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.
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.
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.
III.
Hang Sorrow, why should we repine,
We'll drive down our Grief with good Wine,
Not caring for those that rise;
For had they been but true Men,
They never had been new Men,
And we had ne'er been wise.
The Blockhead that merits most,
That has all his Fortune lost,
Must now be turn'd out
And a new-found Rout,
Of Courtiers rule the Roast.
The next Verses are so tender, that one may see the
Author writ 'em with no affected Passion. And indeed
she had no need to affect what was so natural to her.
On a Pin that hurt Amintas' Eye.
Injurious Pin, how durst thou steal so nigh?
To touch, nay worse, to hurt his precious Eye.
Base Instrument, so ill thou'st play'd thy part,
Wounding his Eye, thou'st wounded my poor Heart,
And for each pity'd Drop his Eye did shed,
My sympathizing Heart a thousand bled:
Too daring Pin, was there no Tincture good,
To bath thy Point, but my Amintas' Blood?
Cou'd thy Ambition teach thee so to sin?
Was that a Place for thee to revel in?
'Twas there thy Mistress had design'd to be,
And must she find a Rival too in thee?
Curs'd Fate! that I shou'd harbour thee so long,
And thou at last conspire to do me wrong:
Tho well I knew thy Nature to be rude,
And all thy Kin full of Ingratitude,
I little thought thou wouldst presume so far,
To aim thy Malice at so bright a Star.
Now all the Service thou canst render me
Will never recompense this Injury.
Well, get thee gone—for thou shalt never more
Have Power to hurt what I so much adore.
Hence from my Sight, and mayst thou ever lie
A crooked Object to each scornful Eye.
To Mrs. Harsenet, on the Report of a Beauty,
which she went to see at Church.
As when a Monarch does in Triumph come,
And proudly leads the vanquish'd Captive home,
The joyful People swarm in ev'ry Street,
And with loud Shouts the glorious Victor meet.
But others whom Misfortune kept away
Desire to hear the Story of the Day,
How brave the Prince, how brave his Chariot was,
How beautiful he look'd, with what a Grace;
How rich his Habit, if he Plumes did wear,
Or if a Wreath of Bays adorn'd his Hair:
They think 'twas wondrous fine, and long much more,
To see the Conqu'ror than they did before.
So when at first by Fame I only knew
The Charms so much admir'd and prais'd in you;
How many Slaves your conqu'ring Eyes had won,
And how the wond'ring Crowd did gazing throng;
I wish'd to see, and half a Lover grew,
Of so much Beauty, tho my Rival too.
I came, I saw you, and I must confess,
I wish'd my Beauty greater, or yours less;
Alas! My whole Devotion you betray'd,
I only thought of you, and only pray'd,
That you might all your jealous Sex out-do
In Cruelty as well as Beauty too.
I call'd Amintas faithless Man before,
But now I find 'tis just he should adore.
Not to love you, if such a Sin could be,
Were greater than his Perjury to me;
Thus while I blame him, I excuse him too,
Who can be innocent that looks on you?
But, lovely Chloris, you too meanly prize
The Treasures of your Youth, and of your Eyes;
Ne're hear his Vows that he to others swore,
Nor let him be your Slave, that was a Slave before;
He oft has Fetters worn, and can with Ease
Admit them, or dismiss them, as he please.
A Virgin Heart you merit, that ne're found
It could receive, till from your Eyes, a Wound,
The Soul that nothing but their Force could fear,
As great, if that can be, as you are fair.
For Damon, being ask'd a Reason for his Love.
I.
You ask me, Phillis, why I still pursue,
And court no other Nymph but you;
And why with Looks and Sighs I still betray
A Passion which I dare not say.
'Tis all, Because I do: you ask me why,
And with a Woman's Reason, I reply.
II.
You ask what Argument I have to prove,
That my Unrest proceeds from Love,
You'll not believe my Passion till you know,
A better Reason why 'tis so.
Then, Phillis, let this Reason go for one,
I know I love because my Reason's gone.
III.
You say a Love like mine must needs declare
The Object so belov'd not fair;
That neither Wit nor Beauty in her dwell,
Whose Lover can no Reason tell,
What 'tis that he adores, and why he burns:
Phillis, let those give such that have returns.
IV.
And by the very Reasons that you use,
Damon might justly you accuse;
Why do you Scorn, and with a proud Disdain
Receive the Vow, and slight the Swain?
