Chapter VI (3)

They fly if Honour take our part,
Our Virtue drives ‘em o’re the field.
We lose ‘em by too much desert,
And Oh! they fly us if we yeild,
Ye Gods! is there no charm in all the fair
To fix this wild, this faithless, wanderer?

Man! our great business and our aim,
For whom we spread our fruitless snares,
No sooner kindles the designing flame,
But to the next bright object bears
The Trophies of his conquest and our shame:
Inconstancy’s the good supream
The rest is airy Notion, empty Dream!
Then, heedless Nymph, be rul’d by me
If e’re your Swain the bliss desire;
Think like _Alexis_ he may be
Whose wisht Possession damps his fire;
The roving youth in every shade
Has left some sighing and abandon’d Maid,
For ‘tis a fatal lesson he has learn’d,
After fruition ne’re to be concern’d.

_To_ Alexis, _On his saying, I lov’d a Man that talk’d much, by Mrs._ B.

_Alexis_, since you’ll have it so
I grant I am impertinent.
And till this moment did not know
Thrô all my life what ‘twas I ment;
Your kind opinion was th’ unflattering Glass,
In which my mind found how deform’d it was.

In your clear sense which knows no art,
I saw the error of my Soul;
And all the feebless of my heart,
With one reflection you controul,
Kind as a God, and gently you chastise,
By what you hate, you teach me to be wise.

Impertinence, my sexes shame,
(Which has so long my life persu’d,)
You with such modesty reclaim
As all the Woman has subdu’d,
To so divine a power what must I owe,
That renders me so like the perfect--you?

That conversable thing I hate
Already with a just disdain,
Who Prid’s himself upon his prate
And is of word, (that Nonsense,) vain;
When in your few appears such excellence,
They have reproacht, and charm’d me into sense.

For ever may I listning sit,
Thô but each hour a word be born:
I wou’d attend the coming wit,
And bless what can so well inform:
Let the dull World henceforth to words be damn’d,
I’m into nobler sense than talking sham’d.

A PASTORAL PINDARICK.

_On the Marriage of the Right Honourable the Earle of_ Dorset _and_ Middlesex, _to the Lady_ Mary Compton.

_A Dialogue._
_Between_ Damon _and_ Aminta.
_By Mrs._ Behn.

_Aminta._

Whither, young _Damon_, whither in such hast,
Swift as the Winds you sweep the Grove,
The Amorous God of Day scarce hy’d so fast
After his flying Love?

_Damon._

_Aminta_, view my Face, and thence survey
My very Soul and all its mighty joy!
A joy too great to be conceal’d,
And without speaking is reveal’d;
For this eternal Holyday.
A Day to place i’th’ Shepherds Kalendar,
To stand the glory of the circling year.
Let its blest date on every Bark be set,
And every Echo its dear name repeat.
Let ‘em tell all the neighbouring Woods and Plains,
That _Lysidus_, the Beauty of the Swains,
Our darling youth, our wonder and our Pride,
Is blest with fair _Clemena_ for a Bride.
Oh happy Pair! Let all the Groves rejoyce,
And gladness fill each heart and every voyce!

_Aminta._

_Clemena!_ that bright maid for whom our Shepherds pine,
For whom so many weeping Eyes decline!
For whom the Echos all complain,
For whom with sigh and falling tears
The Lover in his soft despairs
Disturbs the Peaceful Rivers gliding stream?
The bright _Clemena_ who has been so long
The destinie of hearts and yet so young,
She that has robb’d so many of content
Yet is herself so Sweet, so Innocent.
She, that as many hearts invades,
As charming _Lysidus_ has conquer’d maids,
Oh tell me, _Damon_, is the lovely fair
Become the dear reward of all the Shepherds care?
Has _Lysidus_ that prize of Glory won
For whom so many sighing Swains must be undon?

_Damon._

Yes, it was destin’d from Eternity,
They only shou’d each other’s be,
Hail, lovely pair, whom every God design’d
In your first great Creation shou’d be joyn’d.

_Aminta._

Oh, _Damon_, this is vain Philosophie,
‘Tis chance and not Divinity,
That guides Loves Partial Darts;
And we in vain the Boy implore
To make them Love whom we Adore.
And all the other powers take little care of hearts,
The very Soule’s by intr’est sway’d,
And nobler passion now by fortune is betray’d;
By sad experience this I know,
And sigh, Alas! in vain because tis true.

