They swell, break down with rage, and ravage o'er
The banks they kiss'd, and flowers they fed before.
Submit then, Cælia, ere you be reduc'd,

For rebels, vanquish'd once, are vilely us'd.
Beauty 's no more but the dead soil, which Love
Manures, and does by wise Commerce improve:
Sailing by sighs, through seas of tears, he sends
Courtships from foreign hearts, for your own ends:
Cherish the trade, for as with Indians we
Get gold and jewels, for our trumpery,
So to each other, for their useless toys,
Lovers afford whole magazines of joys.

But, if you 're fond of baubles, be, and starve,
Your gewgaw reputation still preserve:
Live upon modesty and empty fame,
Foregoing sense for a fantastic name.

"Honour's got in, and keeps her heart,

Durst he but venture once abroad, In my own right I'd take your part, And show myself a mightier god." This huffing Honour domineers

In breasts, where he alone has place: But if true generous Love appears,

The hector dares not show his face. Let me still languish and complain, Be most inhumanly deny'd:

I have some pleasure in my pain,
She can have none with all her pride.
I fall a sacrifice to Love,

She lives a wretch for Honour's sake. Whose tyrant does most cruel prove,

The difference is not hard to make. Consider real Honour then,

You'll find hers cannot be the same; 'Tis noble confidence in men,

In women mean mistrustful shame.

THE DISCOVERY.

CELIA, that faithful servant you disown,
Would in obedience keep his love his own:
But bright ideas, such as you inspire,
We can no more conceal than not admire.
My heart at home in my own breast did dwell,
Like humble hermit in a peaceful cell:
Unknown and undisturb'd it rested there,
Stranger alike to Hope and to Despair.
Now Love with a tumultuous train invades
The sacred quiet of those hallow'd shades;
His fatal flames shine out to every eye,
Like blazing comets in a winter sky.
How can my passion merit your offence,
That challenges so little recompense?
For I am one born only to admire,
Too humble e'er to hope, scarce to desire.
A thing, whose bliss depends upon your will,
Who would be proud you'd deign to use him ill.
Then give me leave to glory in my chain,
My fruitless sighs, and my unpity'd pain.
Let me but ever love, and ever be
Th' example of your power and cruelty.
Since so much scorn does in your breast reside,
Be more indulgent to its mother, Pride.
Kill all you strike, and trample on their graves;
But own the fates of your neglected slaves:
When in the crowd yours undistinguish'd lies
You give away the triumph of your eyes.
Perhaps (obtaining this) you 'll think I find
More mercy, than your anger has design'd:
But Love has carefully design'd for me,
The last perfection of misery,

For to my state the hopes of common peace,
Which every wretch enjoys in death, must cease,
My worst of fates attend me in my grave,
Since, dying, I must be no more your slave.

WOMAN'S HONOUR.

A SONG.

Love bid me hope, and I obey'd;

Phillis continued still unkind:

"Then you may e'en despair," he said, "In vain I strive to change her mind.

GRECIAN KINDNESS.

A SONG.

THE utmost grace the Greeks could show,
When to the Trojans they grew kind,
Was with their arms to let them go,

And leave their lingering wives behind.
They beat the men, and burnt the town;
Then all the baggage was their own.
There the kind deity of wine

Kiss'd the soft wanton god of love; This clapp'd his wings, that press'd his vine; And their best powers united move, While each brave Greek embrac'd his punk, Lull'd her asleep, and then grew drunk.

THE MISTRESS.

A SONG.

AN age, in her embraces past,

Would seem a winter's day;
Where life and light, with envious haste,
Are torn and snatch'd away.

But, oh! how slowly minutes roll,
When absent from her eyes;
That fed my love, which is my soul;
It languishes and dies.

For then, no more a soul but shade,
It mournfully does move;

And haunts my breast, by absence made
The living tomb of love.

You wiser men despise me not;

Whose love-sick fancy raves,

On shades of souls, and Heaven knows what, Short ages live in graves.

Whene'er those wounding eyes, so full

Of sweetness you did see,
Had you not been profoundly dull,
You had gone mad like me.

Nor censure us, you who perceive My best-belov'd and me,

Sigh and lament, complain and grieve;
You think we disagree.

Alas! 'tis sacred jealousy,

Love rais'd to an extreme;

The only proof, 'twixt them and me,
We love, and do not dream.
Fantastic fancies fondly move,
And in frail joys believe:
Taking false pleasure for true love;
But pain can ne'er deceive.
Kind jealous doubts, tormenting fears,
And anxious cares, when past,
Prove our heart's treasure fix'd and dear,
And make us bless'd at last.

