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         Hopkins, Charles, 1664?-1700?
      
       
         
           1700
        
      
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         99827242
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         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1889:12)
      
       
         
           
             The art of love in two books. Written both to men and ladies. A new poem.
             Hopkins, Charles, 1664?-1700?
          
           [14], 98, [6], 45, [3] p.
           
             printed for Joseph Wild, at the Elephant at Charing-Cross,
             London :
             1700. Where gentlemen and ladies may pick novels at 6 s. per doz. and be furnish'd with most sorts of plays.
          
           
             By Charles Hopkins.
             In verse.
             "The art of love: the second book. Written to the ladies. A new poem" has separate dated title page, pagination and register.
             With two final advertisement leaves.
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Love poetry -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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               THE
               ART
               OF
               LOVE
               :
               In
               Two
               Books
               .
            
             
               Written
               both
               to
               Men
               and
               Ladies
               .
            
             
               A
               NEW
               POEM
               .
            
             
               Me
               Venus
               Artificem
               tenero
               praefecit
               Amori
               —
            
             
               Quô
               me
               finxit
               Amor
               ,
               quô
               me
               violentius
               Vssit
               ;
               Hoc
               melior
               facti
               vulneris
               ultor
               ero
               —
            
             
               LONDON
               :
               Printed
               for
               
                 Ioseph
                 Wild
              
               ,
               at
               the
               Elephant
               at
               Charing-Cross
               ,
               1700.
               
            
             
               Where
               Gentlemen
               and
               Ladies
               may
               pick
               Novels
               at
               6
               
                 s.
                 per
              
               Doz
               .
               And
               be
               furnish'd
               with
               most
               Sorts
               of
               Plays
               .
            
             
             
             
          
           
             
             
             
               THE
               EPISTLE
               DEDICATORY
               ,
               To
               the
               Right
               Honourable
               EVELIN
               EARL
               OF
               KINGSTON
               .
            
             
               
                 My
                 LORD
                 ,
              
            
             
               THE
               deserving
               Patron
               reads
               the
               Dedication
               with
               a
               Caution
               ,
               as
               curious
               ,
               as
               the
               modest
               Poet
               feels
               when
               writing
               it
               ;
               both
               equally
               afraid
               of
               any
               Thing
               that
               looks
               like
               Flatt'ry
               .
               But
               Your
               
               Lordship
               may
               be
               ,
               (
               at
               present
               )
               as
               easie
               in
               a
               Poet
               ,
               as
               I
               am
               happy
               in
               a
               Patron
               ;
               You
               are
               above
               it
               ;
               and
               I
               think
               ,
               I
               need
               take
               no
               great
               Pains
               to
               Vindicate
               the
               Assertion
               ,
               since
               I
               shall
               make
               it
               my
               business
               in
               this
               Address
               to
               convince
               Your
               Lordship
               ,
               that
               't
               is
               below
               ev'n
               me
               .
               Nor
               will
               I
               ,
               with
               industrious
               Art
               ,
               couch
               Flatt'ry
               under
               the
               pretence
               :
               of
               disavowing
               it
               .
               I
               would
               not
               apply
               to
               any
               Person
               ,
               whom
               I
               believe
               not
               every
               way
               Noble
               ;
               I
               am
               a
               Stranger
               to
               Your
               Lordship
               ,
               I
               mean
               ,
               so
               far
               a
               Stranger
               ,
               as
               only
               to
               know
               Your
               Lordship
               by
               the
               Opinion
               of
               the
               World
               ,
               and
               by
               the
               Character
               Mankind
               has
               given
               you
               :
               Why
               should
               I
               then
               run
               out
               on
               your
               Encomiums
               ,
               and
               only
               Eccho
               to
               the
               World
               what
               I
               first
               hear'd
               from
               them
               ?
               All
               that
               becomes
               me
               to
               say
               at
               present
               ,
               is
               ,
               that
               I
               agree
               with
               the
               Universal
               Consent
               of
               either
               Sex
               ,
               and
               make
               one
               to
               fill
               the
               Train
               of
               your
               Admirers
               .
               
               To
               whom
               can
               I
               more
               fitly
               present
               the
               
                 Art
                 of
                 Love
              
               ,
               than
               to
               Your
               Lordship
               ?
               You
               are
               the
               Lover
               in
               all
               the
               several
               Scenes
               of
               Life
               ,
               the
               Courtier
               ,
               the
               Husband
               ,
               and
               the
               Widdower
               ;
               you
               were
               the
               Lover
               of
               your
               Wife
               ,
               you
               lov'd
               beyond
               the
               Fashion
               ,
               you
               lov'd
               her
               tho'
               your
               Wife
               ;
               you
               were
               the
               Lover
               of
               your
               Wife
               ,
               and
               are
               the
               Lover
               of
               your
               Children
               .
               So
               fond
               you
               are
               of
               those
               young
               Pledges
               of
               your
               Nuptial
               Friendship
               ,
               you
               seem
               the
               admiring
               Courtier
               of
               them
               ,
               you
               seem
               wedded
               to
               them
               ,
               you
               seem
               the
               
                 very
                 Father
                 of
                 Love
              
               it self
               .
               Hence
               't
               is
               that
               this
               Book
               ,
               the
               Child
               of
               Love
               ,
               flies
               to
               Your
               Lordship
               for
               Protection
               .
               'T
               is
               an
               Original
               ,
               not
               Copied
               after
               Ovid
               ;
               for
               Ovid's
               Book
               indeed
               cannot
               be
               properly
               said
               with
               modesty
               ,
               to
               be
               the
               
                 Art
                 of
                 Love.
              
               Where
               his
               Precepts
               are
               virtuous
               ,
               as
               they
               fall
               in
               naturally
               to
               the
               purpose
               ,
               I
               could
               not
               well
               avoid
               them
               ;
               for
               every
               Man
               
               that
               Loves
               ,
               runs
               fondly
               ,
               (
               I
               may
               say
               without
               Thought
               almost
               ,
               )
               on
               the
               same
               amorous
               Expressions
               .
               How
               far
               I
               have
               Succeeded
               in
               the
               Attempt
               ,
               Your
               Lordship
               can
               best
               Judge
               ,
               who
               are
               the
               greatest
               Master
               in
               all
               the
               Noble
               Innocence
               of
               generous
               Gallantries
               ;
               Your
               Approbation
               of
               it
               will
               sufficiently
               recommend
               it
               to
               the
               Fair
               ,
               and
               Crown
               with
               Success
               ,
               the
               Wishes
               of
            
             
               
                 My
                 Lord
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Lordship
                 's
                 very
                 Humble
                 and
                 Obedient
                 Servant
                 ▪
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               PREFACE
               .
            
             
               THE
               Bookseller
               has
               prevail'd
               on
               me
               to
               Write
               something
               by
               way
               of
               Preface
               ,
               with
               which
               I
               should
               not
               otherwise
               have
               troubled
               the
               Reader
               ,
               or
               my self
               .
            
             
               When
               the
               Title
               of
               this
               Poem
               is
               read
               ,
               't
               will
               ,
               doubtless
               ,
               be
               concluded
               that
               't
               is
               a
               Translation
               of
               
                 Ovid
                 De
                 arte
                 Amandi
              
               ,
               but
               in
               my
               Opinion
               .
               
               Ovid's
               Book
               
                 De
                 arte
                 Amandi
              
               cannot
               justly
               be
               English'd
               into
               
                 The
                 Art
                 of
                 Love
              
               ;
               't
               is
               rather
               the
               Art
               of
               something
               else
               .
               His
               Poem
               ,
               I
               am
               positive
               ,
               cannot
               be
               Modestly
               ,
               and
               ,
               Litterally
               
               Translated
               .
               He
               has
               taken
               such
               liberty
               with
               the
               Roman
               Ladies
               ,
               as
               I
               am
               sure
               ,
               the
               most
               Airy
               of
               our
               English
               Ladies
               would
               blush
               to
               allow
               .
            
             
               Cupid
               may
               be
               drawn
               ,
               he
               's
               but
               a
               Child
               ;
               be
               has
               been
               drawn
               ,
               but
               always
               Blind
               ;
               the
               Poets
               thought
               not
               fit
               to
               give
               him
               Eyes
               ,
               least
               he
               should
               see
               the
               Nakedness
               of
               his
               Mother's
               Beauty
               .
               Venus
               is
               always
               painted
               Naked
               ,
               and
               therefore
               Venus
               should
               not
               be
               painted
               .
            
             
               That
               there
               are
               greater
               Masters
               in
               Poetry
               than
               I
               ,
               must
               be
               confest
               ,
               I
               acknowledge
               it
               here
               ,
               and
               all
               I
               write
               confesses
               it
               ;
               but
               that
               there
               are
               greater
               Masters
               in
               Love
               I
               will
               not
               easily
               allow
               .
               He
               who
               has
               serv'd
               his
               Time
               to
               a
               Trade
               ,
               in
               all
               probability
               ,
               has
               had
               the
               best
               Opportunities
               of
               understanding
               the
               Crafts
               which
               may
               be
               practicable
               in
               it
               ;
               and
               he
               who
               has
               the
               greatest
               Stock
               ,
               when
               he
               sets
               up
               ,
               
               is
               capable
               of
               making
               the
               greatest
               Advantage
               .
            
             
               Now
               half
               my
               '
               Life
               I
               have
               been
               bound
               to
               Love
               ,
               and
               I
               have
               serv'd
               a
               rigid
               Mistress
               faithfully
               ,
               too
               faithfully
               ever
               to
               have
               made
               Advantage
               in
               her
               Service
               .
               O
               what
               a
               load
               of
               Love
               have
               I
               upon
               my
               Hands
               ,
               upon
               my
               Heart
               !
               My
               Liberty
               seems
               now
               to
               me
               the
               greatest
               Bondage
               ;
               for
               I
               can
               never
               perfectly
               grow
               free
               from
               my
               first
               Slavery
               ,
               unless
               it
               could
               be
               possible
               that
               I
               could
               serve
               again
               .
               Thus
               ,
               from
               the
               
                 Art
                 of
                 Love
              
               ,
               I
               wander
               insensibly
               into
               the
               Nature
               of
               it
               ;
               and
               I
               may
               hence
               infer
               that
               should
               I
               ever
               endeavour
               again
               to
               Love
               (
               for
               sure
               I
               must
               endeavour
               it
               ,
               if
               e're
               I
               do
               )
               Amasia's
               Memory
               would
               still
               be
               dearer
               to
               my
               Soul
               than
               any
               other
               living
               Charmer
               .
            
             
               To
               make
               some
               Application
               of
               this
               natural
               digression
               ,
               to
               my
               present
               purpose
               ,
               I
               shall
               confess
               ,
               without
               a
               Blush
               ,
               I
               have
               
               lov'd
               indeed
               ,
               lov'd
               with
               all
               the
               Fondness
               and
               with
               all
               the
               Passion
               that
               any
               Poet
               can
               Express
               .
               Why
               should
               I
               be
               asham'd
               of
               what
               was
               unavoidable
               ?
               The
               Folly
               seiz'd
               me
               Young
               ,
               and
               Love
               and
               Poetry
               grew
               up
               together
               .
               But
               I
               'll
               neither
               praefix
               the
               time
               ,
               nor
               oblige
               my self
               to
               the
               continuance
               of
               either
               ,
               by
               making
               Vows
               to
               the
               contrary
               :
               Lovers
               and
               Poets
               keep
               equally
               their
               Resolutions
               ;
               or
               good
               or
               ill
               Success
               sets
               them
               on
               edge
               again
               .
               To
               Love
               I
               owe
               Poetry
               ,
               to
               Poetry
               all
               the
               Misfortunes
               of
               my
               Life
               .
            
             
               I
               Lov'd
               —
               that
               brings
               me
               again
               to
               what
               I
               have
               left
               already
               twice
               unmention'd
               where
               I
               had
               design'd
               it
               ;
               I
               lov'd
               —
               I
               felt
               all
               I
               writ
               ,
               and
               thence
               conclude
               I
               have
               writ
               naturally
               on
               the
               Subject
               ,
               if
               naturally
               where
               I
               talk
               of
               my
               own
               Passion
               ,
               then
               may
               I
               hope
               too
               I
               have
               write
               Artificially
               on
               others
               ,
               for
               to
               others
               I
               have
               Copied
               out
               my
               own
               Original
               .
               I
               have
               felt
               Love
               ,
               and
               I
               think
               ,
               he
               who
               has
               
               felt
               it
               ,
               can
               best
               teach
               others
               how
               to
               feign
               it
               .
               I
               am
               positive
               ,
               he
               who
               never
               felt
               it
               ,
               can
               never
               Feign
               it
               well
               ,
               can
               never
               grow
               Naturally
               Artificial
               in
               it
               .
               He
               who
               never
               knew
               what
               Gold
               was
               ,
               can
               never
               gild
               a
               Counterfeit
               .
               Pigmalion
               ,
               doubtless
               ,
               had
               been
               in
               Love
               ,
               or
               he
               had
               never
               fraim'd
               his
               Maid
               of
               Iv'ry
               ;
               my
               fancy
               has
               not
               been
               unlike
               Pigmalion's
               ,
               for
               my
               Amasia
               is
               my
               lv'ry
               Maid
               .
               O
               happy
               Artist
               !
               But
               I
               shall
               ne're
               be
               the
               Pigmalion
               here
               .
               His
               Art
               was
               the
               Reverse
               of
               mine
               ;
               his
               Statue
               grew
               a
               perfect
               Woman
               ;
               his
               Art
               was
               the
               Cause
               of
               very
               Nature
               ,
               but
               mine
               is
               the
               Effect
               .
            
             
               But
               to
               return
               to
               
                 Ovid
                 ;
                 Ovid
              
               is
               my
               Friend
               ,
               my
               Favourite
               ,
               I
               admire
               him
               in
               his
               way
               of
               Writing
               ,
               as
               much
               as
               I
               can
               any
               Author
               ;
               I
               admire
               him
               ,
               and
               I
               love
               him
               ,
               but
               still
               my
               Passion
               for
               him
               is
               like
               the
               blushing
               ,
               vertuous
               Virgin
               's
               for
               her
               Lover
               ,
               and
               I
               must
               quarrel
               with
               him
               when
               
               he
               grows
               too
               free
               in
               his
               familiarity
               :
               He
               is
               here
               and
               there
               loose
               in
               all
               his
               Writings
               ,
               but
               the
               very
               Design
               of
               his
               Poem
               call'd
               
                 De
                 arte
                 Amandi
              
               is
               not
               only
               loose
               but
               lew'd
               .
               Some
               Precepts
               there
               are
               Modest
               in
               't
               ,
               't
               is
               true
               ;
               for
               what
               Man
               can
               at
               all
               times
               play
               the
               Libertine
               ?
               Where
               they
               are
               so
               ,
               I
               have
               sometimes
               imitated
               him
               ,
               and
               as
               far
               as
               Modesty
               allows
               ,
               I
               may
               say
               ,
               with
               Modesty
               ,
               my
               Poem
               is
               Ovidian
               .
               'T
               will
               not
               be
               kind
               in
               me
               to
               Attribute
               the
               Misfortune
               of
               his
               Banishment
               to
               the
               looseness
               of
               his
               Writings
               ,
               tho'
               in
               one
               of
               the
               Elegies
               of
               his
               
                 De
                 Tristibus
              
               inscrib'd
               to
               Caesar
               ,
               he
               seems
               to
               imagine
               That
               the
               Cause
               ;
               (
               I
               say
               ,
               imagine
               ,
               for
               ,
               to
               me
               he
               seems
               not
               to
               have
               been
               fully
               satisfy'd
               in
               the
               Cause
               of
               it
               himself
               .
               )
               Nor
               would
               it
               look
               friendly
               in
               me
               to
               recite
               some
               of
               the
               loosest
               of
               his
               Lines
               ;
               I
               shall
               content
               my self
               at
               present
               ,
               (
               since
               't
               is
               my
               business
               to
               prove
               him
               immodest
               in
               his
               Poem
               of
               Amandi
               )
               only
               with
               a
               Verse
               or
               two
               where
               he
               speaks
               of
               his
               own
               Work.
               Before
               he
               enters
               on
               his
               Precepts
               ,
               he
               says
               —
               
               
                 
                   Este
                   procul
                   vittae
                   tenues
                   ,
                   insigne
                   pudoris
                   ,
                
                 
                   Quaeque
                   tegis
                   medios
                   ,
                   instita
                   longa
                   ,
                   pedes
                   .
                
              
               herein
               he
               plainly
               says
               that
               Modesty
               has
               nothing
               to
               do
               in
               his
               Art
               ,
               and
               that
               those
               who
               are
               Chast
               must
               shun
               it
               .
               by
               this
               Advice
               ,
               and
               the
               Confession
               in
               the
               following
               Line
               ,
               —
               
                 Nos
                 venerem
                 tutam
                 ,
                 concessaque
                 Furta
                 canemus
                 .
              
               he
               seems
               to
               own
               himself
               a
               Criminal
               ;
               but
               when
               he
               Writes
               
                 de
                 Remedio
                 Amoris
              
               ,
               he
               does
               not
               only
               confess
               ,
               but
               he
               seems
               to
               boast
               his
               Crime
               .
               —
               
                 
                   Thais
                   in
                   arte
                   mea
                   est
                   :
                   Lascivia
                   libera
                   nostra
                   est
                   :
                
                 
                   Nil
                   mihi
                   cam
                   vitta
                   est
                   :
                   Thais
                   in
                   arte
                   mea
                   est
                   .
                
              
               all
               I
               have
               said
               amounts
               to
               only
               this
               ;
               if
               any
               modest
               Man
               attempts
               to
               translate
               
                 Ovid
                 de
                 
                 arte
                 Amandi
              
               ,
               he
               must
               both
               alter
               and
               omit
               ,
               if
               he
               would
               still
               be
               thought
               a
               modest
               Man
               ;
               and
               when
               he
               has
               done
               so
               ,
               the
               Poem
               will
               be
               his
               ,
               not
               Ovid's
               .
               if
               literally
               he
               translates
               him
               ,
               and
               makes
               him
               Chast
               ,
               let
               his
               next
               Vndertaking
               be
               to
               wash
               an
               Aethiopian
               .
            
             
               This
               Poem
               ,
               I
               have
               ventur'd
               to
               call
               
                 The
                 Art
                 of
                 Love
              
               ,
               if
               it
               Succeeds
               ,
               't
               will
               be
               necessary
               the
               Remedy
               should
               follow
               .
            
             
               Achilles
               Lance
               can
               Cure
               as
               well
               as
               Wound
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               THE
               ART
               OF
               LOVE
               .
            