_Damon._

Too often and too fatally we find
Portion and Joynture charm the mind,
Large Flocks and Herds, and spacious Plains
Becoms the merit of the Swains.
But here, thô both did equally abound,
‘Twas youth, ‘twas wit, ‘twas Beauty gave the equal wound;
Their Soules were one before they mortal being found.
_Jove_ when he layd his awful Thunder by
And all his softest Attributes put on,
When Heav’n was Gay, and the vast Glittering Sky
With Deities all wondering and attentive shone,
The God his Luckyest heat to try
Form’d their great Soules of one Immortal Ray,
He thought, and form’d, as first he did the World,
But with this difference, That from _Chaos_ came,
These from a beam, which, from his God-head hurl’d
Kindl’d into an everlasting flame.
He smiling saw the mighty work was good,
While all the lesser Gods around him gazing stood.
He saw the shining Model bright and Great
But oh! they were not yet compleat,
For not one God but did the flames inspire,
With sparks of their Divinest fire.

_Diana_ took the lovely Female Soul,
And did its fiercer Atoms cool;
Softn’d the flame and plac’d a Chrystal Ice
About the sacred Paradise,
Bath’d it all or’e in Virgin Tears,
Mixt with the fragrant Dew the Rose receives,
Into the bosom of her untoucht leaves,
And dry’d it with the breath of Vestal Prayers, }
_Juno_ did great Majestick thought inspire }
And _Pallas_ toucht it with Heroick fire. }

While _Mars_, _Apollo_, _Love_ and _Venus_ sate,
About the Hero’s Soul in high debate,
Each claims it all, but all in vain contend,
In vain appeal to mighty _Jove_,
Who equal Portions did to all extend.
This to the God of wit, and that to Love,
Another to the Queen of soft desire,
And the fierce God of War compleats the rest,
Guilds it all or’e with Martial fire;
While Love, and Wit, Beauty and War exprest
Their finest Arts, and the bright Beings all in Glory drest.

While each in their Divine imployments strove }
By every charm these new-form’d lights t’improve, }
They left a space untoucht for mightyer Love. }
The finishing last strokes the Boy perform’d;
Who from his Quiver took a Golden Dart
That cou’d a sympathizing wound impart,
And toucht ‘em both, and with one flame they burn’d.
The next great work was to create two frames
Of the Divinest form,
Fit to contain these heavenly flames.
The Gods decreed, and charming _Lysidus_ was born,
Born, and grew up the wonder of the Plains, }
Joy of the Nymphs and Glory of the Swains. }
And warm’d all hearts with his inchanting strains; }
Soft were the Songs, which from his lips did flow,
Soft as the Soul which the fine thought conceiv’d.
Soft as the sighs the charming Virgin breath’d
The first dear night of the chast nuptial vow.
The noble youth even _Daphnis_ do’s excel,
Oh never Shepherd pip’d and sung so well.

_Aminta._

Now, _Damon_, you are in your proper sphear,
While of his wit you give a character.
But who inspir’d you a Philosopher?

_Damon._

Old _Colin_, when we oft have led our Flocks
Beneath the shelter of the shad’s and Rocks,
While other youths more vainly spent their time,
I listen’d to the wonderous Bard;
And while he sung of things sublime
With reverend pleasure heard.
He soar’d to the Divine abodes
And told the secrets of the Gods.
And oft discours’d of Love and Sympathy;
For he as well as thou and I
Had sigh’t for some dear object of desire;
But oh! till now I ne’re cou’d prove
That secret mystery of Love;
Ne’re saw two hearts thus burn with equal fire.

_Aminta._

But, oh! what Nymph e’re saw the noble youth
That was not to eternal Love betray’d?

_Damon._

And, oh! what swain e’re saw the Lovely maid,
That wou’d not plight her his eternal faith!
Not unblown Roses, or the new-born day
Or pointed Sun-beams, when they gild the skys,
Are half so sweet, are half so bright and gay,
As young _Clemena’s_ charming Face and Eyes!

_Aminta._

Not full-blown flowrs, when all their luster’s on
Whom every bosom longs to wear,
Nor the spread Glories of the mid-days sun
Can with the charming _Lysidus_ compare.

_Damon._

Not the soft gales of gentle breez
That whisper to the yeilding Trees,
Nor songs of Birds that thrô the Groves rejoyce,
Are half so sweet, so soft, as young _Clemena’s_ voyce.

_Aminta._

Not murmurs of the Rivulets and Springs,
When thrô the glades they purling glide along
And listen when the wondrous shepherd sings,
Are half so sweet as is the Shepherds song.

_Damon._

Not young _Diana_ in her eager chase
When by her careless flying Robe betray’d,
Discovering every charm and every Grace,
Has more surprising Beauty than the brighter maid.

_Aminta._

The gay young Monarch of the cheerful _May_
Adorn’d with all the Trophies he has won,
Vain with the Homage of the joyful day
Compar’d to _Lysidus_ wou’d be undone.

