moses with the Israelites abode,
Thou seemdst content to worship Moses’ God:
But since he went & since thy master fell,
Thou foundst a golden calf would do as well.
And when another Moses shall arise
Once more I know thou’lt rub and clear thy eyes,
And turn to be an Israelite again, }
For when the play is done & finisht clean, }
What should the Poet doe but shift the scene. }
VALENTINIAN.
_Prologue spoken by Mrs._ Cook _the first Day._
_Written by Mrs._ Behn.
[Sidenote: The Fair on the _Thames_ so called.]
With that assurance we to day address,
As standard Beauties, certain of Success.
With careless Pride at once they charm and vex,
And scorn the little Censures of their Sex.
Sure of the unregarded Spoyl, despise
The needless Affectation of the Eyes,
The softening Languishment that faintly warms,
But trust alone to their resistless Charms.
So we secur’d by undisputed Wit,
Disdain the damning Malice of the Pit,
Nor need false Arts to set great Nature off,
Or studied tricks to force the Clap and Laugh.
Ye wou’d-be-Criticks, you are all undone,
For here’s no Theam for you to work upon.
Faith seem to talk to _Jenny_, I advise,
Of who likes who, and how Loves Markets rise.
Try these hard Times how to abate the Price;
Tell her how cheap were Damsels on the Ice.
‘Mongst City-Wives, and Daughters that came there,
How far a Guinny went at _Blanket-Fair_.
Thus you may find some good Excuse for failing
Of your beloved Exercise of Railing.
That when Friend cryes--How did the Play succeed?
Deme, I hardly minded--what they did.
We shall not your Ill-nature please to day,
With some fond Scribblers new uncertain Play,
Loose as vain Youth, and tedious as dull Age,
Or Love and Honour that o’re-runs the Stage.
Fam’d and substantial Authors give this Treat,
And ‘twill be solemn, Noble all and Great.
Wit, sacred Wit, is all the bus’ness here;
Great _Fletcher_, and the greater _Rochester_.
Now name the hardy Man one fault dares find,
In the vast Work of two such Heroes joyn’d.
None but Great _Strephon’s_ soft and pow’rful Wit
Durst undertake to mend what _Fletcher_ writ,
Different their heav’nly Notes; yet both agree
To make an everlasting Harmony.
Listen, ye Virgins, to his charming Song,
Eternal Musick dwelt upon his Tongue.
The Gods of Love and Wit inspir’d his Pen,
And Love and Beauty was his glorious Theam.
Now, Ladies, you may celebrate his Name,
Without a scandal on your spotless Fame.
With Praise his dear lov’d Memory pursue,
And pay his Death, what to his Life was due.
_To_ Henry Higden, _Esq.; on his Translation of the_ Tenth Satyr _of_
Juvenal.
I.
I know you, and I must confess
From Sence so Celebrated, and so True,
_Wit_ so Uncommon, and so New,
As that which alwaies shines in You;
I cou’d expect no less.
‘Tis _Great_, ‘tis _Just_, ‘tis _Noble_ all!
Right Spirit of the _Original_;
No scatter’d Spark, no glimmering Beams,
As in some Pieces here and there,
Through a dark Glade of _Duller Numbers_ gleams.
But ‘tis all Fire! all Glittering every where
_Grateful Instruction_ that can never fail,
To Please and Charm, even while you Rail.
By _Arts_ thus Gentle and Severe
The _Powers Divine_ first made their Mortals Wise;
The soft Reproach they did with Reverence bear;
While they Ador’d the GOD that did Chastize,
II.
Perhaps there may be found some _Carping Wit_,
May blame the Measures of thy _Lines_,
And cry,--Not so the _Roman_ Poet writ;
Who drest his _Satyr_ in more lofty Rhimes.
But thou for thy Instructor _Nature_ chose,
That _first_ best Principle of _Poetry_;
And to thy Subject didst thy _Verse_ dispose,
While in Harmonious Union both agree.