             
               LET
               Lovers
               now
               bless
               their
               perplexing
               Chains
               ,
            
             
               And
               smile
               serenely
               amidst
               all
               their
               Pains
               ,
            
             
               No
               weight
               hence
               forth
               their
               am'rous
               Bands
               shall
               bear
               ,
            
             
               And
               they
               shall
               choose
               what
               Fetters
               They
               will
               wear
               ;
            
             
               I
               by
               my
               Art
               shall
               set
               their
               Passions
               free
               ,
            
             
               The
               God
               of
               Love
               shall
               have
               his
               Eyes
               from
               me
               :
            
             
               All
               shall
               Success
               from
               these
               my
               Precepts
               find
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Love
               ,
               nor
               Lovers
               shall
               continue
               blind
               .
            
             
             
               Whilst
               like
               the
               Sun
               in
               my
               high
               Sphere
               I
               move
               ,
            
             
               And
               Lighten
               all
               the
               World
               with
               Rays
               of
               Love.
            
             
               Ovid
               for
               Aid
               ,
               did
               to
               bright
               Venus
               run
               ,
            
             
               For
               Rome
               was
               her's
               ,
               since
               founded
               by
               her
               Son
               ,
            
             
               The
               Queen
               of
               Love
               that
               Artful
               Swain
               did
               choose
               ;
            
             
               Well
               do
               his
               Writings
               prove
               his
               charming
               Muse
               :
            
             
               So
               I
               for
               Succour
               to
               Amasia
               fly
               ,
            
             
               My
               Venus
               ,
               She
               ,
               and
               Love's
               new
               Ovid
               ,
               I.
            
             
               Typhis
               for
               Steering
               Ships
               vast
               Honours
               claim'd
               ,
            
             
               For
               Chariots
               swift
               Automedon
               was
               fam'd
               .
            
             
               Whilst
               I
               with
               skill
               guide
               Cupid
               ,
               I
               shall
               prove
            
             
               The
               Typhis
               ,
               the
               Automedon
               of
               Love.
            
             
               Dear
               purchas'd
               Knowledge
               I
               shall
               here
               impart
               ,
            
             
               And
               what
               I
               know
               by
               Nature
               ,
               teach
               by
               Art
               ,
            
             
               I
               on
               my self
               have
               practis'd
               ,
               and
               can
               tell
               ,
            
             
               By
               my
               own
               ills
               ,
               how
               to
               make
               others
               well
               .
            
             
               Let
               all
               observe
               my
               Precepts
               ,
               and
               Commands
               ,
            
             
               I
               'll
               bind
               the
               little
               God
               in
               his
               own
               am'rous
               Bands
               .
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Poet's
                 Ambition
                 .
              
               
                 WELL
                 may
                 great
                 Dryden
                 lasting
                 Fame
                 receive
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 all
                 the
                 dull
                 ,
                 ingrateful
                 World
                 can
                 give
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 high
                 rais'd
                 Works
                 shall
                 thro'
                 all
                 Ages
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 noblest
                 Fabrick
                 in
                 the
                 Muses
                 Land.
              
               
                 Beauty
                 and
                 Strength
                 at
                 once
                 his
                 Buildings
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 ,
                 delightful
                 ,
                 and
                 secure
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 high
                 rais'd
                 Congreve
                 with
                 successful
                 Pow'rs
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 strong
                 Foundations
                 builds
                 Immortal
                 Towr's
                 .
              
               
                 Long
                 as
                 his
                 mighty
                 Monarch
                 may
                 he
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 spread
                 as
                 wide
                 ,
                 for
                 he
                 has
                 Soar'd
                 as
                 high
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Sacred
                 
                 Dryden's
                 Laurels
                 Crown
                 his
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 me
                 sit
                 beneath
                 ,
                 and
                 see
                 them
                 spread
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Lover
                 only
                 seeks
                 the
                 peaceful
                 Shade
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 Wit
                 ,
                 nor
                 Pow'r
                 ,
                 nor
                 Fame
                 to
                 me
                 are
                 Charms
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 scorn
                 all
                 Wreaths
                 ,
                 but
                 my
                 Amasia's
                 Arms.
              
               
                 Me
                 my
                 Ambition
                 does
                 not
                 vainly
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 covet
                 Praise
                 ,
                 but
                 't
                 is
                 to
                 purchase
                 Love.
              
               
               
                 Not
                 that
                 my
                 Name
                 may
                 deathless
                 Honours
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Forget
                 —
                 forget
                 me
                 all
                 ,
                 make
                 but
                 my
                 Mistress
                 kind
                 .
              
               
                 Me
                 shall
                 the
                 Swains
                 young
                 
                 Cupid's
                 Master
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 the
                 Boy
                 's
                 blind
                 ,
                 he
                 shall
                 be
                 led
                 by
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 whilst
                 I
                 teach
                 the
                 World
                 experienc'd
                 Things
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Flames
                 of
                 Love
                 shall
                 be
                 my
                 
                 Muse's
                 Wings
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Elective
                 Love.
                 
              
               
                 FIRST
                 ,
                 You
                 ,
                 fond
                 Youth
                 ,
                 who
                 Beauty's
                 Charms
                 adore
                 ,
              
               
                 Choose
                 one
                 alone
                 to
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 wish
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 am'rous
                 Swain
                 can
                 feel
                 no
                 real
                 Fires
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 at
                 first
                 sight
                 ,
                 each
                 Face
                 he
                 sees
                 ,
                 admires
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 may
                 perhaps
                 my
                 skilful
                 Rules
                 abuse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 I
                 err
                 ,
                 because
                 I
                 bid
                 you
                 choose
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 our
                 Free-Will
                 does
                 our
                 desires
                 Improve
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 raises
                 liking
                 to
                 the
                 height
                 of
                 Love.
              
               
                 An
                 Infant
                 Passion
                 by
                 one
                 glance
                 may
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 not
                 nourisht
                 by
                 Consent
                 ,
                 it
                 dyes
                 .
              
               
               
                 You
                 must
                 some
                 time
                 ,
                 to
                 find
                 a
                 Mistress
                 rove
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 won't
                 Descend
                 from
                 the
                 bright
                 Skies
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 a
                 gaudy
                 Metor
                 ,
                 Court
                 thy
                 Love.
              
               
                 If
                 ,
                 when
                 you
                 meet
                 her
                 ,
                 she
                 be
                 truly
                 fair
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 will
                 reward
                 your
                 utmost
                 Pains
                 and
                 Care.
              
               
                 Blest
                 were
                 that
                 Youth
                 ,
                 who
                 with
                 my
                 Eyes
                 could
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Mistress
                 might
                 like
                 my
                 Amasia
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 kinder
                 far
                 than
                 her
                 ,
                 all
                 Charms
                 as
                 she
                 .
              
               
                 Well
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 enough
                 ,
                 if
                 she
                 be
                 fair
                 believ'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 you
                 your self
                 ,
                 are
                 by
                 your self
                 deceiv'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Sweet
                 is
                 the
                 cheat
                 ,
                 and
                 thence
                 true
                 Joys
                 may
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 he
                 that
                 thinks
                 he
                 's
                 blest
                 is
                 surely
                 so
                 .
              
               
                 London
                 abounds
                 with
                 Virgins
                 brightly
                 Fair
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 Crouds
                 of
                 Beauty
                 in
                 its
                 Streets
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 the
                 Charms
                 of
                 the
                 whole
                 World
                 were
                 there
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Plays
                 .
              
               
                 
                   FRequent
                   the
                   Theatre
                   ,
                   you
                   there
                   may
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   beauteous
                   Charmer
                   to
                   allure
                   your
                   Mind
                
                 
                 
                   While
                   on
                   the
                   Stage
                   the
                   feigning
                   Lover
                   dyes
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   may
                   feel
                   real
                   Wounds
                   from
                   bright
                   victorious
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   Romulus
                   first
                   Invented
                   Plays
                   at
                   Rome
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   those
                   allur'd
                   ,
                   the
                   Sabine
                   Virgins
                   come
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   some
                   short
                   time
                   pleas'd
                   with
                   the
                   Show
                   ,
                   they
                   smile
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   loose
                   those
                   Pleasures
                   in
                   a
                   little
                   while
                   .
                
                 
                   Seiz'd
                   by
                   the
                   Roman
                   Youth
                   ,
                   they
                   rashly
                   tear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   beauteous
                   Faces
                   ,
                   rend
                   their
                   lovely
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   themselves
                   Revenge
                   the
                   wrongs
                   they
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   fruitless
                   Shrieks
                   the
                   Neighb'ring
                   Air
                   they
                   wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Groves
                   and
                   pitying
                   Rocks
                   their
                   Cries
                   rebound
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   rougher
                   Men
                   ,
                   unmov'd
                   ,
                   resist
                   the
                   sound
                   .
                
                 
                   E're
                   since
                   that
                   time
                   ,
                   all
                   Theatres
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Renown'd
                   for
                   killing
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   Lovers
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   Place
                   your self
                   there
                   ,
                   close
                   nigh
                   the
                   charming
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   her
                   let
                   all
                   your
                   Services
                   be
                   paid
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   transient
                   Words
                   you
                   may
                   begin
                   Discourse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obliging
                   always
                   ,
                   offer
                   nought
                   by
                   force
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   the
                   Dust
                   chance
                   to
                   fall
                   upon
                   her
                   Gown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   sure
                   ,
                   be
                   ready
                   still
                   to
                   shake
                   it
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   Neglect
                   not
                   this
                   ,
                   this
                   may
                   be
                   worth
                   your
                   while
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   she
                   thanks
                   you
                   ,
                   and
                   returns
                   a
                   smile
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   little
                   Offices
                   must
                   needs
                   be
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pretend
                   Dust
                   fall'n
                   ,
                   tho'
                   well
                   you
                   know
                   there
                   's
                   none
                   .
                
                 
                   Or
                   if
                   her
                   Train
                   fall
                   loosely
                   to
                   the
                   floor
                   ,
                
                 
                   Do
                   thou
                   the
                   Train
                   to
                   her
                   fair
                   Hands
                   restore
                   .
                
                 
                   Be
                   careful
                   to
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   best
                   Service
                   lend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Least
                   ruder
                   Knecs
                   her
                   tender
                   Sides
                   offend
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   little
                   Things
                   as
                   these
                   make
                   way
                   for
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Courtly
                   done
                   ,
                   can
                   never
                   fail
                   to
                   move
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Fair
                   ,
                   soft
                   Sex
                   will
                   such
                   attendance
                   cost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   Words
                   ,
                   but
                   Actions
                   wooe
                   the
                   Virgin
                   most
                   .
                
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   Skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   go
                   on
                   Conquering
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   Conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Rally
                   the
                   Masks
                   ,
                   who
                   nigh
                   the
                   Charmer
                   sit
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   so
                   ,
                   divert
                   her
                   with
                   Satyrick
                   Wit.
                
                 
                   Be
                   cautious
                   here
                   ;
                   for
                   Theatres
                   are
                   full
                
                 
                   Of
                   empty
                   Fops
                   ,
                   Conceited
                   ,
                   Loud
                   ,
                   and
                   Dull
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   with
                   quick
                   Wit
                   you
                   can't
                   the
                   Hours
                   beguile
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   show
                   humour
                   ,
                   and
                   when
                   silent
                   ,
                   smile
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   a
                   mild
                   Air
                   ,
                   an
                   awful
                   Homage
                   shew
                   ,
                
                 
                   Look
                   fondly
                   at
                   her
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   smile
                   anew
                   .
                
                 
                   Submit
                   to
                   her
                   ,
                   still
                   in
                   Submission
                   brave
                   ;
                
                 
                   Maids
                   hate
                   the
                   low
                   ,
                   obsequious
                   ,
                   cringing
                   Slave
                   .
                
                 
                   Women
                   are
                   gain'd
                   by
                   little
                   ,
                   taking
                   Wiles
                   ;
                
                 
                   Play
                   with
                   her
                   Fan
                   ,
                   and
                   ask
                   her
                   why
                   she
                   Smiles
                   ;
                
                 
                   Soon
                   may
                   that
                   Toy
                   ,
                   thus
                   us'd
                   ,
                   inflame
                   her
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   Than
                   e'er
                   it
                   cold
                   her
                   ,
                   with
                   its
                   blasts
                   before
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Feasts
                 .
              
               
                 AT
                 publick
                 Feasts
                 ost
                 charming
                 Beauties
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 may
                 the
                 Youth
                 be
                 warm'd
                 with
                 more
                 than
                 Wine
                 .
              
               
                 Wine
                 heightens
                 Courage
                 ,
                 Wine
                 inflames
                 desire
                 ,
              
               
                 Joyn
                 Wine
                 and
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 add
                 Fire
                 to
                 Fire
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Gardens
                 .
              
               
                 FRequent
                 fair
                 Gardens
                 ,
                 and
                 delightful
                 Groves
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 wanton
                 there
                 the
                 sportive
                 Cupid
                 Loves
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 ,
                 all
                 the
                 flow'rs
                 in
                 lovely
                 bloom
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Fond
                 ,
                 growing
                 Love
                 shall
                 spring
                 ,
                 and
                 flourish
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 ,
                 Nature
                 do's
                 her
                 sweetest
                 sweets
                 impart
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 ,
                 Nature
                 flourishes
                 ,
                 here
                 flourish
                 art
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 ,
                 every
                 fragrant
                 blossom
                 feels
                 the
                 bloom
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 ,
                 Beauty's
                 self
                 fresh
                 beauties
                 shall
                 assume
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Cupid
                 the
                 Wanderer
                 .
              
               
                 Cvpid
                 ,
                 once
                 wandring
                 thro'
                 fair
                 Gardens
                 ,
                 found
              
               
                 A
                 Hive
                 of
                 Bees
                 ,
                 and
                 hurl'd
                 it
                 to
                 the
                 ground
                 .
              
               
                 Whilst
                 the
                 wax'd
                 walls
                 he
                 hastens
                 to
                 destroy
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 wing'd
                 assailants
                 buzz
                 about
                 the
                 Boy
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 now
                 to
                 spoyl
                 their
                 City
                 he
                 prepares
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 claps
                 his
                 own
                 glad
                 Wings
                 ,
                 and
                 minds
                 not
                 theirs
                 .
              
               
                 Drawing
                 his
                 shafts
                 ,
                 he
                 dips
                 them
                 in
                 ,
                 and
                 tasts
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 golden
                 plunder
                 ,
                 ravish't
                 ,
                 hasts
                 .
              
               
               
                 Claps
                 now
                 ,
                 o're
                 joy'd
                 his
                 little
                 silver
                 Wings
                 ,
              
               
                 Down
                 by
                 the
                 hive
                 ,
                 his
                 darts
                 ,
                 his
                 quiver
                 flings
                 ,
              
               
                 Disarm'd
                 himself
                 of
                 his
                 own
                 peircing
                 stings
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 with
                 his
                 little
                 hands
                 he
                 's
                 busy'd
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 plunder
                 thence
                 the
                 sweet
                 ,
                 the
                 luscious
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 even
                 the
                 Bees
                 ,
                 when
                 hoarding
                 it
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 more
                 and
                 more
                 by
                 his
                 success
                 grown
                 bold
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 breaks
                 their
                 forts
                 ,
                 and
                 ravishes
                 their
                 Gold.
              
               
                 But
                 as
                 he
                 thus
                 their
                 Citadel
                 confounds
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 raging
                 foes
                 buzz
                 with
                 redoubled
                 sounds
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 warring
                 at
                 the
                 Boy
                 ,
                 strike
                 ,
                 and
                 fix
                 deep
                 their
                 wounds
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 feircely
                 bold
                 ,
                 with
                 pointed
                 Stings
                 they
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 will
                 reyenge
                 ,
                 tho'
                 so
                 revenging
                 dye
                 ;
              
               
                 Raging
                 aloud
                 ,
                 aloud
                 proclaim
                 their
                 wrong
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 vexing
                 murmurs
                 ,
                 as
                 themselves
                 were
                 stung
                 .
              
               
                 Their
                 noisy
                 wings
                 their
                 furious
                 wars
                 declare
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 wings
                 both
                 whet
                 ,
                 and
                 urge
                 the
                 spears
                 they
                 bear
                 .
              
               
                 Incens'd
                 they
                 view
                 the
                 ruins
                 of
                 their
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 brave
                 Citizens
                 ,
                 when
                 desp'rate
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 Charge
                 him
                 with
                 shafts
                 ,
                 unerring
                 as
                 his
                 own
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 wounded
                 Boy
                 ,
                 swift
                 as
                 his
                 Arrows
                 ,
                 flys
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 blubber'd
                 cheeks
                 to
                 his
                 fair
                 Mother
                 crys
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 Love
                 himself
                 has
                 ever
                 weeping
                 eyes
                 .
              
               
                 Before
                 her
                 stands
                 with
                 hony
                 dropping
                 wings
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 little
                 hands
                 in
                 sad
                 complaints
                 he
                 wrings
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sobbing
                 ,
                 shews
                 her
                 ,
                 here
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 ,
                 his
                 stings
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 balmy
                 tears
                 will
                 the
                 fair
                 Queen
                 allow
                 ;
              
               
                 Asks
                 what
                 feirce
                 foes
                 had
                 wounded
                 him
                 ,
                 and
                 how
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 crys
                 ,
                 inform'd
                 ,
                 just
                 such
                 a
                 wasp
                 art
                 thou
                 .
              
               
                 Hence
                 ,
                 Cupid
                 feircest
                 is
                 in
                 Gardens
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 revenge
                 his
                 wounds
                 ,
                 seeks
                 there
                 to
                 wound
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 blooming
                 Maids
                 he
                 gathers
                 am'rous
                 pow'rs
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Bees
                 draw
                 Honey
                 from
                 the
                 blooming
                 flowers
                 .
              
               
                 Seeking
                 sweet
                 Love
                 ,
                 we
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 Boy
                 grow
                 blind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 feel
                 the
                 sting
                 ,
                 as
                 we
                 the
                 Honey
                 find
                 .
              
               
                 Tho'
                 dipt
                 in
                 Honey
                 Maids
                 his
                 Arrows
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 Sweet
                 as
                 they
                 are
                 ,
                 yet
                 they
                 are
                 sharp
                 ,
                 as
                 sweet
                 .
              
               
                 Sadly
                 may
                 Sylvius
                 of
                 his
                 Arrows
                 sing
                 .
              
               
                 Deep
                 in
                 my
                 Breast
                 rages
                 their
                 tort'ring
                 sting
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Vision
                 .
              
               
                 YOung
                 ,
                 Infant
                 Love
                 is
                 in
                 fair
                 Gardens
                 nurst
                 ,
              
               
                 Amasia
                 charm'd
                 me
                 in
                 fair
                 Gardens
                 first
                 .
              
