The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Works of Aphra Behn, ed. by Montague Summers.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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;

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.

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.

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. }

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.

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.

SELINDA and CLORIS, made in an Entertainment at Court. By Mrs. A. B.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

His new-blown Passion if Selinda Scorn,
Alexis may again to me return.

Secure thy Fears, the Vows he makes to me
I send a Present, back to thee;

Then we will sing, in every Grove,
The greatness of your Mind,—

... And I your Love.

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.

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.

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?

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. }

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.

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.

What new-born pleasure can divert you so?
Pray let me hear, that I may wonder too.

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.

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.

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.

But what, dear Amarillis, was the Theam
The Noble Silvio Sung by yonder Stream?

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. }

A PARAPHRASE on the LORDS PRAYER. By Mrs. A. B.

SELINDA and CLORIS, made in an Entertainment at Court. By Mrs. A. B.

A PINDARIC to Mr. P. who sings finely. By Mrs. A. B.

On the Author of that Excellent Book Intituled The Way to Health, Long Life, and Happiness. By Mrs. A. B.

Epitaph on the Tombstone of a Child, the last of Seven that died before. By Mrs. A. B.

Epilogue to the Jealous Lovers.

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.

GILDON'S MISCELLANY, 1692.

VENUS and CUPID.