So sweet a face, so soft a heart,
Such eyes so very kind,
Betray, alas! the silly art
Virtue had ill design'd.

Poor feeble tyrant! who in vain
Would proudly take upon her,
Against kind Nature to maintain
Affected rules of Honour.

The scorn she bears so helpless proves,
When I plead passion to her,
That much she fears (but more she loves)
Her vassal should undo her.

A SONG.

ABSENT from thee I languish still;
Then ask me not, When I return?
The straying fool 't will plainly kill,
To wish all day, all night to mourn.
Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,
That my fantastic mind may prove

The torments it deserves to try,

That tears my fix'd heart from my love. When wearied with a world of woe

To thy safe bosom I retire,

Where love, and peace, and truth, does flow: May I contented there expire!

Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,

I fall on some base heart unblest;

Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven,

And lose my everlasting rest.

ALL

LOVE AND LIFE.

A SONG.

my past life is mine no more, The flying hours are gone: Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store

By memory alone.

The time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present moment 's all my lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,

False hearts, and broken vows; If I, by miracle, can be

This live-long minute true to thee, "Tis all that Heaven allows.

A SONG.

PHILLIS, be gentler, I advise,

Make up for time mis-spent, When Beauty on its death-bed lies, 'Tis high time to repent. Such is the malice of your fate,

That makes you old so soon;
Your pleasure ever comes too late,
How early e'er begun.
Think what a wretched thing is she,
Whose stars contrive, in spite,
The morning of her love should be
Her fading beauty's night.
Then if, to make your ruin more,

You'll peevishly be coy,
Die with the scandal of a whore,
And never know the joy.

TO CORINNA.

A SONG.

WHAT Cruel pains Corinna takes,

To force that harmless frown;

When not one charm her face forsakes. Love cannot lose his own.

A SONG.

WHILE on those lovely looks I gaze,
To see a wretch pursuing,
In raptures of a bless'd amaze,
His pleasing happy ruin:
"Tis not for pity that I move;
His fate is too aspiring,
Whose heart, broke with a load of love,
Dies wishing and admiring.

But if this murder you 'd forego,

Your slave from death removing;
Let me your art of charming know,
Or learn you mine of loving.
But, whether life or death betide,
In love 'tis equal measure;
The victor lives with empty pride,
The vanquish'd die with pleasure.

A SONG.

To this moment a rebel, I throw down my arms,
Great Love, at first sight of Olinda's bright charms:
Made proud and secure by such forces as these,
You may now play the tyrant as soon as you please.
When innocence, beauty, and wit, do conspire
To betray, and engage, and inflame my desire;
Why should I decline what I cannot avoid,
And let pleasing Hope by base Fear be destroy'd?

end?

arms.

DRINKING IN A BOWL.

VULCAN, contrive me such a cup
As Nestor us'd of old;

Show all thy skill to trim it up,

Damask it round with gold.

Make it so large, that, fill'd with sack

Up to the swelling brim,

Vast toasts on the delicious lake,
Like ships at sea, may swim.
Engrave not battle on his cheek;

With war I've nought to do;

I'm none of those that took Mæstrick,
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.
Let it no name of planets tell,
Fix'd stars, or constellations:

For I am no sir Sidrophel,

Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine;
Then add two lovely boys;
Their limbs in amorous folds entwine,
The type of future joys.
Cupid and Bacchus my saints are.
May drink and love still reign!
With wine I wash away my care,
And then to Love again.
VOL. VIIL

A SONG.

As Chloris, full of harmless thoughts,
Beneath a willow lay,

Kind Love a youthful shepherd brought,
To pass the time away.

She blush'd to be encounter'd so,

And chid the amorous swain;
But, as she strove to rise and go,
He pull'd her down again.

A sudden passion seiz'd her heart,
In spite of her disdain ;

She found a pulse in every part,

And love in every vein.

241

"Ah, youth!" said she, "what charms are these, That conquer and surprise?

Ah! let me-for, unless you please,

I have no power to rise."

She fainting spoke, and trembling lay,
For fear he should comply;
Her lovely eyes her heart betray,
And give her tongue the lie.

Thus she, who princes had deny'd,
With all their pomp and train,
Was in the lucky minute try'd,
And yielded to a swain.

A SONG.

