Chapter III

But Shepherd beware,
Though a Victor you are;
A Tyrant was never secure in his Throne;
Whilst proudly you aim
New Conquests to gain,
Some hard-hearted Nymph may return you your own.

_On a Copy of Verses made in a Dream, and sent to me in a Morning before I was Awake._

_Amyntas_, if your Wit in Dreams
Can furnish you with Theams,
What must it do when your Soul looks abroad,
Quick’nd with Agitations of the Sence,
And dispossest of Sleeps dull heavy Load,
When ev’ry Syllable has Eloquence?
And if by Chance such Wounds you make,
And in your Sleep such welcome Mischiefs do;
What are your Pow’rs when you’re awake,
Directed by Design and Reason too?

I slept, as duller Mortals use,
Without the Musick of a Thought,
When by a gentle Breath, soft as thy Muse,
Thy Name to my glad Ear was brought:
_Amyntas_! cry’d the Page--And at the Sound,
My list’ning Soul unusual Pleasure found.
So the Harmonius _Spheres_ surprize,
Whilst the All-Ravish’d _Shepherd_ gazes round,
And wonders whence the Charms should rise,
That can at once both please and wound.
Whilst trembling I unript the _Seal_
Of what you’d sent,
My Heart with an Impatient Zeal,
Without my Eyes, would needs reveal
Its Bus’ness and Intent.

But so beyond the _Sence_ they were
Of ev’ry scribling Lovers common Art,
That now I find an equal share
Of Love and Admiration in my Heart.
And while I read, in vain I strove
To hide the Pleasure which I took;
_Bellario_ saw in ev’ry Look
My smiling Joy and blushing Love.
Soft ev’ry word, easie each Line, and true;
Brisk, witty, manly, strong and gay;
The Thoughts are tender all, and new,
And Fancy ev’ry where does gently play,
_Amyntas_, if you thus go on,
Like an unwearied Conqueror day and night,
The World at last must be undone.
You do not only kill at sight,
But like a _Parthian_ in your flight,
Whether you Rally or Retreat,
You still have Arrows for Defeat.

_To my Lady_ Morland _at_ Tunbridge.

As when a Conqu’rour does in Triumph come,
And proudly leads the vanquish’d Captives home,
The Joyful People croud in ev’ry Street,
And with loud shouts of Praise the Victor greet;
While some whom Chance or Fortune kept away,
Desire at least the Story of the Day;
How brave the Prince, how gay the Chariot was,
How beautiful he look’d, with what a Grace;
Whether upon his Head he Plumes did wear;
Or if a Wreath of Bays adorn’d his Hair:
They hear ‘tis wondrous fine, and long much more
To see the _Hero_ then they did before.
So when the Marvels by Report I knew,
Of how much Beauty, _Cloris_, dwelt in you;
How many _Slaves_ your Conqu’ring Eyes had won,
And how the gazing Crowd admiring throng:
I wish’d to see, and much a Lover grew
Of so much Beauty, though my Rivals too.
I came and saw, and blest my Destiny;
I found it Just you should out-Rival me.
‘Twas at the Altar, where more Hearts were giv’n
To you that day, then were address’d to Heav’n.
The Rev’rend Man whose Age and Mystery
Had rendred Youth and Beauty Vanity,
By fatal Chance casting his Eyes your way, }
Mistook the duller Bus’ness of the Day, }
Forgot the Gospel, and began to Pray. }
Whilst the Enamour’d Crowd that near you prest, }
Receiving _Darts_ which none could e’er resist, }
Neglected the Mistake o’th’ Love-sick Priest. }
Ev’n my Devotion, _Cloris_, you betray’d,
And I to Heaven no other Petition made,
But that you might all other Nymphs out-do
In Cruelty as well as Beauty too.
I call’d _Amyntas_ Faithless _Swain_ before,
But now I find ‘tis Just he should Adore.
Not to love you, a wonder sure would be,
Greater then all his Perjuries to me.
And whilst I Blame him, I Excuse him too;
Who would not venture Heav’n to purchase you?
But Charming _Cloris_, you too meanly prize
The more deserving Glories of your Eyes,
If you permit him on an Amorous score,
To be your _Slave_, who was my _Slave_ before.
He oft has Fetters worn, and can with ease
Admit ‘em or dismiss ‘em when he please.
A Virgin-Heart you merit, that ne’er found
It could receive, till from your Eyes, the _Wound_;
A Heart that nothing but your Force can fear,
And own a _Soul_ as Great as you are Fair.

_Song to_ Ceres.

_In the_ Wavering Nymph, _or Mad_ Amyntas.

I.

_Ceres_, Great Goddess of the bounteous Year,
Who load’st the Teeming Earth with Gold and Grain,
Blessing the Labours of th’ Industrious _Swain_,
And to their Plaints inclin’st thy gracious Ear:
Behold two fair _Cicilian_ Lovers lie
Prostrate before thy Deity;
Imploring thou wilt grant the Just Desires
Of two Chaste Hearts that burn with equal Fires.

II.

_Amyntas_ he, brave, generous and young;
Whom yet no Vice his Youth has e’er betray’d:
And Chaste _Urania_ is the Lovely Maid;
His Daughter who has serv’d thy Altars long,
As thy High Priest: A _Dowry_ he demands
At the young Amorous Shepherds hands:
Say, gentle Goddess, what the Youth must give,
E’er the Bright Maid he can from thee receive.

_Song in the same Play, by the_ Wavering Nymph.