Had the _Great Bard_ thy _Properer Numbers_ view’d,
He wou’d have lay’d his stiff Heroicks by,
And this more _Gay_, more _Airy_ Path pursu’d,
That so much better leads to _Ralliery_.
Wit is no more than _Nature_ well exprest;
And he fatigues and toyles in vain
With _Rigid Labours_, breaks his Brain,
That has _Familiar Thought_ in lofty Numbers drest.
III.
True to his _Sense_ and to his _Charming Wit_,
Thou every where hast kept an equal Pace:
All his Brisk Turns exactly hit,
Justly maintain’d his Humour and his Grace:
And with the _Language_ hast not chang’d the Face:
Great _Juvenal_ in every Line,
True _Roman_ still o’re all does shine;
But in the _Brittish_ Garb appears most fine.
IV.
Long did the _Learned Author_ search to find
The Vice and Vanity of Humane-kind:
Long he observ’d, nor did observe in vain;
In every differing Humour found
Even there where _Virtue_ did abound,
Some mortal Frailties reign.
_Philosophers_ he saw were Proud
Of dull-affected Poverty:
Senators cringing to the Crowd
For trifling Popularity:
The Judge reviles the Criminal at _Bar_,
And now because old Ages Ice
Has chill’d the Ardour of his willing Vice,
Snarles at those _Youthful Follies_ which he cannot shun.
From the vain-keeping _’.quire_, and Cully’d _Lord_;
The fawning _Courtier_, _States-man’s_ Broken Word:
Down to the flattering, Jilting _Curtizan_,
And the more faithless couzening _Citizen_,
The Tricks of _Court_ and _State_ to him were known;
And all the Vices veil’d beneath the _Gown_,
From the Sharp _Pulpit_ to the Blunted _Stall_,
He knew, and gently did reproach them all.
V.
If _Rome_ that kept the lesser World in awe,
Wanted a _Juvenal_ to give them Law,
How much more we who stockt with _Knave_ and _Fool_,
Have turn’d the Nation into _Ridicule_.
The dire Contagion spreads to each degree
Of Wild _Debauchery_.
The mad Infected Youth make haste
To day their _Fortunes_, _Health_, and _Reason_ waste:
The _Fop_, a tamer sort of _Tool_
Who dresses, talks, and loves, by Rule;
Has long for a _Fine Person_ past.
_Blockheads_ will pass for _Wits_, and Write,
And some for _Brave_, who ne’r could Fight.
Women for _Chaste_, whose knack of _Cant_
Boasts of the _Virtues_ that they want:
Cry _Faugh_--at Words and Actions Innocent,
And make that naughty that was never meant:
That vain-affected _Hypocrite_ shall be
In Satyr sham’d to _Honest Sense_ by Thee.
‘Tis Thou, an _English Juvenal_, alone,
To whom all _Vice_, and every _Vertue’s_ known:
Thou that like _Judah’s_ King through all hast past,
And found that all’s but _Vanity_ at last;
‘Tis you alone the _Discipline_ can use,
Who dare at once be _bold_, _severe_, and _kind_;
Soften rough Satyr with thy gentler _Muse_,
And force a _Blush_ at least, where you can’t change the Mind.
_A. Behn._
_On the Death of_ E. Waller, _Esq._;
_By Mrs._ A. Behn.
How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring
(Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering?
I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become
Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb?
While every soft, and every tender Strain
Is ruffl’d, and ill-natur’d grown with Pain.
But, at thy Name, my languisht _Muse_ revives,
And a new _Spark_ in the dull _Ashes_ strives.
I hear thy tuneful _Verse_, thy _Song_ Divine,
And am Inspir’d by every charming Line.
But, Oh!----
What Inspiration, at the second Hand,
Can an _Immortal Elegie_ command?
Unless, like _Pious Offerings_, mine should be
Made Sacred, being Consecrate to thee.
Eternal, as thy own Almighty Verse,
Should be those _Trophies_ that adorn thy _Hearse_.