               
                 Roving
                 thro'
                 flowry
                 Gardens
                 ,
                 fragrant
                 Bow'rs
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 first
                 beheld
                 her
                 on
                 a
                 Bed
                 of
                 Flow'rs
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 ore
                 surpris'd
                 ,
                 all
                 ravisht
                 with
                 the
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 Soft
                 ,
                 Infant
                 sighs
                 with
                 painful
                 risings
                 flew
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Blood
                 thrill'd
                 quick
                 ,
                 and
                 light'nings
                 peirc'd
                 me
                 thro'
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 panting
                 Heart
                 did
                 with
                 short
                 tremblings
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 all
                 the
                 longing
                 Agonies
                 of
                 Love.
              
               
                 Her
                 blooming
                 Beauties
                 did
                 my
                 wonder
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 more
                 I
                 gaz'd
                 ,
                 the
                 more
                 I
                 wish'd
                 to
                 gaze
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 gaz'd
                 ,
                 and
                 sigh'd
                 ,
                 then
                 ,
                 sighing
                 gaz'd
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 was
                 at
                 once
                 all
                 extasie
                 ,
                 and
                 pain
                 .
              
               
               
                 Methinks
                 ,
                 I
                 see
                 her
                 ,
                 as
                 she
                 then
                 was
                 lay'd
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 careless
                 Charms
                 on
                 the
                 fair
                 ,
                 painted
                 Bed.
              
               
                 Her
                 fragrant
                 breath
                 perfum'd
                 the
                 Neighb'ring
                 air
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Flow'rs
                 spread
                 more
                 than
                 usual
                 fair
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 her
                 loose
                 Robes
                 did
                 wanton
                 Zephirs
                 play
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 flew
                 in
                 whistlings
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 pleas'd
                 ,
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 One
                 Snowy
                 Hand
                 did
                 in
                 her
                 Bosom
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 other
                 thrown
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 neglected
                 ,
                 by
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 that
                 she
                 lean'd
                 her
                 Head
                 in
                 soft
                 repose
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 her
                 dear
                 Breasts
                 with
                 swelling
                 motions
                 rose
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 awful
                 distance
                 did
                 I
                 wondring
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 E're
                 I
                 approach'd
                 to
                 kiss
                 her
                 Beauteous
                 Hand
                 .
              
               
                 Softly
                 I
                 mov'd
                 to
                 the
                 Celestial
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 not
                 she
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 the
                 Theif
                 had
                 play'd
                 .
              
               
                 Gently
                 I
                 kneel'd
                 ,
                 afraid
                 to
                 wake
                 the
                 fair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 view'd
                 the
                 wond'rous
                 charm
                 of
                 Beauty
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 courage
                 quite
                 forsook
                 my
                 sickly
                 Soul
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hopes
                 and
                 fears
                 did
                 in
                 my
                 fancy
                 rowl
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thro'
                 tedious
                 strugglings
                 of
                 my
                 thoughts
                 I
                 broke
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kiss'd
                 her
                 Hand
                 ,
                 before
                 she
                 yet
                 awoke
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 ,
                 with
                 short
                 tremblings
                 still
                 I
                 fondly
                 prest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kiss't
                 ,
                 and
                 sigh'd
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 again
                 I
                 kiss't
                 .
              
               
                 Assaults
                 too
                 feirce
                 at
                 last
                 my
                 flames
                 did
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 Too
                 much
                 I
                 Lov'd
                 her
                 ,
                 now
                 too
                 soon
                 awake
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 hast
                 ,
                 the
                 frighted
                 Virgin
                 trembling
                 rose
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 look'd
                 behind
                 ,
                 fled
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 fled
                 repose
                 .
              
               
                 Silent
                 I
                 stood
                 ,
                 and
                 saw
                 her
                 hast
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 power
                 was
                 left
                 me
                 but
                 the
                 power
                 to
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fall
                 all
                 ravisht
                 ,
                 where
                 the
                 charmer
                 lay
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Baths
                 and
                 Wells
                 .
              
               
                 
                   TO
                   the
                   fam'd
                   Baths
                   ,
                   or
                   Tunbridge
                   Wells
                   retreat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   Beauty
                   fires
                   more
                   than
                   the
                   scorching
                   heat
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Beauty's
                   bright
                   beams
                   ore
                   all
                   their
                   waters
                   play
                   ,
                
                 
                   Radiant
                   as
                   those
                   which
                   light
                   the
                   glowing
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   Venus
                   at
                   first
                   rose
                   from
                   the
                   Oceans
                   tides
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   floods
                   she
                   rose
                   ,
                   and
                   still
                   ore
                   floods
                   presides
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Sea
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   said
                   ,
                   produc'd
                   one
                   beauteous
                   Queen
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   at
                   
                     these
                     Springs
                  
                   there
                   are
                   a
                   thousand
                   seen
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   who
                   Diana
                   naked
                   had
                   descry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   ,
                   who
                   beheld
                   that
                   Goddess
                   bathing
                   ,
                   dy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Here
                   ,
                   less
                   severe
                   bright
                   Deities
                   appear
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   gaze
                   secure
                   from
                   sprinkled
                   surges
                   here
                   .
                
                 
                   Safe
                   from
                   Actaeon's
                   fate
                   you
                   may
                   retire
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   fatal
                   waters
                   safe
                   ,
                   expos'd
                   to
                   fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   in
                   the
                   Youth
                   his
                   growing
                   passion
                   reigns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Falsly
                   those
                   Baths
                   he
                   charges
                   with
                   his
                   pains
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Swain
                   no
                   cause
                   of
                   his
                   distemper
                   knows
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thinks
                   not
                   that
                   Love
                   along
                   those
                   Fountains
                   flows
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   racking
                   pangs
                   fond
                   wishing
                   Souls
                   endure
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   Medicinal
                   Waters
                   cannot
                   cure
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   Beauty
                   gathers
                   from
                   those
                   Springs
                   new
                   Rays
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Sol
                   made
                   brighter
                   rising
                   from
                   the
                   Seas
                   .
                
                 
                   Strange
                   !
                   that
                   feirce
                   Fires
                   proceed
                   from
                   Chilling
                   Streams
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Waters
                   kindle
                   ,
                   which
                   should
                   quench
                   our
                   Flames
                   !
                
                 
                   In
                   vain
                   from
                   Conquering
                   ,
                   killing
                   Charms
                   we
                   turn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Where
                   are
                   we
                   safe
                   ,
                   if
                   Springs
                   have
                   power
                   to
                   burn
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   There
                   are
                   a
                   thousand
                   places
                   where
                   to
                   meet
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Park
                   ,
                   the
                   Mall
                   ,
                   or
                   in
                   the
                   open
                   Street
                   .
                
                 
                   None
                   lives
                   Recluse
                   ,
                   who
                   are
                   but
                   fancy'd
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beauty
                   's
                   a
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   that
                   reigns
                   every
                   where
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   vast
                   her
                   train
                   ,
                   which
                   all
                   retirements
                   flee
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   if
                   you
                   would
                   not
                   Love
                   ,
                   you
                   must
                   not
                   see
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Beauty
                 .
              
               
                 IN
                 British
                 Maids
                 all
                 sparkling
                 glories
                 smile
                 ,
              
               
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 the
                 plenteous
                 product
                 of
                 our
                 Ifle
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 her
                 own
                 Paphos
                 ,
                 could
                 Love's
                 Queen
                 detain
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Britain
                 now
                 do's
                 Cytharea
                 Reign
                 .
              
               
                 Like
                 Albion's
                 Cliffs
                 ,
                 fair
                 are
                 her
                 Daughters
                 born
                 ,
              
               
                 Num'rous
                 ,
                 as
                 Waves
                 ,
                 by
                 which
                 those
                 Cliffs
                 are
                 torn
                 .
              
               
                 Albion
                 ,
                 her self
                 ,
                 whom
                 all
                 her
                 floods
                 obey
                 ,
              
               
                 Appear
                 the
                 Rising
                 Venus
                 of
                 the
                 Sea.
              
               
                 Such
                 Charms
                 this
                 Isle
                 do's
                 to
                 her
                 race
                 dispence
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 half
                 the
                 World
                 may
                 be
                 supply'd
                 from
                 hence
                 .
              
               
                 Thrice
                 happy
                 Albion
                 !
                 in
                 thy
                 Off-spring
                 blest
                 ,
              
               
                 Fairest
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 Universe
                 Confest
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Universe
                 thy
                 Conquering
                 Charms
                 approve
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Men
                 for
                 Valour
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Maids
                 for
                 Love.
              
               
               
                 Venus
                 in
                 Albion
                 claims
                 a
                 right
                 to
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 Albion
                 in
                 Arms
                 do's
                 the
                 whole
                 World
                 excell
                 .
              
               
                 Drawn
                 by
                 her
                 Swans
                 ,
                 along
                 her
                 Thames
                 she
                 glides
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 should
                 she
                 dwell
                 ,
                 but
                 where
                 her
                 Mars
                 resides
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 British
                 Venus
                 .
              
               
                 
                   BOld
                   ,
                   bravely
                   feirce
                   glows
                   each
                   great
                   Hero's
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Nassaw's
                   Soul
                   surpasses
                   all
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   every
                   Radiant
                   British
                   Beauty
                   warms
                   ;
                
                 
                   Yet
                   still
                   beyond
                   the
                   rest
                   bright
                   Grafton
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   strikes
                   all
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   all
                   Senses
                   she
                   allarms
                   .
                
                 
                   Every
                   bright
                   Goddess
                   do's
                   Immortal
                   shine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   less
                   ,
                   some
                   more
                   ,
                   yet
                   are
                   they
                   all
                   Divine
                   .
                
                 
                   Iuno
                   and
                   Pallas
                   have
                   Illustrious
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   there
                   's
                   a
                   Venus
                   still
                   —
                
                 
                   Transcendent
                   Venus
                   must
                   receive
                   the
                   prize
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   prize
                   above
                   let
                   Cytharea
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Here
                   Grafton
                   claims
                   :
                   the
                   Cytharea
                   here
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Albion's
                   fair
                   Daughters
                   are
                   the
                   Warriour's
                   prize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bright
                   as
                   the
                   Hero's
                   Swords
                   ,
                   the
                   Virgin
                   's
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Those
                   Conquering
                   Cheifs
                   ,
                   who
                   triumph'd
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   these
                   far
                   more
                   Victorious
                   Beauties
                   yeild
                   .
                
                 
                   Dangers
                   and
                   Death
                   in
                   dusty
                   Plains
                   are
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Love
                   Wounds
                   deeper
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   surer
                   Wound
                   .
                
                 
                   Who
                   can
                   resist
                   ,
                   when
                   British
                   Nymphs
                   engage
                   ?
                
                 
                   Love
                   always
                   Conquers
                   ,
                   when
                   his
                   Wars
                   they
                   wage
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   Neighb'ring
                   Nations
                   dread
                   our
                   Isle's
                   allarms
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   must
                   surrender
                   ,
                   when
                   soft
                   Beauty
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beauty
                   shall
                   Edge
                   our
                   Swords
                   ,
                   and
                   Point
                   our
                   Arms
                
                 
                   Beauty
                   !
                   which
                   every
                   Noble
                   Act
                   inspires
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beauty
                   !
                   which
                   Poets
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Heroes
                   fires
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Beauty
                   !
                   which
                   stirs
                   the
                   Martial
                   Soul
                   to
                   Fight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beauty
                   !
                   which
                   moves
                   the
                   Artless
                   Swain
                   to
                   write
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   those
                   I
                   Sing
                   ,
                   those
                   who
                   have
                   born
                   the
                   Sheild
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   ,
                   who
                   have
                   fought
                   ,
                   and
                   vanquish'd
                   in
                   the
                   Field
                
                 
                   Those
                   would
                   I
                   teach
                   how
                   to
                   make
                   Beauty
                   yeild
                   .
                
                 
                   Love
                   is
                   a
                   kind
                   of
                   Warfare
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   a
                   Wall'd
                   Town
                   ,
                   you
                   must
                   by
                   Art
                   Invade
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pitch
                   then
                   :
                   Let
                   me
                   ,
                   your
                   Gen'ral
                   ,
                   be
                   Obey'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Pitch
                   here
                   your
                   Tents
                   ;
                   as
                   I
                   direct
                   ,
                   begin
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lay
                   but
                   close
                   Seige
                   ,
                   and
                   be
                   assur'd
                   you
                   win
                   .
                
                 
                   Already
                   told
                   where
                   the
                   bright
                   Nymphs
                   repair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inform'd
                   already
                   where
                   to
                   find
                   the
                   fair
                   ;
                
                 
                   Let
                   me
                   advise
                   ,
                   with
                   awful
                   Homage
                   bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   ,
                   who
                   us'd
                   to
                   Storm
                   ,
                   Surrender
                   now
                   .
                
                 
                   Methinks
                   I
                   hear
                   the
                   blustring
                   Souldier
                   Swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     I
                     now
                     may
                     seize
                     her
                     ,
                     shall
                     I
                     now
                     forbear
                     ?
                  
                
                 
                   
                     If
                     Maids
                     ,
                     like
                     Towns
                     beseig'd
                     ,
                     are
                     to
                     be
                     won
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     What
                     hinders
                     ?
                     Now
                     I
                     'll
                     spoyl
                     ,
                     and
                     sack
                     the
                     Town
                     .
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                     Must
                     I
                     Surrender
                     ,
                     Captive
                     to
                     my
                     Foe
                     ?
                  
                
                 
                   
                     Are
                     these
                     your
                     precepts
                     ,
                     shall
                     I
                     Conquer
                     so
                     ?
                  
                
                 
                   If
                   Maids
                   by
                   force
                   alone
                   were
                   to
                   be
                   gain'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Experienc'd
                   Warriours
                   need
                   not
                   now
                   be
                   train'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Shafts
                   of
                   Love
                   fly
                   not
                   like
                   those
                   of
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   Soft
                   are
                   the
                   Plumes
                   ,
                   which
                   bear
                   his
                   Arrows
                   far
                   .
                
                 
                   Women
                   ,
                   like
                   Troy
                   ,
                   resist
                   the
                   Warlike
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Troy
                   ,
                   it self
                   ,
                   must
                   to
                   devices
                   yeild
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   whilst
                   in
                   show
                   no
                   Hostile
                   Arms
                   you
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Greeks
                   did
                   Troy
                   ,
                   o'recome
                   the
                   fair
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   one
                   Important
                   Resolution
                   hold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   bold
                   ,
                   but
                   yet
                   ,
                   be
                   very
                   humbly
                   bold
                   .
                
                 
                   Had
                   I
                   been
                   bold
                   ,
                   I
                   had
                   successful
                   prov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   ah
                   !
                   too
                   true
                   ,
                   too
                   tenderly
                   I
                   Lov'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   Strength
                   alone
                   ,
                   or
                   where
                   soft
                   Pray'rs
                   may
                   fail
                   ,
                
                 
                   Together
                   joyn'd
                   ,
                   they
                   must
                   ,
                   they
                   will
                   prevail
                   .
                
                 
                   Entreat
                   admission
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   Guards
                   supprest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Disdain
                   and
                   Pride
                   ,
                   Guards
                   to
                   the
                   Female
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Conquer
                   by
                   force
                   ,
                   by
                   force
                   maintain
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Force
                   ,
                   Grateful
                   force
                   the
                   Charming
                   Sex
                   beguiles
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   wiles
                   deceiving
                   those
                   ,
                   who
                   practice
                   wiles
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   Beauty
                   Wounds
                   the
                   most
                   ,
                   when
                   most
                   it
                   Smiles
                   .
                
                 
                   Mistake
                   not
                   ,
                   Hero
                   ,
                   here
                   the
                   Poet's
                   aim
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   aiery
                   Songs
                   fann
                   but
                   a
                   Lambent
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   Chast
                   is
                   my
                   Art
                   ,
                   nourishing
                   Virgin
                   Fires
                   ,
                
                 
                   Chast
                   ,
                   like
                   Amasia
                   ,
                   who
                   my
                   Song
                   inspires
                   .
                
                 
                   Verse
                   ,
                   Sacred
                   Verse
                   ,
                   like
                   Phaebus
                   beamy
                   Rays
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   kindle
                   Vestals
                   to
                   a
                   Lambent
                   blaze
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   teach
                   Beseigers
                   Beauteous
                   Towns
                   to
                   win
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   not
                   to
                   Plunder
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   enter
                   in
                   .
                
                 
                   Warriours
                   ,
                   who
                   spoyl
                   those
                   Cities
                   they
                   obtain
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   quickly
                   loose
                   ,
                   what
                   ,
                   by
                   long
                   Seige
                   ,
                   they
                   gain
                
                 
                   Towns
                   ,
                   which
                   on
                   terms
                   ,
                   Surrender
                   to
                   your
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   in
                   their
                   own
                   maintain
                   the
                   strongest
                   Tow'r
                   .
                
                 
                   Insulted
                   Forts
                   their
                   Forces
                   will
                   exert
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Maids
                   ,
                   entreated
                   ill
                   ,
                   preserve
                   their
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Conquering
                   gently
                   ,
                   you
                   shall
                   Conquer
                   still
                   .
                
                 
                   Small
                   ,
                   trivial
                   favours
                   ,
                   are
                   like
                   Out-works
                   ,
                   won
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   must
                   ,
                   by
                   gentle
                   usage
                   ,
                   gain
                   the
                   Town
                   ,
                
                 
                   Remember
                   ,
                   Cupid
                   Flyes
                   with
                   Wings
                   of
                   Down
                   .
                
                 
                   Force
                   I
                   prescribe
                   ,
                   but
                   such
                   as
                   suits
                   the
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Feathers
                   require
                   not
                   Storms
                   ,
                   they
                   rise
                   with
                   Air.
                
                 
                   Sighs
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   gentle
                   breeze
                   ,
                   fan
                   Am'rous
                   Fires
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   rude
                   blasts
                   Love's
                   kindled
                   Torch
                   expires
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   force
                   prescrib'd
                   ,
                   which
                   in
                   my
                   Laws
                   you
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   Is
                   not
                   the
                   force
                   of
                   Arms
                   ,
                   but
                   force
                   of
                   Mind
                   .
                
                 
                   My
                   Muse
                   delights
                   to
                   glide
                   in
                   purest
                   Streams
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   Swans
                   ,
                   which
                   draw
                   my
                   Venus
                   ,
                   Wing'd
                   with
                   Flames
                   ,
                
                 
                   Move
                   their
                   soft
                   course
                   ,
                   like
                   those
                   on
                   Silver
                   Thames
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   Wanton
                   Ovid
                   I
                   forbear
                   to
                   Rove
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   Sing
                   of
                   Virgins
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   Virgin
                   Love.
                