_Damon._

_Aminta_, cease; and let me hast away,
For while upon this Theam you dwell,
You speak the noble youth so just, so well,
I cou’d for ever listning stay.

_Aminta._

And while _Clemena’s_ praise becoms thy choyce,
My Ravisht soul is fixt upon thy voyce.

_Damon._

But see the Nymphs and dancing swains
Ascend the Hill from yonder Plains,
With Wreathes and Garlands finely made,
To crown the lovely Bride and Bridegrooms head,
And I amongst the humbler throng
My Sacrifice must bring
A rural Hymeneal Song,
_Alexis_ he shall pipe while I will sing.
Had I been blest with Flocks or Herd
A nobler Tribute I’d prepar’d,
With darling Lambs the Altars I wou’d throng;
But I, alas! can only offer song.
Song too obscure, too humble verse
For this days glory to reherse,
But _Lysidus_, like Heav’n, is kind,
And for the Sacrifice accepts the Humble mind.
If he vouchsafe to listen to my Ode
He makes me happyer than a fancy’d God.

_On Desire._

_A Pindarick. By Mrs._ B.

What Art thou, oh! thou new-found pain?
From what infection dost thou spring?
Tell me.--oh! tell me, thou inchanting thing,
Thy nature, and thy name;
Inform me by what subtil Art,
What powerful Influence,
You got such vast Dominion in a part
Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart,
That fame and Honour cannot drive yee thence.
Oh! mischievous usurper of my Peace;
Oh! soft intruder on my solitude,
Charming disturber of my ease,
Thou hast my nobler fate persu’d,
And all the Glorys of my life subdu’d.

Thou haunt’st my inconvenient hours;
The business of the Day, nor silence of the night,
That shou’d to cares and sleep invite,
Can bid defyance to thy conquering powers.
Where hast thou been this live-long Age
That from my Birth till now,
Thou never could’st one thought engage,
Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage
That made it all its humble feebles know?

Where wert thou, oh, malicious spright,
When shining Honour did invite?
When interest call’d, then thou wert shy,
Nor to my aid one kind propension brought,
Nor wou’d’.t inspire one tender thought,
When Princes, at my feet did lye.

When thou cou’d’.t mix ambition with thy joy,
Then peevish _Phantôm_ thou wer’t nice and coy,
Not Beauty cou’d invite thee then
Nor all the Arts of lavish Men;
Not all the powerful Rhetorick of the Tongue
Not sacred Wit you’d charm thee on;
Not the soft play that lovers make,
Nor sigh cou’d fan thee to a fire,
Not pleading tears, nor vows cou’d thee awake,
Or warm the unform’d somthing--to desire.
Oft I’ve conjur’d thee to appear
By youth, by love, by all their powrs,
Have searcht and sought thee every where,
In silent Groves, in lonely bowrs:
On Flowry beds where lovers wishing lye,
In sheltering woods where sighing maids
To their assigning Shepherds hye,
And hide their blushes in the gloom of shades:
Yet there, even there, thô youth assail’d,
Where Beauty prostrate lay and fortune woo’d,
My heart insensible to neither bow’d,
The lucky aid was wanting to prevail.

In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphear
But thou in crowds wer’t stifl’d there,
Int’rest did all the loving business do,
Invites the youths and wins the Virgins too.
Or if by chance some heart thy empire own
(Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone.

Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate
Thy mighty force thrô every part,
What God, or Human power did thee create
In my, till now, unfacil heart?
Art thou some welcome plague sent from above
In this dear form, this kind disguise?
Or the false offspring of mistaken love,
Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove,
With the bright peircing Beautys of _Lysanders_ Eyes?

Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now;
And found to whom thou dost thy being owe,
‘Tis thou the blushes dost impart,
For thee this languishment I wear,
‘Tis thou that tremblest in my heart
When the dear Shepherd do’s appear,
I faint, I dye with pleasing pain,
My words intruding sighing break
When e’re I touch the charming swain
When e’re I gaze, when e’re I speak.
Thy conscious fire is mingl’d with my love,
As in the sanctifi’d abodes
Misguided worshippers approve
The mixing Idol with their Gods.

In vain, alas! in vain I strive
With errors, which my soul do please and vex,
For superstition will survive,
Purer Religion to perplex.

Oh! tell me you, Philosophers, in love,
That can its burning feaverish fits controul,
By what strange Arts you cure the soul,
And the fierce Calenture remove?

