Chapter IV

_And as in other Sectuaries you find,_
_His Votaries most consist of Womankind,_
_Who Throng t’ adore the necessary Evil,_
_But most for fear, as Indians do the Devil._
_Peevish, uneasy all; for in Revenge,_
_Love shoots ‘em with a thousand Darts._
_They feel, but not confess the change;_
_Their false Devotion cannot save their Hearts._
_Thus while the Idol Honour they obey,_ }
_Swift time comes on, and blooming Charms decay,_ }
_And Ruin’d Beauty does too late the Cheat betray._ }

This Goblin here--the lovely Maid Alarms,
And snatch’d her, even from my Trembling Arms,
With all the Pow’r of _Non-sence_ he commands,
Which she for mighty Reason understands.
Aminta, _fly_, he crys! _fly, heedless Maid,_
_For if thou enter’st this Bewitching shade,_
_Thy Flame, Content, and Lover, all are lost,_
_And thou no more of Him, or Fame shall boast,_
_The charming Pleasure soon the Youth will cloy,_
_And what thou wouldst preserve, that will destroy._
_Oh hardy Maid by too much Love undone,_
_Where are thy Modesty, and Blushes gone?_
_Where’s all that Virtue made thee so Ador’d?_
_For Beauty stript of Virtue, grows abhorr’d:_
_Dyes like a flower whose scent quick Poyson gives,_
_Though every gawdy Glory paints its leaves;_
_Oh fly, fond Maid, fly that false happiness,_
_That will attend Thee in the Bower of Bliss._

Thus spoke the Phantom, while the listening Maid,
Took in the fatal Councel; and obey’d:
Frighted she flys, even from the Temple door,
And left me fainting on the sacred floor:
LOVE saw my Griefs, and to my rescue came,
Where on his Bosom, thus I did complain.

The LOSS.

_Weep, weep,_ Lysander, _for the lovely Maid,_
_To whom thy sacred Vows were paid;_
_Regardless of thy Love, thy Youth, thy Vows,_
_The Dull Advice of Honour now pursues;_
_Oh say my lovely Charmer, where_
_Is all that softness gone?_
_Your tender Voice and Eyes did wear,_
_When first I was undone._
_Oh whether are your Sighs and Kisses fled?_
_Where are those clasping Arms,_
_That left me oft with Pleasures dead,_
_With their Excess of Charms?_
_Where is the Killing Language of thy Tongue,_
_That did the Ravisht Soul surprize?_
_Where is that tender Rhetorick gone,_
_That flow’d so softly in thy Eyes?_
_That did thy heavenly face so sweetly dress,_
_That did thy wonderous Soul so well express?_
_All fled with Honour on a Phantom lost;_
_Where Youth’s vast store must perish unpossest._
_Ah, my dear Boy, thy loss with me bemoan,_
_The lovely Fugitive is with Honour gone!_

_Love_ laughing spread his Wings and mounting flies, }
As swift as Lightning through the yielding Skies, }
Where _Honour_ bore away the Trembling Prize. }
There at her Feet the _Little Charmer_ falls,
And to his Aid his powerful softness calls:
_Assails_ her with his Tears, his Sighs and Crys,
Th’ unfailing Language of his Tongue and Eyes.

_Return_, said he, _return oh fickle Maid,_
_Who solid Joys abandon’st for a shade;_
_urn and behold the Slaughter of thy Eyes;_
_See--the Heart-broken Youth all dying lyes._
_Why dost thou follow this Phantastick spright?_
_This faithless_ Ignis Fatuus _of the Light?_
_This Foe to Youth, and Beauties worst Disease,_
_Tyrant of Wit, of Pleasure, and of Ease;_
_Of all substantial Harms he Author is,_
_But never pays us back one solid Bliss._
_--You’ll urge, your Fame is worth a thousand Joys;_
_Deluded Maid, trust not to empty noise,_
_A sound, that for a poor Esteem to gain,_
_Damns thy whole Life t’ uneasyness and pain._
_Mistaken Virgin, that which pleases me_ }
_I cannot by another tast and see;_ }
_And what’s the complementing of the World to thee?_ }
_No, no, return with me, and there receive,_
_What poor, what scanted_ Honour _cannot give,_
_Starve not those Charms that were for pleasure made,_
_Nor unpossest let the rich Treasure fade._
_When time comes on;_ Honour _that empty word,_
_Will leave thee then fore-slighted Age to guard;_
_Honour as other faithless Lovers are,_
_Is only dealing with the young and fair;_
_Approaching Age makes the false_ Hero _fly,_
_He’s Honour with the Young, but with the old necessity._

--Thus said the _God!_ and all the while he spoke,
Her Heart new Fire, her Eyes new softness took.