                 
                 
                   His
                   Muse
                   ,
                   like
                   Icarus
                   ,
                   unbounded
                   Flyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   Wax'd
                   Plumes
                   ,
                   Soars
                   ,
                   and
                   Insults
                   the
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   Wantons
                   ,
                   like
                   him
                   with
                   pure
                   ,
                   Celestial
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   Attempting
                   Flights
                   ,
                   which
                   she
                   wants
                   Wings
                   to
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Swain
                   so
                   sweet
                   of
                   Love's
                   soft
                   Passion
                   Sings
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   here
                   ,
                   on
                   purpose
                   ,
                   has
                   he
                   Wax'd
                   his
                   Wings
                   .
                
                 
                   Tow'ring
                   too
                   high
                   ,
                   soon
                   as
                   he
                   strikes
                   the
                   Clowds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wildly
                   he
                   falls
                   ,
                   Drown'd
                   in
                   the
                   rowling
                   Floods
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Chaster
                   purpose
                   are
                   my
                   numbers
                   lay'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Charm
                   he
                   the
                   Roman
                   ,
                   I
                   the
                   British
                   Maid
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Resolution
                 .
              
               
                 AGain
                 be
                 bold
                 ,
                 I
                 urge
                 this
                 precept
                 still
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 ,
                 without
                 confidence
                 ,
                 you
                 dash
                 my
                 skill
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 but
                 assur'd
                 that
                 you
                 shall
                 gain
                 ,
                 you
                 will.
              
               
               
                 Let
                 then
                 your
                 soft
                 Addresses
                 be
                 begun
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Build
                 on
                 this
                 —
                 all
                 Women
                 may
                 be
                 won
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Coyest
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 she
                 ,
                 who
                 disdains
                 the
                 most
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 once
                 she
                 knows
                 how
                 dear
                 her
                 Scorn
                 has
                 cost
                 ,
              
               
                 Pitys
                 the
                 Youth
                 ,
                 by
                 her
                 ill
                 usage
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 secret
                 shists
                 his
                 Visits
                 would
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 would
                 grant
                 ,
                 would
                 he
                 but
                 now
                 Adore
                 ,
              
               
                 Maids
                 will
                 deny
                 ,
                 who
                 more
                 than
                 Men
                 desire
                 .
              
               
                 Affecting
                 Coldness
                 most
                 ,
                 when
                 most
                 on
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 must
                 I
                 now
                 unpractiz'd
                 precepts
                 teach
                 ,
              
               
                 Prescribe
                 you
                 Flights
                 my self
                 could
                 never
                 reach
              
            
             
               
                 Dissimulation
                 .
              
               
                 LIke
                 them
                 ,
                 dissemble
                 ,
                 while
                 you
                 feircest
                 burn
                 ,
              
               
                 Fond
                 of
                 their
                 Love
                 ,
                 yet
                 seem
                 to
                 slight
                 their
                 Scorn
                 .
              
               
               
                 Could
                 I
                 have
                 put
                 a
                 loose
                 indiff'rence
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 Amasia's
                 Self
                 I
                 might
                 at
                 last
                 have
                 won
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 she
                 too
                 deep
                 had
                 fixt
                 my
                 Ravisht
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Love
                 was
                 Nature
                 ,
                 but
                 let
                 yours
                 be
                 Art.
              
               
                 Where
                 Ten
                 Years
                 Seige
                 ,
                 and
                 force
                 continu'd
                 fail'd
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 seeming
                 Flight
                 ,
                 a
                 feign'd
                 Despair
                 prevail'd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 subtle
                 Sex
                 seems
                 ty'd
                 to
                 such
                 restrint
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 each
                 Denyal
                 is
                 in
                 part
                 a
                 Grant.
              
               
                 To
                 understand
                 some
                 things
                 by
                 Woman
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Words
                 ,
                 like
                 Hebrew
                 ,
                 must
                 be
                 backwards
                 read
                 .
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 ,
                 like
                 Heathen
                 Oracles
                 of
                 Old
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 odd
                 ,
                 Ambiguous
                 terms
                 their
                 Minds
                 are
                 told
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 that
                 those
                 truths
                 they
                 seem
                 to
                 have
                 reveal'd
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 such
                 relation
                 are
                 the
                 more
                 conceal'd
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 secret
                 intricacies
                 all
                 perplext
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 doubtful
                 thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 various
                 notions
                 vext
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 think
                 all
                 true
                 this
                 moment
                 ,
                 false
                 the
                 next
                 .
              
               
                 Remember
                 this
                 ,
                 and
                 be
                 this
                 truth
                 believ'd
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 ,
                 who
                 knows
                 Woman
                 best
                 ,
                 may
                 be
                 deceiv'd
                 .
              
               
               
                 In
                 Infant
                 times
                 ,
                 the
                 Sex
                 was
                 once
                 betray'd
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 subtle
                 wiles
                 ,
                 and
                 close
                 devices
                 lay'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Cunning
                 Serpent
                 had
                 deceiv'd
                 the
                 Maid
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 every
                 Fair
                 has
                 his
                 deceits
                 discern'd
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Artful
                 turns
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 his
                 windings
                 learn'd
                 .
              
               
                 Secret
                 from
                 them
                 he
                 has
                 reserv'd
                 no
                 wile
                 ,
              
               
                 Woman
                 could
                 now
                 the
                 Serpent's
                 self
                 beguile
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 with
                 joyn'd
                 Pow'rs
                 she
                 can
                 the
                 World
                 deceive
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 the
                 Serpent
                 ,
                 and
                 at
                 once
                 the
                 Eve.
              
               
                 Believe
                 them
                 not
                 ,
                 trust
                 not
                 the
                 Gawdy
                 Snare
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 every
                 Maid
                 is
                 false
                 ,
                 as
                 she
                 is
                 fair
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 more
                 deceit
                 the
                 inward
                 Woman
                 bears
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 more
                 the
                 Varnish
                 in
                 her
                 Face
                 appears
                 .
              
               
                 False
                 as
                 they
                 are
                 ,
                 seem
                 not
                 at
                 all
                 to
                 doubt
                 ,
              
               
                 Dissembling
                 Ignorance
                 ,
                 you
                 trace
                 them
                 out
                 .
              
               
                 Could
                 they
                 be
                 true
                 ,
                 yet
                 false
                 believe
                 them
                 still
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 ill
                 may
                 come
                 ,
                 stand
                 guarded
                 from
                 the
                 ill
                 .
              
               
               
                 Let
                 your
                 Addresses
                 still
                 these
                 colours
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Excessive
                 Love
                 ,
                 faint
                 hopes
                 ,
                 and
                 doubting
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 her
                 sometimes
                 think
                 you
                 quite
                 despair
                 ,
              
               
                 Interpret
                 all
                 in
                 the
                 severest
                 Sense
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 choose
                 your self
                 the
                 softest
                 meaning
                 thence
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 her
                 unkindness
                 to
                 the
                 Nymph
                 complain
                 ;
              
               
                 Whatever
                 sound
                 bears
                 a
                 more
                 pleasing
                 strain
                 ,
              
               
                 Seem
                 not
                 to
                 hear
                 ,
                 and
                 beg
                 that
                 breath
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 Hence
                 mighty
                 Pleasures
                 flow
                 ,
                 hence
                 Joys
                 improve
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hence
                 arises
                 sweet
                 endearing
                 Love.
              
               
                 Charge
                 her
                 Remember
                 what
                 she
                 kindly
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 seem
                 all
                 Ravish't
                 with
                 the
                 Charming
                 Maid
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 is
                 the
                 time
                 to
                 press
                 her
                 Hands
                 ,
                 and
                 Vow
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 is
                 the
                 time
                 ,
                 urge
                 fast
                 your
                 Conquests
                 now
                 .
              
               
                 Sigh
                 sadly
                 oft
                 ,
                 with
                 gentle
                 strugglings
                 start
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 she
                 seiz'd
                 ,
                 against
                 your
                 Will
                 ,
                 your
                 Heart
                 .
              
               
                 Oft
                 tho'
                 you
                 sigh
                 ,
                 your
                 breath
                 must
                 smother'd
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 Believe
                 me
                 ,
                 Youth
                 ,
                 there
                 is
                 an
                 Art
                 in
                 sighs
                 .
              
               
                 Doubt
                 not
                 ,
                 thus
                 smother'd
                 they
                 will
                 reach
                 her
                 Ear
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 hears
                 them
                 all
                 ,
                 but
                 will
                 not
                 seem
                 to
                 hear
                 .
              
               
               
                 Let
                 your
                 heav'd
                 Breast
                 raise
                 but
                 imperfect
                 sounds
                 ,
              
               
                 Thence
                 she
                 infers
                 how
                 inwardly
                 she
                 Wounds
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 is
                 a
                 Passion
                 ,
                 and
                 where
                 words
                 may
                 fail
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 inward
                 workings
                 of
                 the
                 Soul
                 prevail
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Soul's
                 Emotion
                 best
                 her
                 truth
                 assures
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 that
                 she
                 thinks
                 you
                 her's
                 ,
                 and
                 thence
                 grows
                 yours
                 .
              
               
                 Maids
                 ,
                 like
                 young
                 Conjurers
                 ,
                 that
                 Charm
                 have
                 rais'd
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 spright
                 ,
                 fond
                 Love
                 ,
                 by
                 which
                 themselves
                 are
                 seiz'd
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 ,
                 who
                 to
                 Maids
                 dissembles
                 ,
                 must
                 excel
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 cheat
                 your self
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 perform
                 not
                 well
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 not
                 enough
                 you
                 can
                 two
                 Faces
                 shew
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 wear
                 the
                 Mask
                 ,
                 and
                 seem
                 to
                 want
                 it
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 all
                 be
                 plausible
                 whate're
                 you
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 T
                 is
                 no
                 deceit
                 if
                 you
                 deceive
                 her
                 well
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 at
                 a
                 loss
                 sometimes
                 for
                 Am'rous
                 lies
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 naked
                 truth
                 may
                 be
                 the
                 best
                 disguise
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 who
                 had
                 but
                 now
                 comply'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 spoke
                 kind
                 words
                 ,
                 those
                 words
                 are
                 now
                 deny'd
                 .
              
               
               
                 As
                 in
                 this
                 Breath
                 she
                 utter'd
                 truth
                 ,
                 the
                 next
              
               
                 With
                 double
                 Errours
                 has
                 that
                 truth
                 perplext
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 you
                 would
                 have
                 her
                 mean
                 ,
                 interpret
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 Unwary
                 truth
                 will
                 in
                 soft
                 Passion
                 Flow.
              
               
                 Regard
                 not
                 ,
                 Youth
                 ,
                 what
                 she
                 shall
                 now
                 deny
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 cut
                 that
                 Gordian
                 Knot
                 you
                 can't
                 untie
                 .
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 ,
                 thro'
                 modest
                 ,
                 bashful
                 Virgin
                 fears
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 ,
                 crys
                 ,
                 that
                 Speech
                 a
                 double
                 meaning
                 bears
                 .
              
               
                 Or
                 at
                 the
                 most
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 believe
                 it
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 slipt
                 unlicens'd
                 from
                 her
                 tender
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 soft
                 she
                 Breaths
                 kind
                 Accents
                 to
                 your
                 Ear
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 the
                 Bashful
                 Creature
                 could
                 not
                 bear
              
               
                 That
                 she
                 her self
                 shou'd
                 her
                 own
                 fondness
                 hear
                 .
              
               
                 Tho'
                 with
                 design
                 some
                 moving
                 Accent
                 breaks
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 she
                 appears
                 unknowing
                 what
                 she
                 speaks
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 smiles
                 the
                 shining
                 Season
                 of
                 your
                 Reign
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 for
                 a
                 while
                 let
                 us
                 remove
                 the
                 Scene
                 ,
              
               
                 View
                 Clowdy
                 Skies
                 ,
                 Proud
                 Frowns
                 ,
                 and
                 Cold
                 Disdain
                 .
              
               
               
                 Observe
                 my
                 Rules
                 ,
                 drawn
                 from
                 Experienc'd
                 skill
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tho'
                 she
                 Thunders
                 ,
                 you
                 shall
                 Conquer
                 still
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Constancy
                 .
              
               
                 PErhaps
                 the
                 Haughty
                 Nymph
                 thy
                 Presence
                 shun's
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Daphne
                 like
                 from
                 the
                 pursuer
                 runs
                 .
              
               
                 Bold
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 Youthful
                 Phaebus
                 ,
                 follow
                 ,
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 Swift
                 tho'
                 she
                 flys
                 ,
                 do
                 thou
                 as
                 swift
                 pursue
                 .
              
               
                 Intreat
                 ,
                 like
                 him
                 ,
                 like
                 him
                 ,
                 maintain
                 thy
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 Stay
                 ,
                 Phaebus
                 cry'd
                 ,
                 my
                 Charming
                 Daphne
                 ,
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Winds
                 bore
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 lost
                 Pray'rs
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 follow'd
                 fast
                 the
                 Flying
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 more
                 he
                 saw
                 her
                 Fleet
                 ,
                 the
                 more
                 he
                 Pray'd
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 long
                 ,
                 long
                 Course
                 the
                 Virgin
                 had
                 maintain'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 he
                 follow'd
                 long
                 ,
                 at
                 last
                 he
                 gain'd
                 .
              
               
               
                 He
                 gain'd
                 that
                 Fair
                 ,
                 who
                 did
                 his
                 Passion
                 flee
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 now
                 a
                 Virgin
                 ,
                 yet
                 he
                 claspt
                 her
                 Tree
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 not
                 her
                 change
                 in
                 thee
                 suspicion
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 are
                 no
                 Daphne's
                 in
                 these
                 kinder
                 Days
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 that
                 she
                 could
                 ,
                 she
                 did
                 ;
                 her
                 Lawrel
                 bow'd
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 his
                 each
                 gentle
                 Breath
                 ,
                 to
                 thank
                 the
                 God.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Muse.
                 
              
               
                 HEnce
                 am
                 I
                 mov'd
                 to
                 warn
                 thee
                 of
                 the
                 fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 do's
                 on
                 most
                 Poetick
                 Lovers
                 wait
                 .
              
               
                 Enervate
                 here
                 the
                 Poet
                 owns
                 his
                 Charm
                 ,
              
               
                 Numbers
                 ,
                 which
                 once
                 could
                 Fire
                 ,
                 now
                 hardly
                 warm
              
               
                 Verse
                 ,
                 slighted
                 Verse
                 ,
                 will
                 but
                 with
                 few
                 prevail
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 shall
                 we
                 hope
                 ,
                 if
                 Phaebus
                 self
                 could
                 fail
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 thou
                 thy
                 racking
                 sufferings
                 would'st
                 rehearse
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Numbers
                 sweet
                 and
                 softly
                 sliding
                 Verse
                 .
              
               
               
                 All
                 thou
                 wilt
                 gain
                 ,
                 the
                 Maid
                 shall
                 be
                 admir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Ador'd
                 by
                 all
                 ,
                 who
                 has
                 thy
                 Songs
                 inspir'd
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 the
                 Nymphs
                 Fame
                 shall
                 't
                 by
                 thy
                 Numbers
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 Loose
                 Daphne
                 ,
                 certain
                 ,
                 for
                 uncertain
                 Bays
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 hard
                 ill-fated
                 Errour
                 shall
                 't
                 thou
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Sing
                 at
                 last
                 ,
                 a
                 hopeless
                 Swain
                 like
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 Amasia
                 first
                 made
                 me
                 in
                 Numbers
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 gave
                 me
                 Verse
                 ,
                 and
                 Verse
                 gave
                 Love
                 delight
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 all
                 my
                 Songs
                 this
                 only
                 could
                 I
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 sooth'd
                 my
                 Passion
                 ,
                 and
                 bewitch'd
                 my
                 Mind
              
               
                 Verse
                 fann'd
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 made
                 my
                 own
                 wishes
                 blaze
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 no
                 sost
                 kindlings
                 in
                 her
                 Breast
                 could
                 raise
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 taught
                 me
                 Notions
                 for
                 soft
                 Numbers
                 fit
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 I
                 had
                 never
                 Lov'd
                 ,
                 I
                 ne're
                 had
                 Writ
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 Passion
                 first
                 did
                 Artless
                 Songs
                 improve
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 Artful
                 now
                 ,
                 my
                 Songs
                 shall
                 teach
                 to
                 Love.
              
               
                 The
                 Charming
                 Sex
                 my
                 moving
                 Songs
                 shall
                 Read
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Swains
                 shall
                 Weep
                 ,
                 the
                 Ravish't
                 Virgins
                 Bleed
                 .
              
               
               
                 If
                 Verse
                 has
                 Charms
                 ,
                 my
                 flowing
                 lines
                 shall
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 Sighing
                 Maid
                 confess
                 I
                 Love.
              
               
                 
                 Amasia's
                 self
                 ,
                 when
                 all
                 my
                 Passion
                 's
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 Spight
                 of
                 her
                 Pride
                 ,
                 that
                 fatal
                 truth
                 shall
                 own
                 .
              
               
                 Despis'd
                 my self
                 ,
                 let
                 no
                 sad
                 Swain
                 despair
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 Virgins
                 are
                 not
                 ,
                 like
                 Amasia
                 ,
                 fair
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 feels
                 an
                 other
                 Youth
                 those
                 pangs
                 I
                 bear
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 Love
                 too
                 feircly
                 ,
                 Love
                 to
                 such
                 excess
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 can't
                 even
                 wish
                 my
                 raging
                 Passion
                 less
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 feirce
                 those
                 Fires
                 ,
                 which
                 ravage
                 all
                 my
                 Breast
              
               
                 I
                 should
                 run
                 mad
                 ,
                 should
                 I
                 at
                 last
                 be
                 blest
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 lose
                 Amasia
                 most
                 when
                 most
                 possest
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 happier
                 you
                 wou'd
                 more
                 successful
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 not
                 !
                 no
                 ,
                 never
                 fondly
                 doat
                 like
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 Like
                 friendly
                 Sea-marks
                 ,
                 warning
                 from
                 the
                 Coast
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 stand
                 ,
                 to
                 shew
                 you
                 where
                 my self
                 was
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 Observe
                 my
                 precepts
                 ,
                 fill
                 you
                 bosom'd
                 Sayls
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Steer
                 a
                 happy
                 course
                 with
                 prosp'rous
                 gales
                 .
              
               
               
                 In
                 Ovid's
                 Days
                 soft
                 Numbers
                 were
                 admir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Poetick
                 lays
                 the
                 Ravish't
                 Virgins
                 Fir'd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 wishing
                 Maids
                 by
                 tuneful
                 measures
                 mov'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Song
                 was
                 valu'd
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Poet
                 Lov'd
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 Sacred
                 Verse
                 no
                 more
                 it's
                 Charms
                 can
                 hold
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 Mercenary
                 grown
                 ,
                 is
                 sold
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 Danae
                 may
                 be
                 brib'd
                 with
                 Gold.
              