You say you cannot Love, you know no Cause:
May I not prove my Love by your own Laws?
V.
Am not I Youthful, and as gay a Swain,
As e'er appeared upon the Plain?
Have I not courted you with all th' Address
An am'rous Shepherd cou'd profess?
And add to this, my Flocks and Herds are great,
But Phillis only can my Joy compleat.
VI.
Yet you no Reason for your Coldness give,
And 'tis but just you shou'd believe
That all your Beauties unadorn'd by Art,
Have hurt and not oblig'd my Heart.
Be kind to that, my hearty Vows return
And then I'll tell you why, for what I burn.
A Letter to the Earl of Kildare, dissuading him
from marrying Moll Howard.
My Lord,
We pity such as are by Tempest lost,
And those by Fortune's blind Disposal crost;
But when Men see, and may the Danger shun,
Yet headlong into certain Ruin run:
To pity such, must needs be Ridicule;
Do not (my Lord) be that unpity'd Fool.
There's a report, which round the Town is spread,
}
The fam'd Moll Howard you intend to Wed;
}
If it be true, my Lord, then guard your Head:
}
Horns, Horns, by wholesale, will adorn your Brows,
If e'r you make that rampant Whore your Spouse.
Think on the lewd Debauches of her Life;
Then tell me, if she's fit to be your Wife.
She that to quench her lustful, hot Desire,
}
Has Kiss'd with Dukes, Lords, Knights, and Country Squire;
}
Nay, Grooms and Footmen have been claw'd off by her.
}
Whoring has all her Life-time been her Trade,
And D——set says, she is an exc'lent Baud:
But finding both will not defray Expence,
She lately is become an Evidence;
Swears against all that won't her Lust supply,
And says, they're false as Hell to Monarchy.
You had a Wife; but, rest her Soul, she's dead,
By whom your Lordship by the Nose was led:
And will you run into that Noose again,
To be the greatest Monster among Men?
Think on the Horns that will adorn your Head,
And the Diseases that will fill your Bed:
Pox upon Pox, most horrid and most dire!
And Ulcers filled with Hell's Eternal Fire.
Forbear therefore, and call your Senses home;
Let Reason Love's blind Passion overcome:
For, if you make this base Report once true,
You'll wound your Honour, Purse, and Body too.
To Mrs. Price.
My Dear,
In your last, you admir'd how I cou'd pass my Time
so long in the Country: I am sorry your Taste is so
deprav'd, as not to relish a Country-Life. Now I think
there's no Satisfaction to be found amidst an Urban
Throng (as Mr. Bayes calls it).
The peaceful Place where gladly I resort,
Is freed from noisy Factions of the Court:
There joy'd with viewing o'er the rural Scene,
Pleas'd with the Meadows ever green,
The Woods and Groves with tuneful Anger move,
And nought is heard but gentle Sighs of Love:
The Nymphs and Swains for rural Sports prepare,
And each kind Youth diverts his smiling Fair.
But if by Chance is found a flinty Maid,
Whose cruel Eyes has Shepherds Hearts betray'd,
In other Climes a Refuge she must find,
Banish'd from hence Society of Kind.
Here gentle Isis, with a Bridegroom's Haste,
Glides to o'ertake the Thame, as fair, as chaste;
Then mixt, embracing, they together flie;
They Live together, and together Die.
Here ev'ry Object adds to our Delight,
Calm is our Day, and peaceful is our Night.
Then, kind Æmilia, flie that hated Town,
Where's not a Moment thou canst call thy own:
Haste for to meet a Happiness divine,
And share the Pleasures I count only mine.
P. S. A SONG.
1.
'Tis not your saying that you love,
Can ease me of my Smart;
Your Actions must your Words approve,
Or else you break my Heart.
2.
In vain you bid my Passion cease,
And ease my troubled Breast;
Your Love alone must give me Peace,
Restore my wonted Rest.
3.
But, if I fail your Heart to move,
And 'tis not yours to give;
I cannot, wonnot cease to love,
But I will cease to live.
A. Behn.
Spoken by Mrs. Butler.
Written by Mrs. Behn.
How we shall please ye now I cannot say;
But, Sirs, 'Faith here is News from Rome to day;
Yet know withal, we've no such PACKETS here,
As you read once a week from Monkey CARE.