_Pan_, grant that I may never prove
So great a _Slave_ to fall in love,
And to an Unknown _Deity_
Resign my happy Liberty:
I love to see the Amorous _Swains_
Unto my Scorn their Hearts resign:
With Pride I see the Meads and Plains
Throng’d all with _Slaves_, and they all mine:
Whilst I the whining Fools despise,
That pay their Homage to my Eyes.

_The Disappointment._

I.

One day the Amorous _Lysander_
By an impatient Passion sway’d,
Surpriz’d fair _Cloris_, that lov’d Maid,
Who could defend her self no longer.
All things did with his Love conspire;
The gilded Planet of the Day,
In his gay Chariot drawn by Fire,
Was now descending to the Sea,
And left no Light to guide the World,
But what from _Cloris_ Brighter Eyes was hurld.

II.

In a lone Thicket made for Love,
Silent as yielding Maids Consent,
She with a Charming Languishment,
Permits his Force, yet gently strove;
Her Hands his Bosom softly meet,
But not to put him back design’d,
Rather to draw ‘em on inclin’d:
Whilst he lay trembling at her Feet,
Resistance ‘tis in vain to show;
She wants the pow’r to say--_Ah! What d’ye do?_

III.

Her Bright Eyes sweet, and yet severe,
Where Love and Shame confus’dly strive,
Fresh Vigor to _Lysander_ give;
And breathing faintly in his Ear,
She cry’d--_Cease, Cease--your vain Desire,_
_Or I’ll call out--What would you do?_
_My Dearer Honour ev’n to You_
_I cannot, must not give--Retire,_
_Or take this Life, whose chiefest part_
_I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart._

IV.

But he as much unus’d to Fear,
As he was capable of Love,
The blessed minutes to improve,
Kisses her Mouth, her Neck, her Hair;
Each Touch her new Desire Alarms,
His burning trembling Hand he prest
Upon her swelling Snowy Brest,
While she lay panting in his Arms.
All her Unguarded Beauties lie
The Spoils and Trophies of the Enemy.

V.

And now without Respect or Fear,
He seeks the Object of his Vows,
(His Love no Modesty allows)
By swift degrees advancing--where
His daring Hand that Altar seiz’d,
Where Gods of Love do sacrifice:
That Awful Throne, that Paradice
Where Rage is calm’d, and Anger pleas’d;
That Fountain where Delight still flows,
And gives the Universal World Repose.

VI.

Her Balmy Lips encount’ring his,
Their Bodies, as their Souls, are joyn’d;
Where both in Transports Unconfin’d
Extend themselves upon the Moss.
_Cloris_ half dead and breathless lay;
Her soft Eyes cast a Humid Light,
Such as divides the Day and Night;
Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay:
And now no signs of Life she shows,
But what in short-breath’d Sighs returns and goes.

VII.

He saw how at her Length she lay;
He saw her rising Bosom bare;
Her loose thin _Robes_, through which appear
A Shape design’d for Love and Play;
Abandon’d by her Pride and Shame.
She does her softest Joys dispence,
Off’ring her Virgin-Innocence
A Victim to Loves Sacred Flame;
While the o’er-Ravish’d Shepherd lies
Unable to perform the Sacrifice.

VIII.

Ready to taste a thousand Joys,
The too transported hapless Swain
Found the vast Pleasure turn’d to Pain;
Pleasure which too much Love destroys
The willing Garments by he laid,
And Heaven all open’d to his view.
Mad to possess, himself he threw
On the Defenceless Lovely Maid.
But Oh what envying God conspires
To snatch his Power, yet leave him the Desire!

IX.

_Nature’s Support_, (without whose Aid
She can no Humane Being give)
It self now wants the Art to live;
Faintness its slack’ned Nerves invade:
In vain th’ inraged Youth essay’d
To call its fleeting Vigor back,
No motion ‘twill from Motion take;
Excess of Love his Love betray’d:
In vain he Toils, in vain Commands
The Insensible fell weeping in his Hand.

X.

In this so Amorous Cruel Strife,
Where Love and Fate were too severe,
The poor _Lysander_ in despair
Renounc’d his Reason with his Life:
Now all the brisk and active Fire
That should the Nobler Part inflame,
Serv’d to increase his Rage and Shame,
And left no Spark for New Desire:
Not all her Naked Charms cou’d move
Or calm that Rage that had debauch’d his Love.

XI.

_Cloris_ returning from the Trance
Which Love and soft Desire had bred,
Her timerous Hand she gently laid
(Or guided by Design or Chance)
Upon that Fabulous _Priapus_;
That Potent God, as Poets feign;
But never did young _Shepherdess_,
Gath’ring of Fern upon the Plain,
More nimbly draw her Fingers back,
Finding beneath the verdant Leaves a Snake:

XII.

Than _Cloris_ her fair Hand withdrew,
Finding that God of her Desires
Disarm’d of all his Awful Fires,
And Cold as Flow’rs bath’d in the Morning Dew.
Who can the _Nymph’s_ Confusion guess?
The Blood forsook the hinder Place,
And strew’d with Blushes all her Face,
Which both Disdain and Shame exprest:
And from _Lysander’s_ Arms she fled,
Leaving him fainting on the Gloomy Bed.

XIII.

Like Lightning through the Grove she hies,
Or _Daphne_ from the _Delphick God_,
No Print upon the grassey Road
She leaves, t’ instruct Pursuing Eyes.
The Wind that wanton’d in her Hair,
And with her Ruffled Garments plaid,
Discover’d in the Flying Maid
All that the Gods e’er made, if Fair.
So _Venus_, when her _Love_ was slain,
With Fear and Haste flew o’er the Fatal Plain.