               
                 Iove
                 ,
                 deckt
                 in
                 all
                 the
                 Ensigns
                 of
                 his
                 Pow'r
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 full
                 Pride
                 of
                 God-head
                 ,
                 Storms
                 the
                 Tow'r
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 enters
                 only
                 in
                 his
                 Golden
                 Show'r
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 some
                 there
                 are
                 ,
                 sure
                 yet
                 some
                 Maids
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 gen'rous
                 Maids
                 ,
                 who
                 scorn
                 such
                 fordid
                 gain
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 then
                 these
                 Noble
                 ,
                 Gen'rous
                 Nymphs
                 you
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Write
                 in
                 soft
                 Verse
                 ,
                 in
                 Verse
                 reveal
                 your
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 Still
                 with
                 an
                 Air
                 of
                 Love
                 your
                 lines
                 must
                 rowl
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 in
                 your
                 Numbers
                 she
                 may
                 read
                 your
                 Soul.
              
               
               
                 If
                 you
                 attempt
                 in
                 Poesy
                 ,
                 write
                 well
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 's
                 curst
                 in
                 Verse
                 ,
                 whose
                 Genius
                 can't
                 excell
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 ,
                 tho'
                 my
                 flames
                 may
                 Daphnis
                 flames
                 surpass
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 am
                 not
                 I
                 inspir'd
                 ,
                 as
                 Daphnis
                 was
                 .
              
               
                 Daphnis
                 may
                 Sing
                 ,
                 none
                 can
                 like
                 Daphnis
                 Sing
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 all
                 his
                 Numbers
                 from
                 his
                 Passion
                 Spring
                 ;
              
               
                 His
                 softest
                 Muse
                 do's
                 in
                 soft
                 measures
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Muse
                 may
                 Soar
                 to
                 his
                 bright
                 
                 Delia's
                 Eyes
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 ,
                 Soars
                 the
                 Lark
                 ,
                 in
                 airey
                 measures
                 born
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 Sings
                 ,
                 when
                 Springing
                 from
                 the
                 smiling
                 Corn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 sweet
                 tuneful
                 ayres
                 salutes
                 the
                 Morn
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 Daphnis
                 self
                 ,
                 for
                 sweetest
                 strains
                 renown'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Even
                 Daphnis
                 self
                 was
                 not
                 by
                 Delia
                 Crown'd
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 first
                 ,
                 perhaps
                 ,
                 unread
                 your
                 Note
                 's
                 return'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Person
                 slighted
                 ,
                 and
                 your
                 Passion
                 scorn'd
                 .
              
               
                 Despair
                 not
                 yet
                 ,
                 thus
                 nicest
                 Maids
                 will
                 slight
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Write
                 again
                 ,
                 and
                 yet
                 again
                 still
                 Write
                 .
              
               
               
                 Now
                 more
                 ,
                 and
                 more
                 your
                 cruel
                 pangs
                 display
                 ,
              
               
                 Say
                 all
                 the
                 fondest
                 wishes
                 bid
                 you
                 say
                 .
              
               
                 Tell
                 her
                 those
                 Eyes
                 should
                 not
                 so
                 much
                 dispise
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 Flames
                 as
                 kindled
                 at
                 those
                 Charming
                 Eyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Device
                 .
              
               
                 SEnd
                 now
                 unseal'd
                 thy
                 Letter
                 to
                 her
                 hands
                 ,
              
               
                 Cupid
                 will
                 fly
                 ,
                 when
                 you
                 unloose
                 his
                 bands
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 secret
                 slight
                 your
                 am'rous
                 lines
                 convey
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 no
                 Servant
                 for
                 her
                 Answer
                 stay
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 will
                 ,
                 retir'd
                 ,
                 peruse
                 what
                 so
                 you
                 send
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 curiosity
                 shall
                 stand
                 your
                 friend
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 same
                 place
                 ,
                 where
                 she
                 was
                 so
                 betray'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Paper
                 's
                 thrown
                 by
                 the
                 regardless
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 Unnotic'd
                 left
                 ,
                 and
                 as
                 neglected
                 ,
                 lay'd
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 ,
                 for
                 some
                 time
                 ,
                 practice
                 with
                 subtle
                 skill
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 she
                 ,
                 unmarkt
                 ,
                 may
                 read
                 ,
                 be
                 sure
                 ,
                 she
                 will.
              
               
               
                 Let
                 a
                 fond
                 note
                 ,
                 thus
                 dropt
                 ,
                 at
                 length
                 declare
              
               
                 Your
                 pangs
                 are
                 known
                 to
                 the
                 ingrateful
                 fair
                 ,
              
               
                 Say
                 she
                 has
                 Read
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 must
                 now
                 despair
                 .
              
               
                 Tell
                 her
                 no
                 farther
                 shall
                 her
                 Slave
                 presume
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 only
                 beggs
                 she
                 will
                 pronounce
                 his
                 doom
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 next
                 she
                 's
                 seen
                 ,
                 the
                 Charmer's
                 Eyes
                 shall
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Whether
                 your
                 lines
                 have
                 been
                 perus'd
                 ,
                 or
                 no.
              
               
                 In
                 her
                 fair
                 Eyes
                 as
                 plain
                 her
                 thoughts
                 you
                 note
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 she
                 did
                 yours
                 ,
                 when
                 reading
                 what
                 you
                 wrote
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 Coyest
                 Nymphs
                 shall
                 such
                 Devices
                 shun
                 ;
              
               
                 Acontius
                 thus
                 the
                 fair
                 Cydippe
                 won
                 .
              
               
                 An
                 Apple
                 ,
                 blushing
                 like
                 her
                 Cheeks
                 ,
                 he
                 threw
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Golden
                 Vow
                 in
                 Golden
                 Letters
                 drew
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 hurl'd
                 it
                 rolling
                 in
                 the
                 Charmer's
                 view
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 tempting
                 Fruit
                 the
                 smiling
                 Virgin
                 bore
                 ,
              
               
                 Read
                 what
                 he
                 Writ
                 ,
                 and
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 Reading
                 ,
                 Swore
                 .
              
               
                 Too
                 late
                 the
                 am'rous
                 subtilty
                 descry'd
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 Vow'd
                 her self
                 the
                 Young
                 Acontius
                 Bride
                 .
              
               
               
                 With
                 like
                 success
                 may
                 you
                 deceive
                 the
                 Fair
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 fly
                 ,
                 like
                 Birds
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 well
                 painted
                 Snare
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 by
                 those
                 Rules
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 prescribe
                 you
                 ,
                 taught
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 may
                 perceive
                 them
                 willing
                 to
                 be
                 caught
                 .
              
               
                 Hov'ring
                 sometime
                 will
                 they
                 avoid
                 the
                 Gin
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 at
                 the
                 last
                 —
              
               
                 With
                 gentle
                 ,
                 modest
                 fluttrings
                 ,
                 venter
                 in
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 careless
                 Fair
                 seems
                 ,
                 as
                 at
                 first
                 ,
                 unmov'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Seems
                 not
                 to
                 think
                 how
                 tenderly
                 she
                 's
                 Lov'd
                 .
              
               
                 Or
                 frowns
                 perhaps
                 ,
                 exerts
                 her
                 cold
                 disdain
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Maids
                 are
                 Tyrants
                 ,
                 and
                 when
                 woo'd
                 ,
                 they
                 Reign
              
               
                 If
                 Proud
                 ,
                 she
                 Scorns
                 ,
                 then
                 has
                 she
                 read
                 your
                 Flames
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 flys
                 resenting
                 to
                 the
                 last
                 extreams
                 .
              
               
                 Despair
                 not
                 now
                 ,
                 yet
                 seem
                 as
                 you
                 despair'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 all
                 your
                 forces
                 for
                 the
                 Storm
                 prepar'd
                 .
              
               
                 Believe
                 me
                 Youth
                 ,
                 the
                 hardest
                 may
                 be
                 won
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Artist
                 gain'd
                 that
                 Maid
                 he
                 fram'd
                 of
                 Stone
                 .
              
               
               
                 What
                 she
                 resents
                 so
                 high
                 ,
                 she
                 most
                 desires
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Frosty
                 Woods
                 rage
                 ever
                 scorching
                 Fires
                 .
              
               
                 Aetna
                 ,
                 whose
                 Surface
                 is
                 eternal
                 Snow
                 ,
              
               
                 Do's
                 at
                 the
                 Heart
                 with
                 inward
                 burnings
                 glow
                 ;
              
               
                 Above
                 ,
                 all
                 coldness
                 ,
                 all
                 on
                 Fire
                 below
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 weakest
                 Virgins
                 still
                 their
                 prowess
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 tim'rous
                 Cowards
                 ever
                 bluster
                 most
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 false
                 show
                 a
                 while
                 maintain
                 the
                 Field
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 you
                 press
                 them
                 hard
                 ,
                 how
                 soon
                 they
                 yeild
                 ?
              
               
                 Soft
                 are
                 their
                 Breasts
                 ,
                 urge
                 your
                 addresses
                 oft
                 ,
              
               
                 Feell
                 then
                 ,
                 their
                 Souls
                 are
                 as
                 their
                 Bosoms
                 soft
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Indifference
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SHE
                   scorns
                   you
                   not
                   perhaps
                   ,
                   but
                   what
                   is
                   worse
                   ,
                
                 
                   Indiff'rent
                   seems
                   ;
                   Indiff'rence
                   is
                   a
                   curse
                   .
                
                 
                   Alas
                   !
                   her
                   loose
                   indiff'rence
                   can't
                   be
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   think
                   Indiff'rence
                   the
                   severest
                   scorn
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   She
                   thinks
                   so
                   too
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   she
                   fancies
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   Resolves
                   the
                   utmost
                   rigour
                   she
                   will
                   show
                   :
                
                 
                   Maids
                   thence
                   pretend
                   they
                   can
                   our
                   Passions
                   know
                   .
                
                 
                   Am
                   I
                   the
                   Mater
                   of
                   my
                   Art
                   believ'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   so
                   ,
                   most
                   certain
                   they
                   are
                   far
                   deceiv'd
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   as
                   their
                   tempers
                   in
                   the
                   Lovers
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   Some
                   disdain
                   haughty
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   disdain
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   tho'
                   unforc'd
                   would
                   follow
                   ,
                   break
                   their
                   chain
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   be
                   thy
                   humour
                   ,
                   or
                   if
                   that
                   's
                   too
                   much
                   ,
                
                 
                   Feign
                   it
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                   let
                   her
                   believe
                   it
                   such
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   she
                   has
                   seem'd
                   regardless
                   of
                   your
                   Pray'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   Seem
                   you
                   unthoughtful
                   of
                   the
                   feigning
                   fair
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   your
                   Companions
                   ,
                   as
                   you
                   pass
                   along
                   ,
                
                 
                   Smile
                   ,
                   be
                   all
                   Air
                   ,
                   tune
                   some
                   indiff'rent
                   Song
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thence
                   shall
                   she
                   Judge
                   your
                   Passion
                   now
                   not
                   strong
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   her
                   drawn
                   Window
                   you
                   by
                   chance
                   pass
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   Darting
                   that
                   way
                   let
                   her
                   not
                   mark
                   your
                   Eye
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   If
                   you
                   will
                   look
                   ,
                   cast
                   not
                   a
                   side-long
                   glance
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   seem
                   to
                   see
                   her
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   seen
                   by
                   chance
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   she
                   perceive
                   you
                   looking
                   stedfast
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Art
                   is
                   lost
                   ,
                   She
                   's
                   lost
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   undone
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   lasting
                   views
                   strait
                   will
                   the
                   Maid
                   remove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   are
                   the
                   practice
                   of
                   a
                   mutual
                   Love.
                
                 
                   As
                   you
                   pass
                   by
                   give
                   her
                   a
                   plain
                   salute
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   she
                   Sings
                   ,
                   touches
                   perhaps
                   her
                   Lute
                   .
                
                 
                   Pass
                   on
                   regardless
                   still
                   and
                   let
                   her
                   Sing
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   thy
                   Heart
                   shake
                   more
                   than
                   the
                   trembling
                   String
                
                 
                   Ah!
                   be
                   not
                   foolishly
                   bewitch'd
                   as
                   I
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   struggling
                   sight
                   would
                   at
                   her
                   Window
                   fly
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   shou'd
                   gaze
                   ,
                   tho'
                   for
                   that
                   gazing
                   dye
                   .
                
                 
                   Stop
                   not
                   to
                   hear
                   her
                   ayres
                   ,
                   too
                   dear
                   't
                   will
                   cost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strait
                   would
                   her
                   tunes
                   her
                   height'ned
                   triumphs
                   boast
                
                 
                   To
                   loftier
                   strains
                   would
                   her
                   soft
                   Musick
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   she
                   acts
                   the
                   Conquests
                   of
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Maid
                   insults
                   ,
                   the
                   Ravish'd
                   Lover
                   dyes
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Your
                   Flames
                   more
                   force
                   shall
                   from
                   such
                   ayres
                   assume
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   she
                   ,
                   as
                   Nero
                   once
                   ,
                   plays
                   o're
                   her
                   burning
                   Rome
                   .
                
                 
                   Stand
                   not
                   to
                   fight
                   ,
                   too
                   powerful
                   is
                   the
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Parthians
                   fly
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   may
                   Conquer
                   so
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   Parthians
                   fly
                   ,
                   but
                   flying
                   ,
                   seem
                   to
                   slight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dart
                   not
                   one
                   glance
                   in
                   the
                   deluding
                   flight
                   .
                
                 
                   Fondly
                   you
                   wish
                   to
                   know
                   the
                   Charmer's
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   fancy
                   now
                   her
                   glances
                   may
                   be
                   kind
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   dearly
                   long
                   to
                   cast
                   one
                   glimpse
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   Orpheus
                   ,
                   when
                   climbing
                   from
                   the
                   Stygian
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Look'd
                   but
                   once
                   back
                   ;
                   what
                   blessings
                   could
                   he
                   boast
                   ?
                
                 
                   He
                   lost
                   Eurydice
                   ,
                   for
                   ever
                   lost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lost
                   by
                   one
                   look
                   ,
                   so
                   dear
                   ,
                   so
                   lov'd
                   a
                   prize
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lost
                   what
                   he
                   valu'd
                   far
                   beyond
                   his
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Beyond
                   those
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   which
                   hated
                   thence
                   the
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Preferring
                   rather
                   her
                   Eternal
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   That
                   fatal
                   loss
                   he
                   did
                   for
                   ever
                   mourn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   would
                   again
                   to
                   Stygian
                   shades
                   return
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Could
                   he
                   once
                   more
                   receive
                   the
                   lovely
                   prize
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   would
                   ,
                   in
                   change
                   ,
                   part
                   with
                   his
                   fatal
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   Orpheus
                   fate
                   thy
                   happy
                   warning
                   be
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   Love
                   is
                   blindest
                   which
                   would
                   always
                   see
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   the
                   restraint
                   be
                   such
                   you
                   cannot
                   brook
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   you
                   will
                   venture
                   yet
                   to
                   steal
                   a
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   mark
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   and
                   gather
                   thence
                   her
                   flames
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   there
                   I
                   know
                   your
                   pointed
                   fancy
                   aims
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   looser
                   Glove
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   unnotic'd
                   ,
                   drop
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   turn
                   in
                   hast
                   ,
                   glance
                   quick
                   ,
                   and
                   take
                   it
                   up
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   now
                   you
                   find
                   her
                   from
                   the
                   Window
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ten
                   thousand
                   anxious
                   doubts
                   come
                   rolling
                   on
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   is
                   it
                   best
                   you
                   should
                   from
                   looks
                   forbear
                
                 
                   All
                   cannot
                   dive
                   into
                   the
                   subtle
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   Fire
                   ,
                   now
                   Ice
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   again
                   She
                   's
                   Air.
                
                 
                   In
                   all
                   their
                   Breasts
                   Agues
                   and
                   Fevers
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   fixt
                   ,
                   now
                   fickle
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   fixt
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   all
                   o're
                   fondness
                   ,
                   now
                   all
                   o're
                   disdain
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   none
                   success
                   from
                   feign'd
                   indiff'rence
                   doubt
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   little
                   time
                   will
                   turn
                   the
                   Wheel
                   about
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Scene
                   will
                   shift
                   ,
                   Poyson
                   drive
                   Poyson
                   out
                   .
                
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   now
                   you
                   Fly
                   ,
                   yet
                   shall
                   you
                   Conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Near
                   her
                   aboad
                   watch
                   in
                   some
                   secret
                   Street
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   as
                   by
                   chance
                   ,
                   the
                   passing
                   Virgin
                   meet
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Ceremonial
                   Complements
                   salute
                   ,
                
                 
                   Stand
                   not
                   to
                   talk
                   ,
                   to
                   argue
                   or
                   dispute
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   as
                   your
                   waving
                   Hat
                   salutes
                   her
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   she
                   looks
                   smiling
                   on
                   you
                   ,
                   smiling
                   bow
                   .
                
                 
                   Those
                   smiles
                   she
                   gives
                   ,
                   the
                   Maid
                   ,
                   as
                   Envoys
                   ,
                   sends
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   be
                   assur'd
                   ,
                   you
                   are
                   at
                   last
                   grown
                   friends
                   .
                
                 
                   Write
                   then
                   again
                   ,
                   again
                   your
                   Suit
                   renew
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Maids
                   expect
                   Men
                   should
                   for
                   ever
                   Wooe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Even
                   those
                   ,
                   I
                   know
                   ,
                   who
                   most
                   deny
                   us
                   ,
                   do
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   what
                   Flames
                   rage
                   in
                   your
                   burning
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   your
                   Passion
                   cannot
                   be
                   express't
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   what
                   she
                   reads
                   ,
                   say
                   she
                   may
                   Judge
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   Beg
                   but
                   one
                   Visit
                   ,
                   that
                   you
                   so
                   may
                   show
                
                 
                   Your
                   real
                   Passion
                   ,
                   she
                   believe
                   it
                   so
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   Letters
                   Read
                   ,
                   no
                   answer
                   she
                   returns
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   Smiles
                   ,
                   perhaps
                   ,
                   and
                   crys
                   ,
                   poor
                   Youth
                   !
                   he
                   burns
                   ▪
                
                 
                   Laughs
                   with
                   her
                   Maids
                   ,
                   and
                   plays
                   upon
                   your
                   Stile
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   in
                   complyance
                   too
                   the
                   Maids
                   shall
                   Smile
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   matter
                   ,
                   you
                   ,
                   who
                   raise
                   her
                   Mirth
                   so
                   fast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   have
                   the
                   Power
                   to
                   raise
                   her
                   Tears
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Mistress
                   Reads
                   ;
                   the
                   Maids
                   attentive
                   wait
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   grand
                   affair
                   some
                   little
                   time
                   debate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   cry
                   —
                   but
                   Madam
                   ,
                   has
                   he
                   an
                   Estate
                   ?
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Gold.
                 