But 'stead of that Lewd Stuff (that cloys the Nation)
Plain Love and Honour; (tho quite out of Fashion;)
Ours is a Virgin ROME, long, long, before
Pious GENEVA Rhetorick call'd her Whore;
For be it known to their Eternal Shames,
Those Saints were always good at calling Names;
Of Scarlet Whores let 'em their Wills devise,
But let 'em raise no other Scarlet Lies;
LIES that advance the Good Old Cause, and bring
Into Contempt the PRELATES with the KING.
Why shou'd the Rebel Party be affraid?
They're Ratts and Weazles gnaw the Lyon's Beard,
And then in IGNORAMUS Holes they think,
Like other Vermin, to lie close, and stink.
What have ye got, ye Conscientious Knaves,
With all your Fancy'd Power, and Bully Braves?
With all your standing to't; your Zealous Furies;
Your Lawless Tongues, and Arbitrary Juries?
Your Burlesque Oaths, when one Green-Ribbon-Brother
In Conscience will be Perjur'd for another?
Your PLOTS, Cabals, your Treats, Association,
Ye shame, ye very Nusance of the Nation,
What have ye got but one poor Word? Such Tools
Were Knaves before; to which you've added Fools.
Now I dare swear, some of you Whigsters say,
Come on, now for a swinging TORY PLAY.
But, Noble Whigs, pray let not those Fears start ye,
Nor fright hence any of the Sham Sheriff's Party;
For, if you'll take my censure of the Story,
}
It is as harmless as e're came before ye,
}
And writ before the times of Whig and Tory.
}
Spoken by the Lady SLINGSBY.
Fair Ladies, pity an unhappy Maid,
By Fortune, and by faithless Love betray'd.
Innocent once—I scarce knew how to sin,
Till that unlucky Devil entring in,
Did all my Honour, all my Faith undo:
LOVE! like Ambition makes us Rebels too:
And of all Treasons, mine was most accurst;
Rebelling 'gainst a KING and FATHER first.
A Sin, which Heav'n nor Man can e're forgive;
Nor could I Act it with the Face to live.
My Dagger did my Honours cause redress;
But Oh! my blushing Ghost must needs confess,
Had my young Charming Lover faithful been,
I fear I dy'd with unrepented Sin.
There's nothing can my Reputation save
With all the True, the Loyal and the Brave;
Not my Remorse, or Death can expiate
With them a Treason 'gainst the KING and State.
Some Love-sick Maid perhaps, now I am gone,
(Raging with Love, and by that Love undone,)
May form some little Argument for me,
T' excuse m' Ingratitude and Treachery.
Some of the Sparks too, that infect the Pit,
(Whose Honesty is equal to their Wit,
And think Rebellion but a petty Crime,
Can turn to all sides Int'rest does incline,)
May cry 'I gad I think the Wench is wise;
'Had it prov'd Lucky, 'twas the Way to rise.
'She had a Roman Spirit, that disdains
'Dull Loyalty, and the Yoke of Sovereigns.
'A Pox of Fathers, and Reproach to come;
'She was the first and Noblest Whig of Rome.
But may that Ghost in quiet never rest,
Who thinks it self with Traytors Praises blest.
(On Mr. Dryden, Renegate.)
Scorning religion all thy life time past,
And now embracing popery at last,
Is like thyself; & what thou'st done before
Defying wife and marrying a whore.
Alas! how leering Hereticks will laugh
To see a gray old hedge bird caught with chaffe.
A Poet too from great heroick theames
And inspiration, fallen to dreaming dreams.
But this the priests will get by thee at least
That if they mend thee, miracles are not ceast.
For 'tis not more to cure the lame & blind,
Than heal an impious ulcerated mind.
This if they do, and give thee but a grain
Of common honesty, or common shame,
'Twill be more credit to their cause I grant,
Than 'twould to make another man a saint.
But thou noe party ever shalt adorn,
To thy own shame & Nature's scandall borne:
All shun alike thy ugly outward part,
Whilest none have right or title to thy heart.
Resolved to stand & constant to the time,
Fix'd in thy lewdness, settled in thy crime.
Whilest Moses with the Israelites abode,
Thou seemdst content to worship Moses' God:
But since he went & since thy master fell,
Thou foundst a golden calf would do as well.
And when another Moses shall arise
Once more I know thou'lt rub and clear thy eyes,
And turn to be an Israelite again,
}
For when the play is done & finisht clean,
}
What should the Poet doe but shift the scene.
}
Prologue spoken by Mrs. Cook the first Day.
Written by Mrs. Behn.