Tell me, yee fair ones, that exchange desire,
How tis you hid the kindling fire.
Oh! wou’d you but confess the truth,
It is not real virtue makes you nice:
But when you do resist the pressing youth,
‘Tis want of dear desire, to thaw the Virgin Ice.
And while your young adorers lye
All languishing and hopeless at your feet,
Raising new Trophies to your chastity,
Oh tell me, how you do remain discreet?
How you suppress the rising sighs,
And the soft yeilding soul that wishes in your Eyes?
While to th’admiring crow’d you nice are found;
Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound
Informs you, all your virtu’s but a cheat
And Honour but a false disguise,
Your modesty a necessary bait
To gain the dull repute of being wise.

Deceive the foolish World--deceive it on,
And veil your passions in your pride;
But now I’ve found your feebles by my own,
From me the needful fraud you cannot hide.
Thô tis a mighty power must move
The soul to this degree of love,
And thô with virtue I the World perplex,
_Lysander_ finds the weakness of my sex,
So _Helen_ while from _Theseus_ arms she fled,
To charming _Paris_ yeilds her heart and Bed.

_To_ Amintas.

_Upon reading the Lives of some of the_ Romans. _by Mrs._ B.

Had’st thou, _Amintas_; liv’d in that great age,
When hardly Beauty was to nature known,
What numbers to thy side might’st thou engage
And conquer’d Kingdoms by thy looks alone?

That age when valor they did Beauty name,
When Men did justly our brave sex prefer,
‘Cause they durst dye, and scorn the publick shame
Of adding Glory to the conqueror.

Had mighty _Scipio_ had thy charming face,
Great _Sophonisbe_ had refus’d to dye,
Her passion o’re the sense of her disgrace
Had gain’d the more obliging victory.

Nor less wou’d _Massanissa_ too have done
But to such Eyes, as to his Sword wou’d bow,
For neither sex can here thy fetters shun,
Being all _Scipio_, and _Amintas_ too.

Had’st thou great _Cæsar_ been, the greater Queen,
Wou’d trembling have her mortal Asps lay’d by,
In thee she had not only _Cæsar_ seen,
But all she did adore in _Antony_.

Had daring _Sextus_ had thy lovely shape,
The fairest Woman living had not dy’d
But blest the darkness that secur’d the Rape,
Suffering her Pleasure to have debauch’t her Pride.

Nor had he stoln to _Rome_ to have quencht his fire,
If thee resistless in his Camp he’d seen,
Thy Eyes had kept his virtue all intire,
And _Rome_ a happy monarchy had been.

Had _Pompey_ lookt like thee, thô he had prov’d
The vanquisht, yet from _Egypts_ faithless King
He had receiv’d the vows of being belov’d,
In stead of Orders for his murdering.

But here, _Amintas_, thy misfortune lys,
Nor brave nor good are in our age esteem’d,
Content thee then with meaner victorys,
Unless that Glorious age cou’d be redeem’d.

_A. B._

_On the first discovery of falseness in_ Amintas.

_By Mrs._ B.

Make hast! make hast! my miserable soul,
To some unknown and solitary Grove,
Where nothing may thy Languishment controle
Where thou maist never hear the name of Love.
Where unconfin’d, and free, as whispering Air,
Thou maist caress and welcome thy despair:

Where no dissembl’d complisance may veil
The griefes with which, my soul, thou art opprest,
But dying, breath thyself out in a tale
That may declare the cause of thy unrest:
The toyles of Death ‘twill render far more light
And soon convey thee to the shades of night.

Search then, my soul, some unfrequented place,
Some place that nature meant her own repose:
When she herself withdrew from human race,
Displeas’d with wanton Lovers vows and oaths.
Where _Sol_ cou’d never dart a busy Ray,
And where the softer winds ne’re met to play.

By the sad purling of some Rivulet
O’re which the bending Yew and Willow grow,
That scarce the glimmerings of the day permit,
To view the melancholy Banks below,
Where dwells no noyse but what the murmurs make,
When the unwilling stream the shade forsakes.

There on a Bed of Moss and new-faln leaves,
Which the Triumphant Trees once proudly bore,
Thô now thrown off by every wind that breaths,
Despis’d by what they did adorn before,
And who, like useless me, regardless lye
While springing beautys do the boughs supply.

There lay thee down, my soul, and breath thy last,
And calmly to the unknown regions fly;
But e’re thou dost thy stock of life exhaust,
Let the ungrateful know, why tis you dye.
Perhaps the gentle winds may chance to bear
Thy dying accents to _Amintas_ ear.

Breath out thy Passion; tell him of his power
And how thy flame was once by thee approv’d.
How soon as wisht he was thy conqueror,
No sooner spoke of Love, but was belov’d.
His wonderous Eyes, what weak resistance found,
While every charming word begat a wound?