GIVE me leave to rail at you,
I ask nothing but my due;

To call you false, and then to say,
You shall not keep my heart a day:
But, alas! against my will,
I must be your captive still.
Ah! be kinder then; for I

Cannot change, and would not die.

Kindness has resistless charms,
All besides but weakly move,
Fiercest anger it disarms,

And clips the wings of flying Love.
Beauty does the heart invade,

Kindness only can persuade;

It gilds the lover's servile chain,

And makes the slaves grow pleas'd again.

Though you still possess my heart, Scorn and rigour I must feign: Ah! forgive that only art

Love has left your love to gain.

You, that could my heart subdue, To new conquests ne'er pretend: Let th' example make me true,

And of a conquer'd foe a friend. Then, if e'er I should complain

Of your empire, or my chain, Summon all the powerful charms, And kill the rebel in your arms.

CONSTANCY,

A SONG.

I CANNOT change, as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn;

Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
For you alone was born.

No, Phillis, no, your heart to move

A surer way I'll try;

And, to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, will still love on, and die.

When, kill'd with grief, Amyntas lies,
And you to mind shall call

The sighs that now unpity'd rise,
The tears that vainly fall;

That welcome hour, that ends this smart,
Will then begin your pain;

For such a faithful tender heart

Can never break, can never break in vain.

Then spare a heart you may surprise,
And give my tongue the glory
To boast, though my unfaithful eyes
Betray a tender story.

A LETTER

FROM ARTEMISA IN THE TOWN, TO CHLOE IN THE
COUNTRY.

CHLOE, by your command in verse I write ;
Shortly you'll bid me ride astride and fight:
Such talents better with our sex agree,
Than lofty flights of dangerous poetry.
Among the men, I mean the men of wit,
(At least they pass'd for such before they writ)
How many bold adventurers for the bays,
Proudly designing large returns of praise,
Who durst that stormy pathless world explore,
Were soon dash'd back, and wreck'd on the dull
shore,

Broke of that little stock they had before!
How would a woman's tottering bark be tost,
Where stoutest ships (the men of wit) are lost!
When I reflect on this, I straight grow wise,
And my own self I gravely thus advise:
"Dear Artemisa! poetry 's a snare;
Bedlam has many mansions, have a care;
Your Muse diverts you, makes the reader sad;
You think yourself inspir'd, he thinks you mad.
Consider too, 'twill be discreetly done,

To make yourself the fiddle of the town.
To find th' ill-humour'd pleasure at their need:
Curs'd when you fail, and scorn'd when you succeed."
Thus, like an arrant woman as I am,

No sooner well convinc'd writing 's a shame,
That whore is scarce a more reproachful name
Than poetess

Like men that marry, or like maids that woo,
Because 'tis th' very worst thing they can do,
Pleas'd with the contradiction and the sin,
Methinks I stand on thorns till I begin.

Y' expect to hear, at least, what love has past
In this lewd town, since you and I saw last;
What change has happen'd of intrigues, and whether
The old ones last, and who and who's together.
But how, my dearest Chloe, should I set
My pen to write what I would fain forget!
Or name that lost thing Love, without a tear,
Since so debauch'd by ill-bred customs here?
Love, the most generous passion of the mind,
The softest refuge innocence can find;
The safe director of unguided youth,
Fraught with kind wishes, and secur'd by Truth;
That cordial-drop Heaven in our cup has thrown,
To make the nauseous draught of life go down;
On which one only blessing God might raise,
In lands of atheists, subsidies of praise:
For none did e'er so dull and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and bless'd his power, in love:
This only joy, for which poor we are made,
Is grown, like play, to be an arrant trade:
The rooks creep in, and it has got of late
As many little cheats and tricks as that;
But, what yet more a woman's heart would vex,
'Tis chiefly carry'd on by our own sex;
Our silly sex, who born, like monarchs, free,
Turn gipsies for a meaner liberty,

And hate restraint, though but from infamy:

That call whatever is not common nice,
And, deaf to Nature's rule, or Love's advice,
Forsake the pleasure, to pursue the vice.
To an exact perfection they have brought
The action love, the passion is forgot.
'Tis below wit, they tell you, to admire,
And e'ven without approving they desire:
Their private wish obeys the public voice,
Twixt good and bad whimsy decides, not choice:
Fashions grow up for taste, at forms they strike,
They know what they would have, not what they
like.

Bovy's a beauty, if some few agree
To call him so, the rest to that degree
Affected are, that with their ears they see.