The Fair on the Thames so called.
With that assurance we to day address,
As standard Beauties, certain of Success.
With careless Pride at once they charm and vex,
And scorn the little Censures of their Sex.
Sure of the unregarded Spoyl, despise
The needless Affectation of the Eyes,
The softening Languishment that faintly warms,
But trust alone to their resistless Charms.
So we secur'd by undisputed Wit,
Disdain the damning Malice of the Pit,
Nor need false Arts to set great Nature off,
Or studied tricks to force the Clap and Laugh.
Ye wou'd-be-Criticks, you are all undone,
For here's no Theam for you to work upon.
Faith seem to talk to Jenny, I advise,
Of who likes who, and how Loves Markets rise.
Try these hard Times how to abate the Price;
Tell her how cheap were Damsels on the Ice.
'Mongst City-Wives, and Daughters that came there,
How far a Guinny went at Blanket-Fair.
Thus you may find some good Excuse for failing
Of your beloved Exercise of Railing.
That when Friend cryes—How did the Play succeed?
Deme, I hardly minded—what they did.
We shall not your Ill-nature please to day,
With some fond Scribblers new uncertain Play,
Loose as vain Youth, and tedious as dull Age,
Or Love and Honour that o're-runs the Stage.
Fam'd and substantial Authors give this Treat,
And 'twill be solemn, Noble all and Great.
Wit, sacred Wit, is all the bus'ness here;
Great Fletcher, and the greater Rochester.
Now name the hardy Man one fault dares find,
In the vast Work of two such Heroes joyn'd.
None but Great Strephon's soft and pow'rful Wit
Durst undertake to mend what Fletcher writ,
Different their heav'nly Notes; yet both agree
To make an everlasting Harmony.
Listen, ye Virgins, to his charming Song,
Eternal Musick dwelt upon his Tongue.
The Gods of Love and Wit inspir'd his Pen,
And Love and Beauty was his glorious Theam.
Now, Ladies, you may celebrate his Name,
Without a scandal on your spotless Fame.
With Praise his dear lov'd Memory pursue,
And pay his Death, what to his Life was due.
I.
I know you, and I must confess
From Sence so Celebrated, and so True,
Wit so Uncommon, and so New,
As that which alwaies shines in You;
I cou'd expect no less.
'Tis Great, 'tis Just, 'tis Noble all!
Right Spirit of the Original;
No scatter'd Spark, no glimmering Beams,
As in some Pieces here and there,
Through a dark Glade of Duller Numbers gleams.
But 'tis all Fire! all Glittering every where
Grateful Instruction that can never fail,
To Please and Charm, even while you Rail.
By Arts thus Gentle and Severe
The Powers Divine first made their Mortals Wise;
The soft Reproach they did with Reverence bear;
While they Ador'd the GOD that did Chastize,
II.
Perhaps there may be found some Carping Wit,
May blame the Measures of thy Lines,
And cry,—Not so the Roman Poet writ;
Who drest his Satyr in more lofty Rhimes.
But thou for thy Instructor Nature chose,
That first best Principle of Poetry;
And to thy Subject didst thy Verse dispose,
While in Harmonious Union both agree.
Had the Great Bard thy Properer Numbers view'd,
He wou'd have lay'd his stiff Heroicks by,
And this more Gay, more Airy Path pursu'd,
That so much better leads to Ralliery.
Wit is no more than Nature well exprest;
And he fatigues and toyles in vain
With Rigid Labours, breaks his Brain,
That has Familiar Thought in lofty Numbers drest.
III.
True to his Sense and to his Charming Wit,
Thou every where hast kept an equal Pace:
All his Brisk Turns exactly hit,
Justly maintain'd his Humour and his Grace:
And with the Language hast not chang'd the Face:
Great Juvenal in every Line,
True Roman still o're all does shine;
But in the Brittish Garb appears most fine.
IV.
Long did the Learned Author search to find
The Vice and Vanity of Humane-kind:
Long he observ'd, nor did observe in vain;
In every differing Humour found
Even there where Virtue did abound,
Some mortal Frailties reign.
Philosophers he saw were Proud
Of dull-affected Poverty:
Senators cringing to the Crowd
For trifling Popularity:
The Judge reviles the Criminal at Bar,
And now because old Ages Ice
Has chill'd the Ardour of his willing Vice,
Snarles at those Youthful Follies which he cannot shun.