Here thou wilt grow impatient to be gone,
And thrô my willing Eyes will silent pass,
Into the stream that gently glides along,
But stay thy hasty flight, (my Soul,) alas,
A thought more cruel will thy flight secure,
Thought, that can no admittance give to cure.
Think, how the prostrate Infidel now lys,
An humble suppliant at anothers feet,
Think, while he begs for pity from her Eyes.
He sacrifices thee without regreet.
Think, how the faithless treated thee last night,
And then, my tortur’d soul, assume thy flight.

_To the fair_ Clarinda, _who made Love to me, imagin’d more than Woman. By Mrs._ B.

Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be
Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee,
Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth:
And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth.
This last will justifie my soft complaint,
While that may serve to lessen my constraint;
And without Blushes I the Youth persue,
When so much beauteous Woman is in view.
Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain }
With thy deluding Form thou giv’st us pain, }
While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain. }
In pity to our Sex sure thou wer’t sent,
That we might Love, and yet be Innocent:
For sure no Crime with thee we can commit;
Or if we shou’d--thy Form excuses it.
For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes
A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves.

Thou beauteous Wonder of a different kind,
Soft _Cloris_ with the dear _Alexis_ join’d;
When e’r the Manly part of thee, wou’d plead
Thou tempts us with the Image of the Maid,
While we the noblest Passions do extend
The Love to _Hermes_, _Aphrodite_ the Friend.

FINIS.

WESTMINSTER DROLLERY, 1671.

A SONG.

That Beauty I ador’d before,
I now as much despise:
‘Tis Money only makes the Whore:
She that for love with her Crony lies,
_Is chaste: But that’s the Whore that kisses for prize._

Let _Jove_ with Gold his _Danae_ woo,
It shall be no rule for me:
Nay, ‘t may be I may do so too,
When I’me as old as he.
_Till then I’le never hire the thing that’s free._

If Coin must your affection Imp,
Pray get some other Friend:
My Pocket ne’re shall be my Pimp,
I never that intend,
_Yet can be noble too, if I see they mend._

Since Loving was a Liberal Art,
How canst thou trade for gain?
The pleasure is on your part,
‘Tis we Men take the pain:
_And being so, must Women have the gain?_

No, no, I’le never farm your Bed,
Nor your Smock-Tenant be:
I hate to rent your white and red,
You shall not let your Love to me:
_I court a Mistris, not a Landlady._

A Pox take him that first set up,
Th’ Excise of Flesh and Skin:
And since it will no better be,
Let’s both to kiss begin;
_To kiss freely: if not, you may go spin._

MISCELLANY, 1685.

To SIR WILLIAM CLIFTON.

Sir,

I am very sensible how the ill-natur’d World has been pleased to Judge of almost all Dedications, and when not addrest to themselves will not let ‘em pass without the imputation of Flattery; for there is scarce any Man so just to allow those Praises to another in which he does not immediately share in some degree himself, nor can the Fantastic Humors of the Age agree in point of Merit, but every Mans Vertue is measured according to the sence another has of it, and not by its own intrinsic value, so that if another does not see with my Eyes and judge with my Sence, I must be Branded with the Crime of Fools and Cowards; nor will they be undeceived in an Error that so agreeably flatters them, either by a better knowledge of the Person commended, or by a right understanding from any other Judgment; they hate to be convinced of what will make no part of their satisfaction when they are so, for as ’.is natural to despise all those that have no vertue at all, so ‘tis as natural to Envy those we find have more than our selves instead of imitating ‘em: and I have heard a Man rail at a Dedication for being all over Flattery, and Damn it in gross, who when it has been laid before him, and he has been asked to answer according to his Conscience, and upon Honour to every particular, could not contradict one single Vertue that has been justly given there, yet angry at being convinced has cry’d, with a peevish, uneasie tone.--YET I DON’T KNOW HOW, NOR I DON’T KNOW WHAT-BUT ‘TIS ALL TOGETHER METHINKS A PIECE OF FLATTERY--When indeed the business was, _he did not know how_ to afford him so good a Character, nor _he did not know what_ other reason he had to find fault with it, and was only now afflicted to find ‘twas all true; whereas before he charged it all on the effects of some little sinister end or advantage of the Author.

’.is therefore, Sir, that I have taken the Liberty here of addressing my self to one, whose Generosity and Goodness has prevented any such Scandal, and secured me from the imputation of Flattery by rend’ring this, but a small part of that Duty only, which I have so long owed you; ‘tis only, Sir, my debt of gratitude I pay, or rather an humble acknowledgment of what I ought to pay you; for favours of that nature are not easily returned, and one must be a great while discharging it out of the Barren Stock of Poetry; but where my own failed, I borrowed of my Friends, who were all ready to give me Credit for so good and just an occasion, and we all soon agreed where first we should begin the work of gratitude. For, Sir, your worth is every where known, and valued; it bears the Royal stamp and passes for currant to every ready hand; Loyalty being that standard Vertue of the Soul which finds its price all over the World; nor is it in these our glorious days, who bears that Rate now, but who has always done so through Fate and Fortune; dyed in the true Grain, not to be varied with every glittering Sun-shine, nor lost in every falling Shower, but stanch to its first beautiful colour, endures all weathers.