              
               
                 
                   CUrse
                   on
                   your
                   Hellish
                   Tongues
                   ,
                   ye
                   impious
                   hence
                   ▪
                
                 
                   The
                   Youth
                   has
                   Love
                   ,
                   the
                   Youth
                   has
                   wit
                   and
                   Sense
                   .
                
                 
                   Constant
                   in
                   Truth
                   ,
                   and
                   moving
                   in
                   Address
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   shall
                   this
                   Lover
                   be
                   deny'd
                   Access
                   ?
                
                 
                   It
                   will
                   be
                   so
                   .
                   —
                   This
                   fatal
                   Maxim
                   hold
                   ;
                
                 
                   Fleering
                   Attendants
                   must
                   be
                   brib'd
                   with
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   What
                   can't
                   the
                   Maid
                   that
                   's
                   voluble
                   of
                   Tongue
                   ?
                
                 
                   False
                   ,
                   she
                   shows
                   true
                   ,
                   and
                   right
                   she
                   renders
                   wrong
                   ▪
                
                 
                   For
                   shame
                   ,
                   ye
                   Brittish
                   Maids
                   !
                   your
                   Thrones
                   maintain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Reign
                   all
                   your selves
                   ;
                   for
                   thus
                   your
                   Servants
                   Reign
                   .
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   ways
                   too
                   Thorny
                   do's
                   that
                   Swain
                   pursue
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   serves
                   the
                   Mistress
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Servants
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   All
                   have
                   not
                   Gold
                   ,
                   by
                   which
                   the
                   Sex
                   is
                   won
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   I
                   'm
                   sure
                   that
                   I
                   my self
                   have
                   none
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Beauty
                   do's
                   a
                   sordid
                   Traffick
                   hold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sordid
                   indeed
                   ,
                   tho'
                   thus
                   it
                   deals
                   in
                   Gold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   Love
                   ,
                   more
                   pretious
                   Love
                   ,
                   is
                   bought
                   ,
                   and
                   sold.
                
                 
                   How
                   shall
                   I
                   heal
                   ,
                   poor
                   Swain
                   !
                   these
                   fatal
                   woes
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   Love
                   and
                   Poverty
                   are
                   mortal
                   Foes
                   .
                
                 
                   Curse
                   on
                   those
                   Sulph'rous
                   Mines
                   which
                   feed
                   the
                   Oare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Curse
                   on
                   those
                   Misers
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   which
                   sed
                   it
                   more
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gave
                   it
                   first
                   that
                   value
                   ,
                   which
                   it
                   bore
                   .
                
                 
                   Want's
                   a
                   Disease
                   for
                   which
                   I
                   know
                   no
                   Cure
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   Swains
                   will
                   still
                   be
                   slighted
                   ,
                   who
                   are
                   poor
                   .
                
                 
                   Fond
                   expectation
                   may
                   the
                   Maids
                   deceive
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   ,
                   your
                   Passion
                   may
                   on
                   promise
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   Promise
                   hower
                   '
                   tho'
                   you
                   want
                   Gold
                   to
                   give
                   .
                
                 
                   Nought
                   should
                   to
                   needy
                   Lovers
                   seem
                   to
                   hard
                   ,
                
                 
                   Promise
                   vast
                   Golden
                   Mountains
                   for
                   reward
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   you
                   request
                   ,
                   if
                   they
                   believe
                   ,
                   they
                   grant
                   ,
                
                 
                   Never
                   ,
                   no
                   never
                   let
                   them
                   know
                   your
                   want
                   .
                
                 
                   Their
                   expectation
                   then
                   their
                   Aid
                   excites
                   ;
                
                 
                   Aloud
                   the
                   Lady
                   reads
                   your
                   am'rous
                   flights
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   Maids
                   cry
                   ,
                   —
                   how
                   prettily
                   he
                   Writes
                   !
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   you
                   still
                   are
                   giving
                   ,
                   much
                   have
                   given
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   stretch
                   your
                   Bounty
                   and
                   your
                   Praise
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   .
                
                 
                   Brave
                   ,
                   Handsom
                   ,
                   Great
                   ,
                   they
                   term
                   the
                   Youth
                   that
                   's
                   free
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   brib'd
                   with
                   Gold
                   ,
                   they
                   would
                   extoll
                   ev'n
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Inspiring
                   Phaebus
                   !
                   Let
                   some
                   Cause
                   be
                   told
                   ,
                
                 
                   Why
                   thy
                   Beams
                   make
                   not
                   for
                   thy
                   off-spring
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Falsely
                   attribute
                   we
                   thy
                   guilded
                   praise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gold
                   is
                   not
                   sure
                   the
                   Product
                   of
                   thy
                   Rays
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   Gold
                   be
                   thine
                   ,
                   thy
                   Sons
                   are
                   Minors
                   still
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   ,
                   severest
                   Parent
                   !
                   Use
                   them
                   ill
                   .
                
                 
                   Hence
                   with
                   thy
                   ill
                   fam'd
                   Laurel's
                   useless
                   Tree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Its
                   spreading
                   Branches
                   bear
                   no
                   Fruits
                   for
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Too
                   plain
                   its
                   fatal
                   barrenness
                   is
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   It
                   never
                   blossoms
                   ,
                   tho'
                   't
                   is
                   ever
                   Green.
                
                 
                   Wrire
                   yet
                   again
                   ,
                   fond
                   Youth
                   !
                   and
                   by
                   the
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   the
                   soft
                   ,
                   secret
                   Letter
                   be
                   convey'd
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   guilded
                   edges
                   let
                   thy
                   Note
                   be
                   lac't
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   fit
                   thou
                   give
                   her
                   all
                   the
                   Gold
                   thou
                   hast
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Maid's
                   assistance
                   in
                   kind
                   words
                   implore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gain
                   her
                   ,
                   She
                   soon
                   shall
                   gain
                   your
                   Mistress
                   more
                
                 
                   By
                   that
                   Epistle
                   ,
                   than
                   by
                   all
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   shall
                   She
                   practice
                   all
                   her
                   closest
                   Wiles
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   meets
                   the
                   smiling
                   Charmer
                   ,
                   then
                   She
                   smiles
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Maid
                   commends
                   each
                   flourish
                   of
                   your
                   Pen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Vows
                   't
                   is
                   the
                   prettiest
                   Letter
                   She
                   has
                   seen
                   .
                
                 
                   Intreats
                   an
                   Answer
                   from
                   the
                   gentler
                   Fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Again
                   intreats
                   ,
                   renews
                   again
                   her
                   pray'r
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   crys
                   ,
                   how
                   can
                   you
                   let
                   the
                   Youth
                   despair
                   ?
                
                 
                   In
                   all
                   his
                   Lines
                   such
                   melting
                   Accents
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Madam
                   ,
                   I
                   'm
                   sure
                   he
                   does
                   sincerely
                   love
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Write
                   ,
                   tho'
                   your
                   Letter
                   bear
                   the
                   hardest
                   strain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bid
                   him
                   desist
                   ,
                   tell
                   him
                   his
                   Suit
                   is
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Better
                   to
                   kill
                   ,
                   than
                   let
                   him
                   live
                   in
                   pain
                   .
                
                 
                   Charge
                   him
                   ,
                   command
                   him
                   ,
                   give
                   his
                   Passion
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   Command
                   the
                   dying
                   Youth
                   to
                   love
                   no
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   She
                   Writes
                   ,
                   but
                   that
                   's
                   a
                   large
                   advance
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   trusts
                   her
                   Pen
                   ,
                   leanes
                   on
                   a
                   yielding
                   Lance.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   Skill
                   .
                
                 
                   Lye
                   now
                   in
                   Ambush
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   Conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Waiting
                   not
                   far
                   the
                   trembling
                   Lover
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Receives
                   the
                   Letter
                   from
                   the
                   Servants
                   hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seems
                   Distracted
                   at
                   the
                   hard
                   Commands
                   .
                
                 
                   Disturb
                   not
                   ,
                   Youth
                   !
                   Your
                   anxious
                   bosom
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   She
                   would
                   have
                   you
                   come
                   ,
                   who
                   bids
                   you
                   go
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Passion
                 .
              
               
                 KISS
                 the
                 dear
                 Seal
                 ,
                 lean
                 in
                 a
                 pensive
                 mood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 softly
                 say
                 ,
                 scarce
                 to
                 be
                 understood
                 ,
              
               
                 Tell
                 me
                 —
                 Ah!
                 Tell
                 me
                 ,
                 are
                 your
                 Tydings
                 good
                 .
              
               
                 Wait
                 not
                 ,
                 expecting
                 what
                 the
                 Maid
                 replys
                 ,
              
               
                 Just
                 look
                 with
                 languishing
                 ,
                 with
                 watry
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Breath
                 some
                 soft
                 Accents
                 ,
                 some
                 abortive
                 Sighs
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 cry
                 with
                 shiv'ring
                 starts
                 ,
                 as
                 in
                 some
                 Fit
                 ,
              
               
                 Ah!
                 Are
                 you
                 sure
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 She
                 her self
                 has
                 Writ
                 ?
              
               
                 Haste
                 ,
                 break
                 the
                 Seal
                 ,
                 with
                 doubtful
                 Joy
                 peruse
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 seem
                 distracted
                 at
                 the
                 dismal
                 News
                 .
              
               
                 See
                 her
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 !
                 —
                 What
                 Man
                 the
                 Thought
                 can
                 bear
                 ?
              
               
                 Rave
                 ,
                 and
                 grow
                 mad
                 ,
                 tear
                 your
                 disorder'd
                 Hair
                 ,
              
               
                 Tear
                 the
                 dear
                 Note
                 ,
                 and
                 toss
                 it
                 to
                 the
                 Air.
              
               
                 Into
                 a
                 thousand
                 Pieces
                 be
                 it
                 torn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 the
                 Ground
                 its
                 trampled
                 Ruines
                 spurn
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 while
                 you
                 Rage
                 ,
                 the
                 Maid
                 will
                 needs
                 be
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 ,
                 let
                 gentle
                 Calmness
                 be
                 Put
                 on
                 .
              
               
                 Stay
                 her
                 a
                 while
                 ,
                 pick
                 the
                 dear
                 Papers
                 up
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 her
                 Hand
                 prevailing
                 Guineas
                 drop
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 is
                 the
                 Time
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 have
                 Gold
                 ,
                 to
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Vow
                 ,
                 if
                 scorn'd
                 again
                 ,
                 you
                 will
                 not
                 live
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 simp'ring
                 Maid
                 gives
                 all
                 the
                 hopes
                 She
                 can
                 ,
              
               
                 Crys
                 ,
                 —
                 be
                 not
                 so
                 dejected
                 ,
                 play
                 the
                 Man.
              
               
                 Protests
                 She
                 will
                 her
                 utmost
                 Pow'rs
                 exert
                 ,
              
               
                 Use
                 all
                 endeavours
                 ,
                 practice
                 every
                 Art
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 raise
                 soft
                 Love
                 in
                 the
                 obdurate
                 Heart
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 a
                 short
                 time
                 ,
                 the
                 kind
                 ,
                 industrious
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 Instructs
                 you
                 how
                 a
                 Visit
                 may
                 be
                 paid
                 .
              
               
                 Tells
                 you
                 the
                 Fair
                 will
                 condescend
                 to
                 hear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 know
                 the
                 utmost
                 meaning
                 of
                 your
                 Pray'r
                 .
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 ,
                 informs
                 you
                 only
                 of
                 some
                 Walk
                 ,
              
               
                 Crys
                 ,
                 —
                 meet
                 her
                 there
                 ,
                 there
                 may
                 you
                 freely
                 talk
                 .
              
               
               
                 Courage
                 ,
                 young
                 Hero
                 !
                 Towns
                 will
                 quickly
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 once
                 they
                 Treat
                 with
                 the
                 beseiging
                 Field
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Address
                 .
              
               
                 
                   LET
                   your
                   Address
                   the
                   humblest
                   boldness
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   gain
                   your
                   Conquests
                   ,
                   and
                   maintain
                   them
                   so
                   .
                
                 
                   Breath
                   at
                   her
                   Feet
                   the
                   Triumphs
                   of
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Love
                   stoops
                   lowest
                   ,
                   which
                   sublimest
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sweet
                   is
                   the
                   sound
                   ,
                   when
                   she
                   shall
                   bid
                   you
                   rise
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   eager
                   shiv'rings
                   let
                   her
                   Hands
                   be
                   prest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Enervate
                   force
                   speaks
                   the
                   sond
                   Soul
                   the
                   best
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   words
                   urge
                   all
                   you
                   can
                   ,
                   and
                   Murmurs
                   breath
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   your
                   fond
                   Eyes
                   let
                   hasty
                   glances
                   rowl
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   troubled
                   notions
                   from
                   the
                   Poet's
                   Soul.
                
                 
                   The
                   speaking
                   Eyes
                   the
                   fondest
                   thoughts
                   declare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Charm'd
                   by
                   her
                   looks
                   ,
                   yours
                   must
                   all
                   sweetness
                   wear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Visage
                   guilded
                   with
                   a
                   smiling
                   air
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Pressing
                   her
                   Hands
                   ,
                   while
                   you
                   approach
                   more
                   nigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   backward
                   leans
                   ,
                   disdainful
                   ,
                   coyly
                   shy
                   .
                
                 
                   Forbear
                   ,
                   she
                   crys
                   ,
                   what
                   mean
                   you
                   ,
                   Sir
                   ,
                   forbear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Obey
                   her
                   now
                   ,
                   but
                   now
                   bend
                   yet
                   more
                   near
                   .
                
                 
                   Love
                   is
                   a
                   Theft
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   must
                   softly
                   Steal
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obtain
                   the
                   favour
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   conceal
                   .
                
                 
                   Whate'r
                   advances
                   in
                   your
                   Suit
                   are
                   got
                   ,
                
                 
                   Seem
                   as
                   if
                   you
                   your self
                   perceiv'd
                   them
                   not
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   fondest
                   Lovers
                   such
                   devices
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   it
                   grows
                   Love
                   is
                   reputed
                   blind
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   may
                   your
                   Hands
                   glide
                   gently
                   to
                   her
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   may
                   those
                   swelling
                   softnesses
                   be
                   prest
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   by
                   kind
                   art
                   thou
                   on
                   Love's
                   Thrones
                   shal't
                   Reign
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   if
                   you
                   can't
                   your
                   Conquests
                   still
                   maintain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Back
                   let
                   your
                   Hands
                   softly
                   be
                   drawn
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   Again
                   approach
                   within
                   a
                   little
                   while
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   Sky
                   which
                   thunders
                   now
                   ,
                   e're
                   long
                   will
                   smile
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   favours
                   flow
                   not
                   from
                   first
                   Visits
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   soft
                   rewards
                   of
                   long
                   addresses
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Sometimes
                   ,
                   the
                   fair
                   puts
                   on
                   a
                   clowded
                   Brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   but
                   late
                   was
                   granted
                   ,
                   is
                   not
                   now
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Charming
                   Sex
                   ,
                   still
                   on
                   new
                   tryals
                   bent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shew
                   that
                   their
                   favours
                   are
                   not
                   given
                   ,
                   but
                   lent
                   .
                
                 
                   Humour
                   her
                   present
                   Coyness
                   ,
                   seem
                   reserv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Maids
                   must
                   sometimes
                   by
                   your
                   neglect
                   be
                   serv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Feed
                   their
                   disdain
                   ,
                   tho'
                   their
                   desires
                   be
                   starv'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   sondly
                   gaze
                   ,
                   as
                   her
                   heav'd
                   Bosom
                   pants
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   press
                   that
                   breast
                   ,
                   which
                   your
                   soft
                   presses
                   wants
                   ,
                
                 
                   Against
                   her
                   will
                   ,
                   what
                   pleases
                   her
                   ,
                   she
                   grants
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   struggling
                   hands
                   let
                   the
                   dear
                   Charm
                   be
                   prest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   your
                   Heart
                   dwells
                   in
                   her
                   panting
                   Breast
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   saint
                   Essays
                   she
                   makes
                   ,
                   lays
                   soft
                   Commands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gently
                   strives
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   the
                   gentlest
                   hands
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   short
                   efforts
                   she
                   makes
                   are
                   never
                   strong
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Eyes
                   entreat
                   you
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   melting
                   Tongue
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   all
                   their
                   soft
                   entreaties
                   last
                   not
                   long
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   To
                   her
                   own
                   Breasts
                   her
                   wand'ring
                   Hands
                   repair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   when
                   you
                   feel
                   ,
                   receive
                   ,
                   and
                   press
                   them
                   there
                   ;
                
                 
                   Forbear
                   she
                   crys
                   ,
                   but
                   hopes
                   you
                   won't
                   forbear
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   tender
                   Hands
                   remove
                   not
                   yours
                   ,
                   but
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   Alas
                   !
                   neglected
                   in
                   her
                   lap
                   they
                   lay
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   do's
                   her
                   Breast
                   her
                   Charming
                   Hand
                   receive
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   to
                   touch
                   yours
                   ,
                   which
                   such
                   endearings
                   give
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   not
                   her
                   Snowy
                   Fingers
                   now
                   be
                   blam'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   They
                   would
                   press
                   too
                   ,
                   but
                   that
                   she
                   's
                   yet
                   asham'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   your
                   each
                   touch
                   ,
                   soft
                   wishing
                   thoughts
                   impart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   Hand
                   runs
                   thro'
                   her
                   to
                   the
                   very
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Much
                   tho'
                   they
                   please
                   ,
                   they
                   must
                   at
                   last
                   remove
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   teach
                   not
                   still
                   the
                   same
                   continu'd
                   Love.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   Fight
                   ,
                   now
                   Fly
                   ,
                   so
                   shall
                   you
                   Conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Earnest
                   resentments
                   now
                   she
                   seems
                   to
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   crys
                   you
                   hurt
                   her
                   ,
                   who
                   have
                   Charm'd
                   her
                   so
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   
                   
                   
                   
                   How
                   dares
                   your
                   Hand
                   into
                   her
                   Breast
                   intrude
                   ?
                
                 
                   Your
                   Love
                   's
                   ill
                   breeding
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Passion
                   rude
                   .
                
                 
                   Dissembling
                   fair
                   !
                   who
                   almost
                   sense
                   surpass
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   would
                   not
                   for
                   the
                   World
                   he
                   thought
                   it
                   was
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Submission
                 .
              