From the vain-keeping 'Squire, and Cully'd Lord;
The fawning Courtier, States-man's Broken Word:
Down to the flattering, Jilting Curtizan,
And the more faithless couzening Citizen,
The Tricks of Court and State to him were known;
And all the Vices veil'd beneath the Gown,
From the Sharp Pulpit to the Blunted Stall,
He knew, and gently did reproach them all.
V.
If Rome that kept the lesser World in awe,
Wanted a Juvenal to give them Law,
How much more we who stockt with Knave and Fool,
Have turn'd the Nation into Ridicule.
The dire Contagion spreads to each degree
Of Wild Debauchery.
The mad Infected Youth make haste
To day their Fortunes, Health, and Reason waste:
The Fop, a tamer sort of Tool
Who dresses, talks, and loves, by Rule;
Has long for a Fine Person past.
Blockheads will pass for Wits, and Write,
And some for Brave, who ne'r could Fight.
Women for Chaste, whose knack of Cant
Boasts of the Virtues that they want:
Cry Faugh—at Words and Actions Innocent,
And make that naughty that was never meant:
That vain-affected Hypocrite shall be
In Satyr sham'd to Honest Sense by Thee.
'Tis Thou, an English Juvenal, alone,
To whom all Vice, and every Vertue's known:
Thou that like Judah's King through all hast past,
And found that all's but Vanity at last;
'Tis you alone the Discipline can use,
Who dare at once be bold, severe, and kind;
Soften rough Satyr with thy gentler Muse,
And force a Blush at least, where you can't change the Mind.
A. Behn.
By Mrs. A. Behn.
How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring
(Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering?
I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become
Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb?
While every soft, and every tender Strain
Is ruffl'd, and ill-natur'd grown with Pain.
But, at thy Name, my languisht Muse revives,
And a new Spark in the dull Ashes strives.
I hear thy tuneful Verse, thy Song Divine,
And am Inspir'd by every charming Line.
But, Oh!——
What Inspiration, at the second Hand,
Can an Immortal Elegie command?
Unless, like Pious Offerings, mine should be
Made Sacred, being Consecrate to thee.
Eternal, as thy own Almighty Verse,
Should be those Trophies that adorn thy Hearse.
The Thought Illustrious, and the Fancy young;
}
The Wit Sublime, the Judgment Fine and Strong;
}
Soft, as thy Notes to Sacharissa sung.
}
Whilst mine, like Transitory Flowers, decay,
That come to deck thy Tomb a short-liv'd Day.
Such Tributes are, like Tenures, only fit
To shew from whom we hold our Right to Wit.
Hail, wondrous Bard, whose Heav'n-born Genius first
My Infant Muse, and Blooming Fancy Nurst.
With thy soft Food of Love I first began,
Then fed on nobler Panegyrick Strain,
Numbers Seraphic! and at every View,
My Soul extended, and much larger grew:
Where e're I Read, new Raptures seiz'd my Blood;
Me thought I heard the Language of a God.
Long did the untun'd World in Ign'rance stray,
}
Producing nothing that was Great and Gay,
}
Till taught by thee, the true Poetick way.
}
Rough were the Tracts before, Dull and Obscure;
Nor Pleasure, nor Instruction could procure.
Their thoughtless Labour could no Passion move;
Sure, in that Age, the Poets knew not Love:
That Charming God, like Apparitions, then,
Was only talk'd on, but ne're seen by Men:
Darkness was o're the Muses Land displaid,
And even the Chosen Tribe unguided straid.
'Till, by thee rescu'd from th' Egyptian Night,
}
They now look up, and view the God of Light,
}
That taught them how to Love, and how to Write;
}
And to Enhance the Blessing which Heav'n lent,
When for our great Instructor thou wert sent,
Large was thy Life, but yet thy Glories more;
}
And, like the Sun, didst still dispense thy Pow'r,
}
Producing something wondrous ev'ry hour:
}
And in thy Circulary Course, didst see
The very Life and Death of Poetry.
Thou saw'st the Generous Nine neglected lie,
None listning to their Heav'nly Harmony;
The World being grown to that low Ebb of Sense
To disesteem the noblest Excellence;
And no Encouragement to Prophets shown,
Who in past Ages got so great Renown.
Though Fortune Elevated thee above
Its scanty Gratitude, or fickle Love;
Yet, sullen with the World, untir'd by Age,
Scorning th' unthinking Crowd, thou quit'st the Stage.
By Mrs. A. Behn.
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