Nor is it enough that where you are known, you are beloved and blest, but you, whose Quality and Fortune elevate you above the common Crowd, ought to have your Loyal Names fixed every where, as great and leading Examples to the rest, as the Genius of your Country and the Star that influences, where your Lustre shines. You, who in spight of all the Follies we import from _France_ so much in fashion here, still retain, and still maintain the good old _English_ Customs of Noble Hospitality, and treat the underworld about you, even into good nature and Loyalty; and have kept your Country honest, while elsewhere for want of such great Patrons and Presidents, Faction and Sedition have over-run those Villages where Ignorance abounded, and got footing almost every where, whose Inhabitants are a sort of Bruits, that ought no more to be left to themselves than Fire, and are as Mischievous and as Destructive. While every great Landlord is a kind of Monarch that awes and civilizes ‘em into Duty and Allegiance, and whom because they know, they Worship with a Reverence equal to what they would pay their King, whose Representative they take him at least to be if not that of God himself, since they know no greater or more indulgent; and are sure to be of his opinion, he’s their Oracle, their very Gospel, and whom they’ll sooner credit; never was new Religion, Misunderstanding, and Rebellion known in Countries till Gentlemen of ancient Families reformed their way of living to the new Mode, pulled down their great Halls, retrenched their Servants, and confined themselves to scanty lodgings in the City, starved the Poor of their Parish, and rackt their Tenants to keep the Tawdry Jilt in Town a hundred times more expensive, but you, Sir, retain still the perfect measure of true Honour, you understand the joys and comforts of life and blest retreat; you value Courts tho you do not always shine there, you dare be brave, liberal, and honest tho you do not always behold the Illustrious Pattern of all Glorious Vertue in your King, and absent from the lavish City. You are pleased and contented with the favour of your Monarch, tho you have no need of his Bounty, dare serve him with your Life and Fortune, and can find your reward in your own Vertue and Merit; this I dare avow to all the World is your Character in short, for which your lasting Name shall live, when the turbulent, busie hot-brain’d disturbers of their own tranquillity and the Kingdoms Peace, shall live in fear, die in Shame and their memory rot in the forgotten Grave, or stand to after Ages Branded and Reproached, while we can never enough Celebrate that Glorious one of yours; nor knew we where to fix it to render it Durable to all Eternity so well as to lasting Verse, that out-wears Time and Marble. If anything within can contribute to the diversion of your Hours of least concern, ‘twill be sufficient recompence to all who beg your Patronage here, especially

Sir,
Your obliged
and most humble Servant,
A. BEHN.

MISCELLANY, 1685.

_On the Death of the late Earl of_ Rochester, _by Mrs._ A. B.

Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
The Young, the Noble _Strephon_ is no more.
Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light,
And ne’re shall rise from Deaths eternal Night,
So rich a Prize the _Stygian_ Gods ne’re bore,
Such Wit, such Beauty, never grac’d their Shore.
He was but lent this duller World t’ improve
In all the charms of Poetry, and Love;
Both were his gift, which freely he bestow’d,
And like a God, dealt to the wond’ring Crowd.
Scorning the little Vanity of Fame,
Spight of himself attain’d a Glorious name.
But oh! in vain was all his peevish Pride,
The Sun as soon might his vast Lustre hide,
As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright,
As suffering no vicissitudes of Night.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore,
The Young, the Noble _Strephon_ is no more.

Now uninspir’d upon your Banks we lye,
Unless when we wou’d mourn his Elegie;
His name’s a Genius that wou’d Wit dispense,
And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Sense.
But all fine thought that Ravisht when it spoke,
With the soft Youth eternal leave has took;
Uncommon Wit that did the soul o’recome,
Is buried all in _Strephon’s_ Worship’d Tomb;
Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone,
The Fop and Cully now may be undone;
That dear instructing Rage is now allay’d,
And no sharp Pen dares tell ‘em how they’ve stray’d;
Bold as a God was ev’ry lash he took,
But kind and gentle the chastising stroke.
Mourn, Mourn, ye Youths, whom Fortune has betray’d,
The last Reproacher of your Vice is dead.

Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your _Cyprus_ on,
The truest Swain that e’re Ador’d you’s gone;
Think how he lov’d, and writ, and sigh’d, and spoke,
Recall his Meen, his Fashion, and his Look.
By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize,
Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes.
Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow’rs,
Bedew’d with everlasting falling Show’rs;
Fix your fair eyes upon your victim’d Slave,
Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave.
See where the Noble Swain Extended lies,
Too sad a Triumph of your Victories;
Adorn’d with all the Graces Heav’n e’re lent, }
All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent }
You’ve laid into his early Monument. }
Mourn, Mourn, ye Beauties, your sad loss deplore,
The Young, the Charming _Strephon_ is no more.

Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whose Darts
Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts;
Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow,
The useless Toys can do no Mischief now,
Those Eyes that all your Arrows points inspir’d,
Those Lights that gave ye fire are now retir’d,
Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mothers Doves;
Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves,
For you the humblest Votary have lost
That ever your Divinities could boast;
Upon your hands your weeping Heads decline,
And let your wings encompass round his Shrine;
In stead of Flow’rs your broken Arrows strow,
And at his feet lay the neglected Bow.
Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore,
The soft, the Charming _Strephon_ is no more.

Large was his Fame, but short his Glorious Race,
Like young _Lucretius_ liv’d and dy’d apace.
So early Roses fade, so over all
They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall,
While all the scatter’d perfum’d leaves declare,
How lovely ‘twas when whole, how sweet, how fair.
Had he been to the _Roman_ Empire known,
When great _Augustus_ fill’d the peaceful Throne;
Had he the noble wond’rous Poet seen,
And known his Genius, and survey’d his Meen,
(When Wits, and Heroes grac’d Divine abodes,)
He had increas’d the number of their Gods;
The Royal Judge had Temples rear’d to’s name.
And made him as Immortal as his Fame;
In Love and Verse his _Ovid_ he’ad out-done,
And all his Laurels, and his _Julia_ won.
Mourn, Mourn, unhappy World, his loss deplore,
The great, the charming _Strephon_ is no more.

SONG. _By_ A. B.

Cease, cease, _Aminta_, to complain,
Thy Languishment give o’re,
Why shoud’st thou sigh because the Swain
Another does Adore?
Those Charms, fond Maid, that vanquish’d thee,
Have many a Conquest won,
And sure he could not cruel be,
And leave ‘em all undon.

The Youth a Noble temper bears,
Soft and compassionate,
And thou canst only blame thy Stars,
That made thee love too late;
Yet had their Influence all been kind
They had not cross’d my Fate,
The tend’rest hours must have an end,
And Passion has its date.

The softest love grows cold and shy,
The face so late ador’d,
Now unregarded passes by,
Or grows at last abhorr’d;
All things in Nature fickle prove,
See how they glide away;
Think so in time thy hopeless love
Will die, as Flowers decay.

A SONG. _By Mrs._ A. B.

While, _Iris_, I at distance gaze,
And feed my greedy eyes,
That wounded heart, that dyes for you,
Dull gazing can’t suffice;
Hope is the Food of Love-sick minds,
On that alone ‘twill Feast,
The nobler part which Loves refines,
No other can digest.

In vain, too nice and Charming Maid,
I did suppress my Cares;
In vain my rising sighs I stay’d,
And stop’d my falling tears;
The Flood would swell, the Tempest rise,
As my despair came on;
When from her Lovely cruel Eyes,
I found I was undone.
Yet at your feet while thus I lye,
And languish by your Eyes,
‘Tis far more glorious here to dye,
Than gain another Prize.
Here let me sigh, here let me gaze,
And wish at least to find
As raptur’d nights, and tender days,
As he to whom you’re kind.

A PARAPHRASE _on the_ LORDS PRAYER. _By Mrs._ A. B.

_OUR FATHER_,

O Wondrous condescention of a God!
To poor unworthy sinful flesh and blood;
Lest the high Mistery of Divinity,
Thy sacred Title, shou’d too Awful be;
Lest trembling prostrates should not freely come,
As to their Parent, to their native home;
Lest Thy incomprehensible God-head shou’d
Not by dull Man; be rightly understood;
Thou deignst to take a name, that fits our sense,
Yet lessens not Thy glorious Excellence.

_WHICH ART IN HEAVEN_,

Thy Mercy ended not, when thou didst own
Poor lost and out-cast Man to be thy Son;
‘Twas not enough the Father to dispense,
In Heaven thou gav’st us an Inheritance;
A Province, where thou’st deign’d each Child a share;
Advance, my tim’rous Soul, thou needst not fear,
Thou hast a God! a God and Father! there.