Where I was visiting the other night,
Comes a fine lady, with her humble knight,
Who had prevail'd with her, through her own skill,
At his request, though much against his will,
To come to London—

As the coach stopt, I heard her voice, more loud
Than a great-belly'd woman's in a crowd;
Telling the knight, that her affairs require
He, for some hours, obsequiously retire.
I think she was asham'd he should be seen:
Hard fate of husbands! the gallant had been,
Though a diseas'd, ill-favour'd fool, brought in.
"Dispatch," says she, “the business you pretend,
Your beastly visit to your drunken friend,
A bottle ever makes you look so fine;
Methinks I long to smell you stink of wine.
Your country drinking breath 's enough to kill;
Sour ale corrected with a lemon-peel.
Prythee, farewell; we'll meet again anon:"
The necessary thing bows, and is gone.

She flies up stairs, and all the haste does show
That fifty antic postures will allow;

And then bursts out-" Dear madam, am not I
The strangest, alter'd, creature? let me die,
I find myself ridiculously grown,
Embarrast with my being out of town:
Rude and untaught, like any Indian queen,
My country nakedness is plainly seen.

How is Love govern'd? Love, that rules the state;
And pray who are the men most worn of late?
When I was marry'd, fools were à-la-mode,
The men of wit were then held incommode:
Slow of belief, and fickle in desire,
Who, ere they'll be persuaded, must inquire,
As if they came to spy, and not t' admire:
With searching wisdom, fatal to their ease,
They still find out why what may should not
please;

Nay, take themselves for injur'd, when we dare
Make them think better of us than we are;
And if we hide our frailties from their sights,
Call us deceitful jilts and hypocrites;
They little guess, who at our arts are griev'd,
The perfect joy of being well deceiv'd;
Inquisitive as jealous cuckolds grow;
Rather than not be knowing, they will know
What, being known, creates their certain woe.
Women should these, of all mankind, avoid,
For wonder, by clear knowledge, is destroy'd.
Woman, who is an arrant bird of night,
Bold in the dusk, before a fool's dull sight
Must fly, when Reason brings the glaring light.
But the kind easy fool, apt to admire
Himself, trusts us; his follies all conspire
To flatter his, and favour our desire:

peace,

She to the window runs, where she had spy'd
Her much-esteem'd dear friend, the monkey, ty'd;
With forty smiles, as many antic bows,
As if 't had been the lady of the house,
The dirty chattering monster she embrac'd,
And made it this fine tender speech at last:

"Kiss me, thou curious miniature of man;
How odd thou art, how pretty, how japan!
Oh! I could live and die with thee!"-then on,
For half an hour, in compliments she ran:
I took this time to think what Nature meant,
When this mixt thing into the world she sent,
So very wise, yet so impertinent:

One that knows every thing that God thought fit
Should be an ass through choice, not want of wit;
Whose foppery, without the help of sense,
Could ne'er have rose to such an excellence:
Nature 's as lame in making a true fop
As a philosopher; the very top
And dignity of folly we attain

By studious search and labour of the brain,
By observation, counsel, and deep thought:
God never made a coxcomb worth a groat;
We owe that name to industry and arts:
An eminent fool must be a fool of parts,
And such a one was she, who had turn'd o'er
As many books as men, lov'd much, read more,
Had a discerning wit; to her was known
Every one's fault, or merit, but her own.
All the good qualities that ever blest
A woman so distinguish'd from the rest,
Except discretion only, she possest,

But now, "Mon cher, dear Pug," she cries, "adien;"
And the discourse broke off does thus renew:

"You smile to see me, who the world perchance Mistakes to have some wit, so far advance The interest of fools, that I approve Their merit more than men of wit in love; But in our sex too many proofs there are Of such whom wits undo, and fools repair. This, in my time, was so observ'd a rule, Hardly a wench in town but had her fool; The meanest common slut, who long was grown The jest and scorn of every pit buffoon, Had yet left charms enough to have subdued Some fop or other, fond to be thought lewd. Foster could make an Irish lord a Nokes, And Betty Morris had her city Cokes. A woman 's ne'er so ruin'd, but she can Be still reveng'd on her undoer, man: How lost soe'er, she 'll find some lover more A lewd abandon'd fool than she a whore. That wretched thing Corinna, who has run Through all the several ways of being undone: Cozen'd at first by Love, and living then By turning the too dear-bought cheat on men: Gay were the hours, and wing'd with joy they

flew,

When first the town her early beauties knew;