               
                 TRembling
                 attention
                 to
                 her
                 Anger
                 lend
                 ;
              
               
                 Own
                 the
                 offence
                 ,
                 you
                 may
                 again
                 offend
                 .
              
               
                 Whilst
                 under
                 soft
                 correction
                 Lovers
                 live
                 ,
              
               
                 Maids
                 feel
                 a
                 certain
                 Pride
                 ,
                 when
                 they
                 forgive
                 .
              
               
                 Seem
                 half
                 distracted
                 with
                 the
                 racking
                 guilt
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 feels
                 in
                 earnest
                 what
                 you
                 feigning
                 felt
                 .
              
               
                 Display
                 ,
                 in
                 all
                 your
                 troubled
                 homage
                 ,
                 pain
                 ,
              
               
                 Protest
                 sincere
                 in
                 this
                 repentant
                 strain
                 ,
              
               
                 Never
                 ,
                 no
                 ,
                 never
                 will
                 you
                 Sin
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 Keep
                 then
                 ,
                 she
                 crys
                 ,
                 what
                 you
                 have
                 vow'd
                 so
                 deep
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 seems
                 to
                 doubt
                 your
                 want
                 of
                 pow'r
                 to
                 keep
                 .
              
               
               
                 Crys
                 ,
                 with
                 the
                 sweetest
                 ,
                 most
                 deluding
                 skil
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 fears
                 you
                 will
                 not
                 ,
                 while
                 she
                 fears
                 you
                 will
                 ;
              
               
                 Admires
                 ,
                 to
                 what
                 new
                 freedom
                 you
                 presume
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wonders
                 whence
                 that
                 liberty
                 should
                 come
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 ,
                 like
                 some
                 Sentenc'd
                 Criminal
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 very
                 guilt
                 shall
                 bribe
                 the
                 Justice
                 here
                 .
              
               
                 Whilst
                 ,
                 thus
                 dejected
                 ,
                 you
                 forbear
                 to
                 touch
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 crys
                 ,
                 she
                 did
                 not
                 think
                 your
                 boldness
                 such
                 ;
              
               
                 Some
                 small
                 allowance
                 giv'n
                 ,
                 you
                 take
                 too
                 much
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sadness
                 .
              
               
                 THE
                 more
                 your
                 sad
                 Humility
                 is
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 more
                 ,
                 She
                 crys
                 ,
                 has
                 your
                 assurance
                 been
                 ▪
              
               
                 Sunk
                 in
                 offence
                 ,
                 whilst
                 thus
                 the
                 Lover
                 lyes
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 but
                 submits
                 ,
                 to
                 Conquer
                 ;
                 kneels
                 ,
                 to
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 pitys
                 now
                 your
                 Melancholly
                 air
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cannot
                 drive
                 you
                 to
                 so
                 deep
                 Despair
                 .
              
               
               
                 Grows
                 kinder
                 still
                 ,
                 since
                 the
                 soft
                 calm
                 began
                 ,
              
               
                 Calls
                 you
                 the
                 fondest
                 ,
                 —
                 most
                 desiring
                 Man
                 —
              
               
                 As
                 in
                 some
                 fit
                 ,
                 seem
                 fainting
                 to
                 the
                 ground
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sigh
                 ,
                 as
                 tortur'd
                 with
                 some
                 inward
                 wound
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 your
                 sad
                 mood
                 ,
                 whatever
                 arts
                 it
                 cost
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 charms
                 you
                 now
                 ,
                 nor
                 shall
                 her
                 charms
                 be
                 lost
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Fear
                 .
              
               
                 NOW
                 she
                 permits
                 ,
                 now
                 may
                 your
                 hands
                 ascend
                 ,
              
               
                 Seem
                 you
                 yet
                 doubtful
                 ,
                 least
                 you
                 yet
                 offend
                 .
              
               
                 Half
                 heav'd
                 to
                 rise
                 ,
                 let
                 them
                 again
                 fall
                 down
                 ;
              
               
                 This
                 shall
                 your
                 utmost
                 ,
                 softest
                 wishes
                 crown
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 hands
                 her
                 own
                 shall
                 to
                 those
                 seats
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 which
                 so
                 late
                 they
                 were
                 repulst
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 seems
                 Possession
                 of
                 the
                 Charmer
                 giv'n
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 fault
                 's
                 thine
                 ,
                 if
                 thou
                 wilt
                 thence
                 be
                 driv'n
                 .
              
               
                 Blest
                 in
                 these
                 blooming
                 ,
                 flow'ry
                 Gardens
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Senses
                 shall
                 grow
                 ravisht
                 with
                 the
                 smell
                 .
              
               
               
                 Her
                 Bosom
                 will
                 a
                 scent
                 more
                 grateful
                 yeild
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 Roses
                 glowing
                 in
                 the
                 blushing
                 Feild
                 .
              
               
                 Ah!
                 do
                 not
                 now
                 this
                 kindest
                 Charm
                 abuse
                 ,
              
               
                 Desire
                 not
                 fruits
                 forbidden
                 by
                 the
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 Longing
                 for
                 those
                 ,
                 this
                 Paradise
                 you
                 lose
                 .
              
               
                 Breath
                 am'rous
                 murmurs
                 there
                 ,
                 breath
                 tender
                 sighs
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kiss
                 her
                 Breasts
                 ,
                 as
                 you
                 perceive
                 them
                 rise
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Fondness
                 .
              
               
                 
                   PLay
                   with
                   thy
                   Fingers
                   twining
                   in
                   her
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   every
                   curl
                   Cupid
                   has
                   pitch't
                   his
                   snare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thy
                   fondness
                   ,
                   dallying
                   in
                   such
                   wiles
                   ,
                   shall
                   shew
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   well
                   pleas'd
                   Virgin
                   more
                   insnar'd
                   than
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Clasp
                   now
                   her
                   Wast
                   ,
                   clasp
                   fast
                   the
                   slender
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Close
                   to
                   her
                   glowing
                   Cheek
                   let
                   yours
                   be
                   lay'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Speak
                   now
                   in
                   whispers
                   ,
                   tho'
                   no
                   Soul
                   be
                   nigh
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sigh
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   hear
                   the
                   yeilding
                   Maid
                   shall
                   sigh
                   ▪
                
                 
                 
                   Ask
                   from
                   what
                   Cause
                   that
                   tender
                   sigh
                   could
                   flow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Strait
                   ,
                   the
                   Effect
                   the
                   charming
                   Cause
                   shall
                   show
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   sighs
                   again
                   ,
                   and
                   crys
                   she
                   does
                   not
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   a
                   soft
                   Tone
                   pursue
                   your
                   soft
                   Addrefs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Play
                   with
                   her
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   dear
                   Fingers
                   press
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seem
                   disturb'd
                   you
                   can't
                   her
                   Sorrows
                   guess
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   sighs
                   ,
                   she
                   says
                   ,
                   no
                   known
                   Afflictions
                   move
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Cause
                   not
                   Grief
                   ,
                   victorious
                   Youth
                   !
                   't
                   is
                   Love.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   Skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yield
                   more
                   and
                   more
                   ,
                   so
                   shall
                   you
                   conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   wishing
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   cry
                   ,
                   can
                   it
                   ,
                   can
                   it
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   those
                   dear
                   sighs
                   in
                   pity
                   rose
                   for
                   me
                   ?
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Modesty
                 .
              
               
                 NOw
                 ,
                 in
                 her
                 Cheeks
                 spreads
                 the
                 soft
                 ,
                 bashful
                 Blush
                 ▪
              
               
                 And
                 mantling
                 Streams
                 in
                 modest
                 slushings
                 rush
                 .
              
               
                 Silent
                 she
                 sits
                 ,
                 with
                 down-cast
                 Eyes
                 a
                 while
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 knows
                 to
                 frown
                 ,
                 nor
                 does
                 she
                 know
                 to
                 smile
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 yeilding
                 Visage
                 now
                 appears
                 to
                 wear
              
               
                 A
                 Virgin
                 shame
                 mixt
                 with
                 a
                 thoughtful
                 Air.
              
               
                 Thus
                 look
                 you
                 too
                 ,
                 seem
                 bashful
                 ,
                 and
                 asham'd
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 the
                 Question
                 you
                 propos'd
                 ,
                 were
                 blam'd
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 shame-fac't
                 Air
                 ,
                 her
                 Mein
                 shall
                 then
                 express
              
               
                 Becomes
                 her
                 well
                 ,
                 nor
                 would
                 become
                 you
                 less
                 .
              
               
                 Think
                 it
                 not
                 strange
                 ,
                 Rules
                 for
                 your
                 looks
                 are
                 lay'd
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 change
                 of
                 Visage
                 charms
                 the
                 wishing
                 Maid
                 .
              
               
                 Link
                 her
                 fair
                 Fingers
                 in
                 the
                 gentlest
                 Bands
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 print
                 soft
                 Kisses
                 on
                 her
                 snowy
                 Hands
                 .
              
               
                 Still
                 between
                 whiles
                 renewing
                 your
                 Address
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 fondly
                 kiss
                 them
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 fondly
                 press
                 '
              
               
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 with
                 descending
                 Lips
                 the
                 Charm
                 maintain
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 rising
                 ,
                 raise
                 it
                 to
                 those
                 Lips
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 her
                 blew
                 Veins
                 let
                 rising
                 sighs
                 be
                 spread
                 ,
              
               
                 Fire
                 thus
                 the
                 Veins
                 of
                 the
                 desiring
                 Maid
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Desire
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   NOw
                   gazing
                   ,
                   fix
                   on
                   her's
                   your
                   wishing
                   Eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Look
                   longing
                   ,
                   languishing
                   with
                   fond
                   surprize
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   sighing
                   ,
                   seem
                   as
                   you
                   would
                   hide
                   your
                   sighs
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   with
                   a
                   trembling
                   fear
                   her
                   Lips
                   approach
                   ,
                
                 
                   Steal
                   to
                   her
                   balmy
                   Lips
                   ,
                   and
                   gently
                   touch
                   .
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   at
                   the
                   first
                   attempt
                   your
                   Aim
                   you
                   miss
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   snatch
                   the
                   pieces
                   of
                   the
                   broken
                   Kiss
                   .
                
                 
                   Rise
                   by
                   degrees
                   ,
                   till
                   the
                   first
                   fears
                   are
                   gone
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   rush
                   at
                   last
                   with
                   gentle
                   Transports
                   on
                   .
                
                 
                   Lean
                   on
                   her
                   Breasts
                   ;
                   thus
                   on
                   your
                   guard
                   beneath
                   ,
                
                 
                   Catch
                   every
                   breath
                   you
                   see
                   the
                   Charmer
                   breath
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Doubt
                   not
                   ,
                   such
                   fondness
                   will
                   the
                   Virgin
                   please
                   ;
                
                 
                   In
                   Ambush
                   lye
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   She
                   Salleys
                   ,
                   seize
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   in
                   warm
                   Raptures
                   rush
                   upon
                   the
                   Foe
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rush
                   on
                   that
                   fragrant
                   Breath
                   ,
                   which
                   Charms
                   thee
                   so
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   spread
                   long
                   Kisses
                   there
                   —
                
                 
                   Long
                   press
                   her
                   close
                   ,
                   and
                   scarce
                   at
                   last
                   let
                   go
                   .
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   thou
                   hast
                   snatch'd
                   a
                   thousand
                   from
                   her
                   Store
                   ,
                
                 
                   Spread
                   still
                   her
                   Cheeks
                   with
                   roving
                   Kisses
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   complain
                   ,
                   desirous
                   still
                   of
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Kiss
                   ,
                   tho'
                   your
                   Lips
                   with
                   their
                   long
                   kissing
                   smart
                   ,
                
                 
                   Seem
                   thus
                   dissatisfy'd
                   ,
                   and
                   bless
                   my
                   Art.
                
                 
                   Ye
                   tender
                   Maids
                   !
                   How
                   can
                   you
                   blame
                   my
                   Song
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   raise
                   your
                   Joys
                   ,
                   yet
                   not
                   your
                   Honours
                   wrong
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   fatal
                   Mischief
                   in
                   my
                   Art
                   is
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   hurt
                   not
                   much
                   ,
                   who
                   but
                   with
                   Kisses
                   wound
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   ,
                   Youth
                   ,
                   you
                   hear
                   the
                   injur'd
                   Nymph
                   complain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Those
                   Kisses
                   which
                   you
                   robb'd
                   ,
                   restore
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   By
                   me
                   no
                   wrong
                   to
                   the
                   soft
                   Sex
                   is
                   done
                   ,
                
                 
                   Return
                   an
                   Hundred
                   ,
                   tho'
                   you
                   snatch'd
                   but
                   one
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   there
                   be
                   any
                   Fair
                   my
                   Art
                   offends
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Art
                   ,
                   (
                   if
                   known
                   ,
                   )
                   shall
                   make
                   her
                   large
                   amends
                   .
                
                 
                   Love
                   is
                   a
                   Child
                   ,
                   that
                   Love
                   thy
                   Poet
                   sings
                
                 
                   Is
                   ever
                   born
                   on
                   in-offensive
                   Wings
                   .
                
                 
                   Cupid
                   ,
                   not
                   Venus
                   ,
                   shall
                   my
                   numbers
                   raise
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Infant
                   Cupid
                   hurts
                   not
                   ,
                   when
                   he
                   plays
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   happy
                   Youth
                   !
                   Thy
                   Tutor's
                   Art
                   confess
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   certain
                   Art
                   ,
                   which
                   can
                   thy
                   Wishes
                   bless
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   Skill
                
                 
                   Charge
                   not
                   too
                   far
                   ,
                   so
                   shall
                   you
                   conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Thus
                   far
                   advanc'd
                   in
                   the
                   endearing
                   strain
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   thou
                   may'st
                   yet
                   desire
                   ,
                   does
                   yet
                   remain
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   you
                   embrace
                   ,
                   to
                   be
                   embrac'd
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   Crown
                   me
                   with
                   Roses
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   Myrtles
                   Crown
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Charmer's
                   Heart
                   ,
                   her
                   Soul
                   shall
                   be
                   your
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   first
                   ,
                   before
                   to
                   this
                   request
                   you
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Urge
                   the
                   dear
                   Fair
                   ;
                   your
                   utmost
                   Arts
                   improve
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   you
                   have
                   heard
                   her
                   Breath
                   those
                   Words
                   —
                   I
                   love
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   now
                   ,
                   fond
                   Youth
                   !
                   As
                   I
                   prescribe
                   ,
                   you
                   do
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   shall
                   gain
                   Conquests
                   ,
                   and
                   maintain
                   them
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yes
                   ,
                   you
                   shall
                   triumph
                   ,
                   and
                   your
                   Spoils
                   grow
                   new
                   .
                
                 
                   Fonder
                   ,
                   and
                   fonder
                   let
                   your
                   Suit
                   be
                   mov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Convince
                   her
                   throughly
                   She
                   's
                   entirely
                   lov'd
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Zeal
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Precept
                 ,
                 yet
                 untaught
                 ,
                 I
                 teach
                 you
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 Vow
                 very
                 rarely
                 ,
                 but
                 then
                 warmly
                 Vow
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 who
                 swear
                 oft
                 ,
                 should
                 not
                 be
                 oft
                 believ'd
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 if
                 they
                 be
                 ,
                 the
                 Nymph
                 may
                 be
                 deceiv'd
                 .
              
               
                 Work
                 up
                 your
                 Passion
                 to
                 the
                 last
                 excess
                 ,
              
               
                 Great
                 as
                 it
                 is
                 ,
                 let
                 it
                 appear
                 not
                 less
                 .
              
               
               
                 Let
                 Love
                 on
                 all
                 its
                 Wings
                 ,
                 extended
                 ,
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 feel
                 ,
                 if
                 possible
                 ,
                 when
                 soar'd
                 so
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 Feel
                 all
                 you
                 Act
                 ,
                 almost
                 run
                 Mad
                 ,
                 and
                 dye
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 who
                 expects
                 the
                 Nymph
                 should
                 Crown
                 his
                 pains
                 .
              
               
                 Should
                 ,
                 for
                 the
                 time
                 ,
                 feel
                 every
                 Thing
                 he
                 feigns
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 on
                 the
                 Stage
                 the
                 purple
                 Emp'rour
                 stands
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 fancy'd
                 Throne
                 propt
                 by
                 applauding
                 Hands
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 rais'd
                 ,
                 imaginary
                 Worlds
                 he
                 sways
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thinks
                 himself
                 that
                 Monarch
                 which
                 he
                 Plays
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 him
                 the
                 Subject
                 Audience
                 fix
                 their
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 very
                 Poet
                 Credits
                 his
                 own
                 Lies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 Fair
                 weep
                 ,
                 when
                 with
                 false
                 Wounds
                 he
                 dyes
                 .
              
               
                 Be
                 bold
                 ,
                 and
                 but
                 believe
                 you
                 shall
                 excell
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 none
                 so
                 dull
                 ,
                 but
                 may
                 dissemble
                 well
                 .
              
               
                 Study
                 no
                 Form
                 ,
                 but
                 as
                 D
                 —
                 s
                 Pray
                 ,
              
               
                 Speak
                 with
                 warm
                 Zeal
                 ,
                 no
                 matter
                 what
                 you
                 say
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 can't
                 Dissemble
                 half
                 so
                 well
                 as
                 They.
              
               
               
                 If
                 you
                 complain
                 in
                 a
                 too
                 Charming
                 strain
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 may
                 delight
                 to
                 hear
                 you
                 still
                 complain
                 .
              
               
                 Still
                 let
                 your
                 Thoughts
                 imperfect
                 Accents
                 break
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 mingle
                 melting
                 Kisses
                 ,
                 as
                 you
                 speak
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 e'er
                 she
                 sighs
                 ,
                 her
                 rising
                 Breasts
                 observe
                 ,
              
               
                 Take
                 them
                 as
                 yours
                 ,
                 and
                 vow
                 how
                 true
                 you
                 serve
              
               
                 Soon
                 as
                 she
                 grants
                 some
                 favour
                 you
                 implore
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Words
                 and
                 Kisses
                 thank
                 her
                 o're
                 ,
                 and
                 o're
                 ;
              
               
                 One
                 favour
                 giv'n
                 ,
                 is
                 a
                 new
                 Grant
                 for
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 Pursue
                 her
                 close
                 ,
                 and
                 she
                 will
                 give
                 so
                 fast
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 she
                 shall
                 kindly
                 give
                 her self
                 at
                 last
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 your
                 Discourse
                 let
                 am'rous
                 reasonings
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 real
                 Passion
                 shall
                 your
                 Thoughts
                 improve
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Sense
                 shall
                 less
                 instruct
                 you
                 than
                 your
                 Love.
              
