Chapter V

At this I blush’d, and angry grew
I should a God believe;
And waking found my Dream too true,
Alas I was a Slave.

_A letter to a Brother of the Pen in_ Tribulation.

Poor _Damon_! Art thou caught? Is’t e’vn so?
Art thou become a [1]_Tabernacler_ too?
Where sure thou dost not mean to Preach or Pray,
Unless it be the clean contrary way:
This holy[2] time I little thought thy sin
Deserv’d a _Tub_ to do its Pennance in.
O how you’ll for th’ _Egyptian Flesh-pots_ wish,
When you’r half-famish’d with your Lenten-dish,
Your _Almonds_, _Currans_, _Biskets_ hard and dry,
Food that will Soul and Body mortifie:
Damn’d Penetential Drink, that will infuse
Dull Principles into thy Grateful Muse.
--Pox on’t that you must needs be fooling now,
Just when the Wits had greatest[3] need of you.
Was Summer then so long a coming on,
That you must make an Artificial one?
Much good may’t do thee; but ‘tis thought thy Brain
E’er long will wish for cooler Days again.
For Honesty no more will I engage:
I durst have sworn thou’dst had thy Pusillage.
Thy Looks the whole Cabal have cheated too;
But thou wilt say, most of the Wits do so.
Is this thy writing[4] Plays? who thought thy Wit
An Interlude of Whoring would admit?
To Poetry no more thou’lt be inclin’d,
Unless in Verse to damn all Womankind:
And ‘tis but Just thou shouldst in Rancor grow
Against that Sex that has Confin’d thee so.
All things in Nature now are Brisk and Gay
At the Approaches of the _Blooming May_:
The new-fletch’d Birds do in our Arbors sing
A Thousand Airs to welcome in the Spring;
Whilst ev’ry Swain is like a Bridegroom drest,
And ev’ry Nymph as going to a Feast:
The Meadows now their flowry Garments wear,
And ev’ry Grove does in its Pride appear:
Whilst thou poor _Damon_ in close Rooms are pent,
Where hardly thy own Breath can find a vent.
Yet that too is a Heaven, compar’d to th’ Task
Of Codling every Morning in a Cask.
Now I could curse this Female, but I know,
She needs it not, that thus cou’d handle you.
Besides, that Vengeance does to thee belong.
And ‘twere Injustice to disarm thy Tongue.
Curse then, dear Swain, that all the Youth may hear,
And from thy dire Mishap be taught to fear.
Curse till thou hast undone the Race, and all
That did contribute to thy Spring and Fall.

[1] _So he called a Sweating-Tub._

[2] _Lent._

[3] _I wanted a Prologue to a Play._

[4] _He pretended to Retire to Write._

_The Reflection_: A Song.

I.

Poor Lost _Serena_, to Bemoan
The Rigor of her Fate,
High’d to a Rivers-side alone,
Upon whose Brinks she sat.
Her Eyes, as if they would have spar’d,
The Language of her Tongue,
In Silent Tears a while declar’d
The Sense of all her wrong.

II.

But they alas too feeble were,
Her Grief was swoln too high
To be Exprest in Sighs and Tears;
She must or speak or dye.
And thus at last she did complain,
Is this the Faith, said she,
Which thou allowest me, _Cruel Swain_,
For that I gave to thee?

III.

Heaven knows with how much Innocence
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?