The _Thought_ Illustrious, and the _Fancy_ young; }
The _Wit_ Sublime, the _Judgment_ Fine and Strong; }
Soft, as thy _Notes_ to _Sacharissa_ sung. }
Whilst mine, like Transitory _Flowers_, decay,
That come to _deck_ thy Tomb a short-liv’d Day.
Such _Tributes_ are, like _Tenures_, only fit
To shew from whom we hold our _Right_ to _Wit_.
Hail, wondrous _Bard_, whose Heav’n-born _Genius_ first
My Infant _Muse_, and Blooming _Fancy_ Nurst.
With thy soft _Food_ of _Love_ I first began,
Then fed on nobler _Panegyrick_ Strain,
Numbers _Seraphic_! and at every View,
My Soul extended, and much larger grew:
Where e’re I Read, new Raptures seiz’d my Blood;
Me thought I heard the Language of a God.
Long did the untun’d World in Ign’rance stray, }
Producing nothing that was Great and Gay, }
Till taught by thee, the true Poetick way. }
Rough were the _Tracts_ before, Dull and Obscure;
Nor Pleasure, nor Instruction could procure.
Their thoughtless Labour could no _Passion_ move;
Sure, in that _Age_, the Poets knew not _Love_:
That Charming _God_, like Apparitions, then,
Was only talk’d on, but ne’re seen by Men:
Darkness was o’re the _Muses_ Land displaid,
And even the _Chosen Tribe_ unguided straid.
‘Till, by thee rescu’d from th’ _Egyptian_ Night, }
They now look up, and view the God of Light, }
That taught them how to _Love_, and how to _Write_; }
And to Enhance the Blessing which Heav’n lent,
When for our great _Instructor_ thou wert sent,
Large was thy Life, but yet thy Glories more; }
And, like the _Sun_, didst still dispense thy Pow’r, }
Producing something wondrous ev’ry hour: }
And in thy _Circulary Course_, didst see
The very _Life_ and _Death_ of _Poetry_.
Thou saw’st the _Generous Nine_ neglected lie,
None listning to their Heav’nly _Harmony_;
The World being grown to that low _Ebb_ of Sense
To disesteem the noblest Excellence;
And no Encouragement to _Prophets_ shown,
Who in past _Ages_ got so great Renown.
Though _Fortune_ Elevated thee above
Its _scanty Gratitude_, or _fickle Love_;
Yet, _sullen_ with the World, untir’d by Age,
Scorning th’ unthinking _Crowd_, thou quit’st the _Stage_.
A PINDARIC POEM _to the Reverend Doctor_ Burnet, _on the Honour he did
me of Enquiring after me and my_ MUSE.
_By Mrs._ A. Behn.
(1)
When Old _Rome’s_ Candidates aspir’d to Fame,
And did the Peoples Suffrages obtain
For some great Consul, or a _Cæsar’s_ Name;
The Victor was not half so Pleas’d and Vain,
As I, when given the Honour of your Choice,
And Preference had in that one single Voice;
That Voice, from whence Immortal Wit still flows;
Wit that at once is Solemn all and Sweet,
Where Noblest Eloquence and Judgment shows
The Inspiring Mind Illustrious, Rich, and Great;
A Mind that can inform your wond’rous Pen
In all that’s Perfect and Sublime:
And with an Art beyond the Wit of Men,
On what e’re Theam, on what e’re great Design,
It carries a Commanding Force, like that of Writ Divine.
(2)
With Pow’rful Reasoning drest in finest Sence,
A thousand ways my Soul you can Invade,
And spight of my Opinions weak Defence,
Against my Will, you Conquer and Perswade.
Your Language soft as Love, betrays the Heart,
And at each Period fixes a Resistless Dart,
While the fond list’ner, like a Maid undone,
Inspir’d with Tenderness she fears to own;
In vain essays her Freedom to Regain:
The fine Ideas in her Soul remain,
And Please, and Charm, even while they Grieve and Pain.