Now crys, _I yield, I yield the Victory!_
_Lead on, young Charming Boy, I follow thee;_
_Lead to_ Lysander, _quickly let’s be gone,_
_I am resolv’d to Love, and be undone;_
_I must not, cannot_, Love _at cheaper rate,_
Love _is the word_, Lysander _and my fate._

Thus to my Arms _Love_ brought the trembling Maid;
_Who on my Bosom sighing, softly, said:_
_Take, charming Victor--what you must--subdue--_
_’.is_ Love_--and not Aminta gives it you,_
Love _that o’re all, and every part does reign,_
_And I shou’d plead-and struggle--but in vain;_
_Take what a yielding Virgin--can bestow,_
_I am--dis-arm’d--of all resistance now_.--
_Then down her Cheeks a tender shower did glide,_
_The Trophies of my Victory, Joy, and Pride:_
_She yields, ye Gods_ (I cry’d) _and in my Arms,_
_Gives up the wonderous Treasure of her Charms._
--Transported to the Bower of Bliss we high,
But once more met _Respect_ upon the way,
But not as heretofore with Meen and Grace
All formal, but a gay and smiling Face;
A different sort of Air his looks now wears,
Galljard and Joyful every part appears.
And thus he said--

_Go, happy Lovers, perfect the desires,_
_That fill two Hearts that burn with equal Fires;_
_Receive the mighty Recompence at last,_
_Of all the Anxious hours you’ve past,_
_Enter the Bower where endless Pleasures flow,_
_Young Joys, new Raptures all the year:_
_Respect has nothing now to do,_
_He always leaves the Lover here._
_Young_ Loves _attend and here supply all want,_
_In secret Pleasures I’m no confident._

_Respect_ here left me: and He scarce was gone,
But I perceiv’d a Woman hasting on,
Naked she came; all lovely, and her Hair
Was loosely flying in the wanton Air:
_Love_ told me ‘twas _Occasion_, and if I
The swift pac’d Maid shou’d pass neglected by,
My Love, my Hopes, and Industry were vain,
For she but rarely e’re returned again.
I stopt her speed, and did implore her Aid,
Which granted, she _Aminta_ did perswade
Into the _Palace of true Joys_ to hast,
And thither ‘twas, we both arriv’d at last.
Oh _Lysidas_, no Mortal Sense affords,
No Wit, no Eloquence can furnish Words
Fit for the soft Discription of the _Bower_;
Some _Love-blest God in the Triumphing hour_,
Can only guess, can only say what ‘tis; }
Yet even that God but faintly wou’d express, }
Th’ unbounded pleasures of the _Bower of Bliss_. }
A slight, a poor Idea may be given,
Like that we fancy when we paint a Heav’n,
As solid Christal, Diamonds, shining Gold,
May fancy Light, that is not to be told.
To vulgar Senses, Love like Heaven shou’d be
(To make it more Ador’d) a Mystery:
Eternal Powers! when ere I sing of Love,
And the unworthy Song immortal prove;
To please my wandering Ghost when I am Dead,
Let none but Lovers the soft stories read;
Praise from the Wits and Braves I’le not implore;
Listen, ye Lovers all, I ask no more;
That where Words fail, you may with thought supply,
If ever any lov’d like me, or were so blest as I.

The Prospect and Bower of Bliss.

I.

_’.is all eternal Spring around,_
_And all the Trees with fragrant flowers are Crown’d;_
_No Clouds, no misty Showers obscure the Light,_
_But all is calm, serene and gay,_
_The Heavens are drest with a perpetual bright,_
_And all the Earth with everlasting_ May.
_Each minute blows the Rose and Jesamine,_
_And twines with new-born Eglantine,_
_Each minute new Discoveries bring;_
_Of something sweet, of something ravishing._

II.

_Fountains, wandering Brooks soft rills,_
_That o’re the wanton Pebbles play;_
_And all the Woods with tender murmuring fills,_
_Inspiring Love, inciting Joy;_
_(The sole, the solemn business of the day)_
_Through all the Groves, the Glades and thickets run,_
_And nothing see but_ Love _on all their Banks along;_
_A thousand Flowers of different kinds,_
_The neighbouring Meads adorn;_
_Whose sweetness snatcht by flying Winds,_
_O’re all the_ Bow’r _of Bliss is born;_
_Whether all things in nature strive to bring,_
_All that is soft, all that is ravishing._

III.

_The verdant Banks no other Prints retain,_
_But where young Lovers, and young Loves have lain._
_For_ Love _has nothing here to do,_
_But to be wanton, soft and gay,_
_And give a lavish loose to joy._
_His emptyed Quiver, and his Bow,_
_In flowry Wreaths with rosy Garlands Crown’d,_
_In Myrtle shades are hung,_
_As Conquerors when the Victories won,_
_Dispose their glorious Trophies all around._
_Soft Winds and Eccho’s that do haunt each Grove,_
_Still whisper, and repeat no other Songs than Love._
_Which round about the sacred Bower they sing,_
_Where every thing arrives that’s sweet and ravishing._

IV.

_A thousand gloomy Walks the Bower contains,_
_Sacred all to mighty Love;_
_A thousand winding turns where Pleasure reigns;_
_Obscur’d from day by twining Boughs above,_
_Where_ Love _invents a thousand Plays,_
_Where Lovers act ten thousand Joys:_
_Nature has taught each little Bird,_
_A soft Example to afford;_
_They Bill and Look, and Sing and Love,_
_And Charm the Air, and Charm the Grove;_
_Whilst underneath the Ravisht_ Swain _is lying,_
_Gazing, Sighing, Pressing, Dying;_
_Still with new desire warm’d,_
_Still with new Joy, new Rapture charm’d;_
_Amongst the green soft Rivulets do pass,_
_In winding Streams half hid in Flowers and Grass,_
_Who Purl and Murmur as they glide along,_
_And mix their Musick with the Shepherds Pipe and Song,_
_Which Eccho’s through the sacred Bower repeat,_
_Where every thing arrives that’s ravishing and sweet._