Chapter VI (4)

_Arcadia_, keep your peace, but give me leave,
Who knew the _Heroes Loyalty_, to grieve;
Once, _Thirsis_, by th’ _Arcadian_ Kings Commands,
I left these Shades, to visit foreign Lands;
Imploy’d in public toils of State Affairs,
Unusual with my Sex, or to my Years;
There ‘twas my chance, so Fortune did ordain,
To see this great, this good, this God-like Man:
Brave, Pious, Loyal, Just, without constraint,
The Soul all _Angell_, and the Man a _Saint_;
His temper’d mind no Passion e’er inflam’d,
But when his _King_ and _Countrey_ were profan’d;
Then oft I’ve seen his generous blood o’er spread
His awful face, with a resenting Red,
In Anger quit the Room, and would disdain
To herd with the Rebellious _Publican_.
But, _Thirsis_, ‘twould a worship’d Volume fill,
If I the _Heroes_ wondrous Life should tell;
His Vertues were his Crime, like _God_ he bow’d
A necessary Victim to the frantick Croud;
So a tall sheltring _Oak_ that long had stood,
The mid-days shade, and glory of the _Wood_;
Whose aged boughs a reverence did command,
Fell lop’d at last by an Ignoble hand:
And all his branches are in pieces torn,
That _Victors_ grac’d, and did the Wood adorn.
--With him young _Silvio_, who compos’d his Joys,
The darling of his Soul and of his Eyes,
Inheriting the Vertues of his _Sire_,
But all his own is his Poetic fire;
When young, the _Gods_ of _Love_, and _Wit_ did grace
The pointed, promis’d Beautys of his face,
Which ripening years did to perfection bring,
And taught him how to _Love_, and how to _Sing_.

_Thirsis._

But what, dear _Amarillis_, was the Theam
The Noble _Silvio_ Sung by yonder Stream?

_Amarillis._

Not of the _Shepherds_, nor their Rural _Loves_.
The Song was Glorious tho ‘twas sung in Groves!
_Camilla’s_ Death the skilful _Youth_ inspir’d,
As if th’ Heroic _Maid_ his Soul had fir’d;
Such life was in his Song, such heat, such flight,
As he had seen the Royal _Virgin_ fight.
He made her deal her wounds with Graceful Art, }
With vigorous Air fling the unfailing Dart, }
And form’d her Courage to his own great heart. }
Never was fighting in our _Sex_ a Charm,
Till _Silvio_ did the bright _Camilla_ Arm;
With Noble Modesty he shews us how
To be at once _Hero_ and _Woman_ too.
Oh Conquering _Maid_! how much thy Fame has won, }
In the _Arcadian_ Language to be sung, }
And by a Swain so soft, so sweet, so young. }

_Thirsis._

Well hast thou spoke the noble _Silvio’s_ Praise,
For I have often heard his charming lays;
Oft has he blest the Shades with strains Divine,
Took many a _Virgins_ heart, and Ravish’d mine.
Long may he sing in every Field and Grove,
And teach the Swains to Pipe, the _Maids_ to Love.

_Amarillis._

_Daphnis_, and _Colin_ Pipe not half so well,
E’en _Dions_ mighty self he does excell;
As the last Lover of the _Muses_, blest,
The last and young in Love are always best;
And _She_ her darling Lover does requite
With all the softest Arts of Noblest _Wit_.

_Thirsis._

Oh may he dedicate his Youth to her!
Thus let ‘em live, and love upon the square,
But see _Alexis_ homeward leads his Flock,
And brouzing Goats descend from yonder Rock;
The Sun is hasting on to _Thetis_ Bed,
See his faint Beams have streak’d the Sky with Red.
Let’s home e’er night approach, and all the way
You shall of _Silvio_ sing, while I will play.

GILDON’S MISCELLANY, 1692.

VENUS _and_ CUPID.

_Venus._

_Cupid_, my darling _Cupid_, and my Joy,
Thy Mother _Venus_ calls, come away, come away.

_Cupid._

Alas! I cannot, I am at Play.

_Venus._

Fond Boy, I do command thee, haste;
Thy precious Hours no longer waste:
In Groves and Cottages you make abode,
Too mean a Condescention for a God!
On barren Mountains idly play,
For shame thou Wanton, come away, come away!