(3)
But yet how well this Praise can Recompense
For all the welcome Wounds (before) you’d given!
Scarce any thing but You and Heaven
Such Grateful Bounties can dispense,
As that Eternity of Life can give;
So fam’d by you my Verse Eternally shall live:
Till now, my careless Muse no higher strove
T’inlarge her Glory, and extend her Wings;
Than underneath _Parnassus_ Grove,
To Sing of Shepherds, and their humble Love;
But never durst, like _Cowly_, tune her Strings,
To sing of Heroes and of Kings.
But since by an Authority Divine,
She is allow’d a more exalted Thought;
She will be valu’d now as Currant Coyn;
Whose Stamp alone gives it the Estimate,
Tho’ out of an inferiour Metal wrought.
(4)
But oh! if from your Praise I feel
A Joy that has no Parallel!
What must I suffer when I cannot pay
Your Goodness, your own generous way?
And make my stubborn Muse your Just Commands obey.
My Muse that would endeavour fain to glide
With the fair prosperous Gale, and the full driving Tide,
But Loyalty Commands with Pious Force,
That stops me in the thriving Course,
The Brieze that wafts the Crowding Nations o’re,
Leaves me unpity’d far behind
On the Forsaken Barren Shore,
To Sigh with Echo, and the Murmuring Wind;
While all the Inviting Prospect I survey,
With Melancholy Eyes I view the Plains,
Where all I see is Ravishing and Gay,
And all I hear is Mirth in loudest Strains;
Thus while the Chosen Seed possess the Promis’d Land,
I like the Excluded Prophet stand,
The Fruitful Happy Soil can only see,
But am forbid by Fates Decree
To share the Triumph of the joyful Victory.
(5)
‘Tis to your Pen, Great Sir, the Nation owes
For all the Good this Mighty Change has wrought;
‘Twas that the wondrous Method did dispose,
E’re the vast Work was to Perfection brought.
Oh Strange effect of a Seraphick Quill!
That can by unperceptable degrees
Change every Notion, every Principle
To any Form, its Great Dictator please:
The Sword a Feeble Pow’r, compar’d to That,
And to the Nobler Pen subordinate;
And of less use in _Bravest_ turns of State:
While that to Blood and Slaughter has recourse,
This Conquers Hearts with soft prevailing Force:
So when the wiser _Greeks_ o’recame their Foes,
It was not by the Barbarous Force of Blows.
When a long Ten Years Fatal War had fail’d,
With luckier Wisdom they at last assail’d,
Wisdom and Counsel which alone prevail’d.
Not all their Numbers the Fam’d Town could win,
‘Twas Nobler Stratagem that let the Conquerour in.
(6)
Tho’ I the Wond’rous Change deplore,
That makes me Useless and Forlorn,
Yet I the great Design adore,
Tho’ Ruin’d in the Universal Turn.
Nor can my Indigence and Lost Repose,
Those Meagre Furies that surround me close,
Convert my Sense and Reason more
To this Unpresidented Enterprise,
Than that a Man so Great, so Learn’d, so Wise,
The Brave Achievement Owns and nobly Justifies.
‘Tis you, Great Sir, alone, by Heaven preserv’d,
Whose Conduct has so well the Nation serv’d,
‘Tis you that to Posperity shall give
This Ages Wonders, and its History.
And Great NASSAU shall in your Annals live
To all Futurity.
Your Pen shall more Immortalize his Name,
That even his Own Renown’d and Celebrated Fame.
FINIS.
NOTES.
NOTES ON THE TEXT.