_HALLOWED BE THY NAME_,

For ever be it, may my Pious Verse,
That shall thy great and glorious name rehearse,
By singing Angels still repeated be,
And tune a Song that may be worthy thee;
While all the Earth with Ecchoing Heav’n shall joyn,
To Magnifie a Being so Divine.

_THY KINGDOM COME_,

Prepare, my Soul, ‘gainst that Triumphant day,
Adorn thy self with all that’s Heavenly gay,
Put on the Garment, which no spot can stain,
And with thy God! thy King! and Father! Reign;
When all the Joyful Court of Heaven shall be
One everlasting day of Jubilee;
Make my Soul fit but there to find a room,
Then when thou wilt, Lord let thy Kingdom come.

_THY WILL BE DONE_

With all submission prostrate I resign
My Soul, my Faculties, and Will to thine;
For thou, Oh Lord, art Holy, Wise, and Just,
And raising Man from forth the common dust,
Hast set thy Sacred Image on his Soul,
And shall the Pot the Potters hand controul?
Poor boasting feeble Clay, that Error shun,
Submit and let th’ Almighty’s Will be done.

_IN EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN_.

For there the Angels, and the Saints rejoyce,
Resigning all to the blest Heavenly Voice;
Behold the Seraphins his Will obey,
Wilt thou less humble be, fond Man, than they?
Behold the Cherubins and Pow’rs Divine, }
And all the Heavenly Host in Homage joyn; }
Shall their Submission yield, and shall not thine? }
Nay, shall even God submit to Flesh and Blood?
For our Redemption, our Eternal good,
Shall he submit to stripes, nay even to die }
A Death reproachful, and of Infamy? }
Shall God himself submit, and shall not I? }
Vain, stubborn Fool, draw not thy ruine on,
But as in Heav’n; on Earth God’s Will be done;

_GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD_,

For oh my God! as boasting as we are,
We cannot live without thy heavenly care,
With all our Pride, not one poor Morsel’s gain’d,
Till by thy wondrous Bounty first obtain’d;
With all our flatter’d Wit, our fanci’d sense, }
We have not to one Mercy a pretence }
Without the aid of thy Omnipotence. }
Oh God, so fit my soul, that I may prove
A pitied Object of thy Grace and Love;
May my soul be with Heavenly Manna fed,
And deign my grosser part thy daily bread.

_AND FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES_

How prone we are to Sin, how sweet were made
The pleasures, our resistless hearts invade!
Of all my Crimes, the breach of all thy Laws
Love, soft bewitching Love! has been the cause;
Of all the Paths that Vanity has trod,
That sure will soonest be forgiven of God;
If things on Earth may be to Heaven resembled,
It must be love, pure, constant, undissembled:
But if to Sin by chance the Charmer press,
Forgive, O Lord, forgive our Trespasses.

_AS WE FORGIVE THEM THAT TRESPASS AGAINST US_,

Oh that this grateful, little Charity, }
Forgiving others all their sins to me, }
May with my God for mine attoning be. }
I’ve sought around, and found no foe in view, }
Whom with the least Revenge I would pursue, }
My God, my God, dispense thy Mercies too. }

_LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION_

Thou but permits it, Lord, ‘tis we go on,
And give our selves the Provocation;
‘Tis we, that prone to pleasures which invite,
Seek all the Arts to heighten vain delight;
But if without some Sin we cannot move,
May mine proceed no higher than to love;
And may thy vengeance be the less severe,
Since thou hast made the object lov’d so fair.

_BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL._

From all the hasty Fury Passion breeds,
And into deaf and blinded Error leads,
From words that bear Damnation in the sound,
And do the Soul as well as Honour wound,
That by degrees of Madness lead us on
To Indiscretion, Shame, Confusion;
From Fondness, Lying, and Hypocrisie,
From my neglect of what I ow to thee;
From Scandal, and from Pride, divert my thought,
And from my Neighbour grant I covet nought;
From black Ingratitude, and Treason, Lord,
Guard me, even in the least unreverend word.
In my Opinion, grant, O Lord, I may, }
Be guided in the true and rightful way, }
And he that guides me may not go astray; }
Do thou, oh Lord, instruct me how to know
Not whither, but which way I am to go;
For how should I an unknown passage find,
When my instructing Guide himself is blind.
All Honour, Glory, and all Praise be given
To Kings on Earth, and to our God in Heaven.

--_Amen._

SELINDA _and_ CLORIS, _made in an Entertainment at Court. By Mrs._ A. B.

_Selinda._

As young _Selinda_ led her Flock,
Beneath the Shelter of a shaded Rock,
The Melancholy _Cloris_ by,
Thus to the Lovely Maid did sighing cry.

_Cloris._

_Selinda_, you too lightly prize,
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._