All useless lies thy Bow and Darts,
That should be wounding heedless Hearts:
The Swain that guards his Dove,
Alas! no Leisure has for Love:
His Flocks and Heards are all his Joy,
Then leave the Shades and come away, come away.

_Cupid._

Alas! what would you have me do?
Command and I’ll Obedience shew.

_Venus._

Hye then to Cities and to Court,
Where all the Young and Fair resort;
There try thy Power, let fly thy Darts,
And bring me in some noble Hearts,
Worthy to be by thee undone,
For here’s no Glory to be won.

_Cupid._

Mistaken Queen, look down and see, }
What Trophies are prepar’d for thee, }
What glorious Slaves are destin’d me. }

_Venus._

Now, by my self, a Noble Throng;
How Fair the Nymphs, the Swains how Young!
No wonder if my little Loves
Delight and play in Shades and Groves.

_Cupid._

Then, Mother, here I’ll bend my Bow,
And bring you wounded Hearts enough.

_Venus._

My pretty Charming Wanton, do.

_Chorus._

‘Tis thus we over Mortals reign,
And thus we Adoration gain
From the proud Monarch to the humble Swain.

_Verses design’d by Mrs._ A. Behn _to be sent to a fair Lady, that desir’d she would absent herself to cure her Love. Left unfinish’d._

In vain to Woods and Deserts I retire, }
To shun the lovely Charmer I admire, }
Where the soft Breezes do but fann my Fire! }
In vain in Grotto’s dark unseen I lie,
Love pierces where the Sun could never spy.
No place, no Art his _God-head_ can exclude,
The _Dear_ Distemper reigns in Solitude:
Distance, alas, contributes to my Grief;
No more, of what fond Lovers call, Relief
Than to the wounded Hind does sudden Flight
From the chast Goddesses pursuing Sight:
When in the Heart the fatal Shaft remains,
And darts the Venom through our bleeding Veins.
If I resolve no longer to submit
My self a wretched Conquest to your Wit,
More swift than fleeting Shades, ten thousand Charms
From your bright Eyes that Rebel Thought disarms:
The more I strugl’d, to my Grief I found
My self in _Cupid’s_ Chains more surely bound:
Like Birds in Nets, the more I strive, I find
My self the faster in the Snare confin’d.

_Verses by Madam_ Behn, _never before printed_.

_On a Conventicle_.

Behold that Race, whence _England’s_ Woes proceed,
The Viper’s Nest, where all our Mischiefs breed,
There, guided, by _Inspiration_, Treason speaks,
And through the Holy Bag-pipe _Legion_ squeaks.
The Nation’s Curse, Religion’s ridicule,
The Rabble’s _God_, the Politicians _Tool_,
_Scorn_ of the Wise, and _Scandal_ of the Just,
The Villain’s _Refuge_, and the Women’s Lust.

GILDON’S CHORUS POETARUM, 1694.

_By Madam_ Behn.

1.

The Gods are not more blest than he,
Who fixing his glad eyes on thee,
With thy bright Rays his senses chears,
And drinks with ever thirsty Ears,
The charming Musick of thy Tongue
Does ever hear and ever long,
That sees with more than humane Grace
Sweet smiles adorn thy Angel Face.

2.

So when with kinder Beams you shine,
And so appear much more Divine,
My feebled Sense and dazzled Sight }
No more support the glorious Light, }
And the fierce torrent of Delight. }
O then I feel my Life decay,
My ravish’d Soul then flies away;
Then Faintness does my Limbs surprize,
And Darkness swims before my Eyes.

3.

Then my Tongue fails, and from my Brow
The Liquid Drops in Silence flow;
Then wand’ring Fires run thro my Blood,
Then Cold binds up the languid Flood;
All Pale and Breathless then I lie,
I sigh, I tremble, and I die.

MUSES MERCURY, _June, 1707_.

_The Complaint of the poor_ Cavaliers.

I.

Give me the Man that’s hollow
Since he is the only Fellow,
For Honesty’s out of Date;
And he’s the only Gallant
That shew’d himself so Valiant,
To cut off his Master’s Pate.
These--these be the Men that flaunt,
As if they were Sons of Gaunt,
And ev’ry Knave
Is Fine and Brave,
While the poor _Cavalier’s_ in want.

II.

The Man that chang’d his Note,
And he who has turn’d his Coat,
Shall now have a good Reward;
He’s either made a Knight,
Or else by this good Light,
A very Reverend Lord:
And let him be so for me,
I’m as gay and as good as he.