LA MONSTRE (1686).
p. 4, l. 1 _To Peter Weston, Esq._ This Epistle Dedicatory and the five
complimentary poems which follow are only in the editio princeps, 1686.
p. 12, l. 1 _La Monstre_. Only in 1686.
p. 12, l. 9 _dare_. 1697 ‘dae’. 1735 ‘do’.
p. 13, l. 14 _you will not_. 1735 ‘will you not’.
p. 15, l. 5 _Worships_. 1735 ‘Worship’.
p. 17, l. 25 _never_. 1735 ‘ever’.
p. 19, l. 30 _To give_. 1735 ‘That give’.
p. 20, l. 11 _dear Object_. 1735 omits ‘dear’.
p. 20, l. 18 _to the Hour_. 1735 omits ‘to’.
p. 21, l. 25 _so much Goodness_. 1686 ‘Goodness enough’, 1697 ‘Goodness
enough to write you enough’. I follow 1735 here as the repetition of
’.nough ... enow (enough)’ is very harsh.
p. 22, l. 13 _Evidences_. 1697, 1735 ‘Evidence’.
p. 23, l. 7 _Lover_. 1697, 1735 ‘Lovers’.
p. 24, l. 18 _a Heart_. 1735 ‘the Heart’, and punctuates with no comma
after _Heart_ but after _Damon_, comma.
p. 29, l. 9 _sets_. 1735 ‘set’.
p. 29, l. 10 _idle_. 1735 omits.
p. 29, l. 12 _Melinda_. 1686, 1697 ‘Milinda’.
p. 31, l. 8 _shall_. 1697, 1735 ‘should.’
p. 35, l. 26 _Sense and_. 1735 omits.
p. 35, l. 27 _to purchase_. 1686, 1697 omit ‘to’.
p. 37, l. 4 _that_. 1697, 1735 ‘the’.
p. 37, l. 22 _never_. 1735 ‘ever’.
p. 40, l. 29 _such a sort_. 1697, 1735 omit ‘such’.
p. 47, l. 9 _grow_. 1697, 1735 ‘strow’.
p. 49, l. 29 _more_. 1697, 1735 ‘most’.
p. 49, l. 30 _Glist’ring_. 1697, 1735 ‘Glitt’ring’.
p. 50, l. 19 _recollected_. 1735 ‘collected’.
p. 53, l. 2 _Incertainty_. 1735 ‘Uncertainty’.
p. 53, l. 11 _Answers_. 1735 ‘Answer’.
p. 53, l. 19 _impossible_. 1735 ‘possible’, a very patent error.
p. 59, l. 15 _the_. 1735 ‘thy’.
p. 65, l. 3 _won_. 1735 misprints ‘now’.
p. 65, l. 7 _and_. 1735 ‘tho’.
p. 65, l. 16 _unreasonably_. 1697, 1735 ‘unreasonable’.
p. 66, l. 3 _happen you_. 1735 ‘happen that you’.
p. 67, l. 8 _and Mall_. 1735 ‘the Mall’.
p. 68, l. 26 _on me_. 1735 ‘of me’.
p. 70, l. 21 _rack_. 1686, 1697 ‘wreck’.
p. 70, l. 23 _subvert_. 1735 ‘pervert’.
p. 70, l. 24 _To the most tort’ring Jealousy_. 1686, 1697 ‘To tort’ring
Jealousie’.
p. 73, l. 4 _vanisht_. 1735 ‘banish’d’.
p. 73, l. 21 _a Peace_. 1735 omits ‘a’.
p. 74, l. 17 _Imaginations_. 1735 ‘Imagination’.
p. 75, l. 27 _unimitable_. 1735 (here and elsewhere) ‘inimitable.’
p. 75, l. 32 _Katharine_. 1735 ‘Catharine’.
p. 75, l. 34 _Heighth_. 1735 ‘Height’.
p. 75, l. 35 _Meads_. 1735 ‘Meadows.’
p. 76, l. 29 _Morland_. 1735 ‘Moreland’.
p. 76, l. 30 _Gorden_. 1735 ‘Gordon’.
p. 81, l. 23 _toucht_. 1735 ‘taught’.
p. 82, l. 34 _to tie_. 1697 ‘to die’.
p. 83, l. 14 _believ’d_. 1735 ‘believe’.
p. 86, l. 11 _it_. 1735 ‘they’.