               
                 Reason
                 ,
                 she
                 crys
                 ,
                 no
                 such
                 request
                 demands
                 ;
              
               
                 Reason
                 avaunt
                 ;
                 —
                 urge
                 ,
                 these
                 are
                 Love's
                 commands
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 speaking
                 sigh
                 ,
                 and
                 press
                 more
                 close
                 her
                 hands
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 if
                 she
                 smiles
                 ,
                 that
                 smile
                 the
                 Grant
                 insures
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 all
                 my
                 Art
                 ,
                 
                   if
                   I
                   have
                   Art
                
                 ,
                 She
                 's
                 yours
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Sorrow
                 .
              
               
                 WEep
                 ,
                 if
                 thou
                 can'st
                 ,
                 or
                 if
                 thou
                 can'st
                 not
                 ,
                 feign
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Sun
                 shines
                 warmest
                 after
                 Show'rs
                 of
                 Rain
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 She
                 perceives
                 you
                 gaze
                 with
                 watry
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 thinks
                 those
                 dewy
                 Drops
                 from
                 Fires
                 arise
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 some
                 feign'd
                 Story
                 first
                 the
                 Maid
                 must
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 can't
                 believe
                 Tears
                 from
                 your
                 Eyes
                 can
                 flow
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 the
                 remembrance
                 in
                 her
                 Mind
                 shall
                 keep
                 :
              
               
                 You
                 saw
                 your
                 Mother
                 dye
                 ,
                 yet
                 could
                 not
                 weep
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 when
                 She
                 sees
                 you
                 weeping
                 at
                 each
                 Breath
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 thinks
                 Love's
                 pow'r
                 beyond
                 the
                 pow'r
                 of
                 Death
                 .
              
               
                 Strait
                 ,
                 the
                 kind
                 Nymph
                 in
                 your
                 fond
                 weakness
                 shares
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 there
                 's
                 a
                 soft
                 Infection
                 lodg'd
                 in
                 Tears
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 even
                 by
                 Tears
                 you
                 shall
                 the
                 Virgin
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Oyl
                 ,
                 such
                 Waters
                 make
                 Love's
                 flames
                 aspire
                 .
              
               
               
                 Tho'
                 you
                 weep
                 not
                 ,
                 for
                 Tears
                 uncertain
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 Bending
                 aside
                 ,
                 yet
                 seem
                 to
                 wipe
                 your
                 Eyes
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 is
                 the
                 time
                 your
                 Blessings
                 to
                 improve
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 is
                 the
                 time
                 for
                 happy
                 mutual
                 Love.
              
               
                 Urge
                 now
                 the
                 Fair
                 her
                 Passion
                 to
                 confess
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Eyes
                 speak
                 Love
                 ,
                 nor
                 let
                 her
                 Tongue
                 speak
                 less
                 .
              
               
                 Fond
                 ,
                 tender
                 Words
                 ,
                 soft
                 as
                 her
                 Tears
                 ,
                 shall
                 glide
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 ever
                 flows
                 in
                 Sorrow's
                 gentle
                 Tide
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Pity
                 .
              
               
                 PErhaps
                 ,
                 at
                 first
                 She
                 shall
                 kind
                 Pity
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cry
                 ,
                 you
                 cannot
                 think
                 She
                 's
                 perfect
                 Stone
                 ▪
              
               
                 If
                 once
                 She
                 Pities
                 ,
                 let
                 all
                 Fears
                 be
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 none
                 e're
                 pity'd
                 ,
                 but
                 She
                 lov'd
                 at
                 last
                 .
              
               
                 Pity
                 ,
                 Love's
                 gentle
                 Usher
                 ,
                 smooths
                 her
                 way
                 ;
              
               
                 Love
                 after
                 Pity
                 makes
                 no
                 long
                 delay
                 .
              
               
               
                 Now
                 are
                 all
                 Dangers
                 past
                 ,
                 all
                 Storms
                 blown
                 ore
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 bounding
                 Vessel
                 Gains
                 the
                 wisht-for
                 Shore
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 most
                 you
                 see
                 her
                 kindness
                 ,
                 most
                 seem
                 blind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 call
                 her
                 Cruel
                 ,
                 tho'
                 you
                 know
                 her
                 kind
                 .
              
               
                 Allmost
                 possest
                 ,
                 seem
                 wholly
                 to
                 Despair
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Visits
                 now
                 for
                 some
                 short
                 time
                 forbear
                 ;
              
               
                 Feigning
                 distracted
                 Doubts
                 ,
                 you
                 gain
                 the
                 Fair.
              
               
                 By
                 secret
                 Wiles
                 ,
                 seem
                 ,
                 as
                 your
                 Soul
                 were
                 mov'd
              
               
                 By
                 other
                 Charms
                 ;
                 as
                 you
                 some
                 other
                 lov'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Iealousie
                 .
              
               
                 
                   LOve
                   ,
                   like
                   Religion
                   ,
                   can
                   no
                   Rival
                   brook
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   this
                   Device
                   She
                   shall
                   be
                   fastest
                   took
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   only
                   waits
                   that
                   you
                   should
                   draw
                   the
                   Hook.
                
                 
                   Land
                   ,
                   spar'd
                   a
                   while
                   ,
                   returns
                   the
                   vaster
                   Gain
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   cleaving
                   Earth
                   ,
                   that
                   gapes
                   ,
                   and
                   thirsts
                   for
                   Rain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Drinks
                   greedier
                   deep
                   ,
                   when
                   Showers
                   fall
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   You
                   may
                   ,
                   you
                   must
                   ,
                   from
                   Visits
                   now
                   desist
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   shall
                   be
                   Charm'd
                   ,
                   when
                   charg'd
                   from
                   being
                   mist.
                
                 
                   Long
                   ,
                   long
                   Experience
                   this
                   great
                   Truth
                   assures
                   ,
                
                 
                   Believing
                   you
                   some
                   others
                   ,
                   She
                   grows
                   yours
                   .
                
                 
                   Money
                   ,
                   nor
                   Health
                   ,
                   we
                   value
                   ,
                   while
                   possest
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   once
                   lost
                   ,
                   oft
                   have
                   sad
                   Sighs
                   exprest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Could
                   we
                   again
                   obtain
                   ,
                   how
                   much
                   should
                   we
                   be
                   blest
                   !
                
                 
                   Thus
                   't
                   is
                   with
                   Love
                   ,
                   the
                   best
                   ,
                   the
                   dearest
                   Wealth
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   truest
                   Blessing
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   sweetest
                   Health
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   whilst
                   vain
                   coyness
                   in
                   the
                   Virgin
                   reigns
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   most
                   She
                   values
                   ,
                   She
                   the
                   most
                   disdains
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   will
                   the
                   peevish
                   Child
                   ,
                   that
                   Toy
                   despise
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   which
                   ,
                   when
                   once
                   hurl'd
                   crosly
                   down
                   ,
                   he
                   crys
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   go
                   off
                   Conquering
                   ,
                   so
                   to
                   Conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Absence
                 .
              
               
                 AS
                 I
                 must
                 teach
                 your
                 Presence
                 how
                 to
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 less
                 your
                 absence
                 does
                 my
                 Art
                 require
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 some
                 short
                 time
                 keep
                 wholy
                 from
                 her
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Write
                 not
                 in
                 hast
                 ,
                 tho'
                 you
                 at
                 last
                 may
                 Write
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 at
                 each
                 turn
                 cross
                 by
                 her
                 in
                 the
                 Street
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 every
                 Corner
                 the
                 dear
                 Charmer
                 meet
                 .
              
               
                 Before
                 her
                 move
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 behind
                 her
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 seem
                 ,
                 as
                 chance
                 ,
                 not
                 purpose
                 ,
                 led
                 your
                 Way
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 your
                 Eyes
                 languish
                 ,
                 your
                 Head
                 droop
                 ,
                 look
                 pale
                 ,
              
               
                 Seem
                 sickly
                 ,
                 She
                 may
                 ask
                 you
                 what
                 you
                 ail
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 no
                 true
                 Cause
                 of
                 your
                 feign'd
                 Sickness
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 Bow
                 ,
                 as
                 She
                 speaks
                 ,
                 and
                 Answer
                 you
                 are
                 Well
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 some
                 sad
                 Posture
                 ,
                 heavy
                 Sadness
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Say
                 you
                 are
                 Well
                 ,
                 or
                 hope
                 will
                 soon
                 be
                 so
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 She
                 without
                 this
                 Notice
                 passes
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 Salute
                 her
                 only
                 with
                 your
                 glancing
                 Eye
                 .
              
               
               
                 Let
                 no
                 weak
                 fondness
                 on
                 your
                 Soul
                 intrude
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 's
                 more
                 than
                 civil
                 ,
                 when
                 it
                 thus
                 seems
                 rude
                 .
              
               
                 Give
                 not
                 the
                 common
                 Complements
                 in
                 use
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 oft
                 sail
                 softly
                 by
                 the
                 Charmer's
                 House
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Pride
                 .
              
               
                 AS
                 you
                 pass
                 by
                 ,
                 perhaps
                 ,
                 She
                 laughs
                 aloud
                 ,
              
               
                 Seems
                 ,
                 of
                 those
                 Trophies
                 She
                 has
                 lost
                 ,
                 grown
                 proud
                 ;
              
               
                 Wave
                 you
                 your
                 hand
                 ,
                 your
                 neck
                 be
                 humbly
                 bow'd
                 .
              
               
                 False
                 are
                 those
                 Triumphs
                 ,
                 Fair
                 One
                 !
                 Which
                 you
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 cannot
                 slight
                 those
                 Conquests
                 you
                 have
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 I
                 direct
                 ,
                 salute
                 her
                 seeming
                 slight
                 ,
              
               
                 Appear
                 to
                 thank
                 her
                 for
                 her
                 fleering
                 Spight
                 .
              
               
                 Amongst
                 her
                 Maids
                 ,
                 might
                 the
                 true
                 Cause
                 be
                 guest
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 mov'd
                 her
                 laughter
                 was
                 some
                 trifling
                 Jest.
              
               
                 Whilst
                 She
                 jocosely
                 her
                 feign'd
                 Scorn
                 shall
                 shew
                 ,
              
               
                 Seem
                 to
                 conceive
                 She
                 made
                 the
                 Jest
                 at
                 you
                 .
              
               
               
                 Half
                 Mad
                 walk
                 on
                 ,
                 amend
                 your
                 tardy
                 pace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 you
                 turn
                 some
                 Corner
                 ,
                 turn
                 your
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 Give
                 a
                 short
                 scorning
                 glance
                 ,
                 but
                 stand
                 not
                 ,
                 do
                 not
                 gaze
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 shall
                 her
                 laughter
                 vex
                 the
                 Charmer
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 She
                 believes
                 it
                 anger'd
                 you
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 ,
                 past
                 from
                 sight
                 ,
                 She
                 and
                 her
                 Maids
                 a
                 while
                 ,
              
               
                 Again
                 shall
                 laugh
                 ,
                 and
                 at
                 that
                 Laughter
                 smile
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 let
                 their
                 Mirth
                 still
                 in
                 new
                 Thunders
                 rowl
                 ,
              
               
                 Inward
                 She
                 's
                 rack'd
                 ,
                 and
                 tortur'd
                 to
                 the
                 Soul.
              
               
                 I
                 know
                 thy
                 subtlest
                 Wiles
                 ,
                 deceitful
                 Fair
                 !
              
               
                 Nor
                 will
                 be
                 cheated
                 with
                 thy
                 guilded
                 Air.
              
               
                 Now
                 do'st
                 thou
                 Wish
                 his
                 Visits
                 were
                 renew'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wish
                 with
                 Pain
                 thou
                 might'st
                 again
                 be
                 woo'd
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 have
                 I
                 seen
                 the
                 sportive
                 Children
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 Pulling
                 some
                 Rope
                 with
                 their
                 enervate
                 Hand
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 their
                 Collected
                 little
                 Strength
                 they
                 try
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 draw
                 ,
                 and
                 strain
                 ;
                 but
                 if
                 you
                 Conquer
                 ,
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Let
                 fly
                 the
                 end
                 ,
                 they
                 smile
                 ,
                 and
                 are
                 in
                 pain
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 they
                 have
                 given
                 it
                 you
                 to
                 pull
                 again
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Coldness
                 .
              
               
                 
                   NOw
                   She
                   walks
                   oft
                   abroad
                   to
                   take
                   the
                   Air.
                
                 
                   Frequents
                   those
                   Groves
                   frequented
                   by
                   the
                   Fair
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Park
                   ,
                   the
                   Mall
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   sond
                   Sparks
                   repair
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   seen
                   at
                   distance
                   ,
                   known
                   ,
                   yet
                   still
                   She
                   asks
                   ,
                
                 
                   Crys
                   ,
                   is
                   that
                   he
                   ?
                   and
                   e're
                   She
                   's
                   answer'd
                   ,
                   masks
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   this
                   Device
                   ?
                   ye
                   subtile
                   masking
                   Fair
                   !
                
                 
                   Ye
                   best
                   dissemble
                   with
                   your
                   Faces
                   bare
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   double
                   Mask
                   is
                   too
                   ,
                   too
                   much
                   to
                   wear
                   .
                
                 
                   Why
                   must
                   those
                   Clouds
                   obscure
                   your
                   radiant
                   Eyes
                   ?
                
                 
                   From
                   such
                   Deformity
                   can
                   Beauty
                   rise
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   are
                   you
                   hid
                   ,
                   when
                   longing
                   to
                   be
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dare
                   you
                   not
                   Fight
                   without
                   your
                   Armour
                   on
                   ?
                
                 
                   As
                   you
                   pass
                   by
                   ,
                   the
                   subtile
                   Fair
                   shall
                   turn
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   hopes
                   you
                   know
                   her
                   noted
                   Garments
                   worn
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Seem
                   not
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                   let
                   no
                   Salute
                   be
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Rally
                   ,
                   mildly
                   sharp
                   ,
                   the
                   masking
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   ,
                   the
                   kind
                   Attendant
                   shall
                   display
                
                 
                   Her
                   waving
                   Handkerchief
                   ,
                   to
                   Court
                   your
                   stay
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   the
                   White
                   Flag
                   flies
                   waving
                   to
                   the
                   Field
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Warriour
                   knows
                   the
                   Charming
                   Fort
                   will
                   yield
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Maid
                   ,
                   perchance
                   ,
                   with
                   an
                   alluring
                   Grace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Grants
                   some
                   quick
                   Scetches
                   of
                   her
                   simpring
                   Face
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   her
                   spread
                   Fan
                   ,
                   held
                   cunningly
                   ,
                   is
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   very
                   Fan
                   you
                   had
                   so
                   lately
                   torn
                   .
                
                 
                   Becks
                   with
                   her
                   Hand
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   turns
                   short
                   ,
                   now
                   stands
                   ;
                
                 
                   Do
                   you
                   return
                   her
                   Beckons
                   with
                   your
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   Oft
                   She
                   allures
                   you
                   with
                   well-shifted
                   Scenes
                   ,
                
                 
                   While
                   you
                   still
                   seem
                   unknowing
                   what
                   She
                   means
                   .
                
                 
                   Beauty
                   's
                   a
                   Feast
                   ,
                   to
                   which
                   you
                   should
                   be
                   prest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Invited
                   oft
                   to
                   be
                   a
                   wellcome
                   Guest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   seems
                   to
                   shun
                   the
                   Blessing
                   ,
                   most
                   is
                   blest
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   who
                   of
                   each
                   Advantage
                   will
                   take
                   hold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fearful
                   appears
                   ,
                   Designing
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   bold
                   .
                
                 
                   Catching
                   at
                   all
                   ,
                   who
                   every
                   Scent
                   pursues
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shall
                   follow
                   Shadows
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Substance
                   lose
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   by
                   loose
                   Play
                   soft
                   Squires
                   are
                   soon
                   drawn
                   in
                   ,
                
                 
                   Gamesters
                   stand
                   ever
                   longest
                   out
                   ,
                   who
                   win
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   Skill
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   stand
                   off
                   Conquering
                   ,
                   so
                   to
                   Conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Reading
                   perhaps
                   in
                   the
                   obscurest
                   Grove
                
                 
                   The
                   Fair
                   One
                   sits
                   ,
                   some
                   Bock
                   that
                   treats
                   of
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Sylvius
                   ,
                   Numbers
                   may
                   perhaps
                   be
                   read
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   not
                   my self
                   ,
                   my
                   Verse
                   may
                   charm
                   the
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   folded
                   Arms
                   pass
                   Melancholly
                   by
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   softly
                   Murmur
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   softly
                   sigh
                   .
                
                 
                   Pass
                   back
                   again
                   ,
                   and
                   yet
                   again
                   return
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seem
                   the
                   loss
                   of
                   some
                   dear
                   Friend
                   to
                   Mourn
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   languid
                   Arms
                   cross
                   your
                   sad
                   Breast
                   be
                   thrown
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   press
                   her
                   Heart
                   ,
                   whilst
                   thus
                   you
                   press
                   
                     your
                     own
                  
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Enter
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                   made
                   by
                   your
                   Passion
                   fleet
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   throw
                   your self
                   beneath
                   the
                   Charmer's
                   Feet
                   .
                
                 
                   Your
                   struggling
                   Lips
                   abortive
                   Accents
                   break
                   ,
                
                 
                   Seem
                   much
                   to
                   strive
                   ,
                   but
                   do
                   not
                   ,
                   do
                   not
                   speak
                   .
                
                 
                   As
                   frighted
                   ,
                   out
                   She
                   rushes
                   like
                   the
                   Wind
                   ;
                
                 
                   You
                   must
                   expect
                   you
                   will
                   a
                   Tempest
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   ,
                   She
                   leaves
                   my
                   slighted
                   Book
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   So
                   high
                   her
                   rais'd
                   Resentment
                   may
                   be
                   born
                   ,
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   ,
                   not
                   slighted
                   only
                   ,
                   't
                   will
                   be
                   torn
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   Skill
                
                 
                   Go
                   on
                   repulst
                   ,
                   yet
                   so
                   to
                   Conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Lift
                   up
                   my
                   Lines
                   ,
                   pursue
                   her
                   as
                   She
                   flyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Persent
                   them
                   humbly
                   to
                   her
                   angry
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   my
                   soft
                   Verse
                   be
                   to
                   her
                   Hands
                   restor'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   ,
                   scorn'd
                   Love
                   inspir'd
                   each
                   flowing
                   word
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   this
                   satal
                   Truth
                   —
                
                 
                   None
                   ever
                   lov'd
                   like
                   Sylvius
                   ,
                   none
                   ador'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Tell
                   her
                   ,
                   for
                   this
                   I
                   know
                   you
                   long
                   to
                   tell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   I
                   allow
                   it
                   ,
                   —
                   Vow
                   you
                   love
                   as
                   well
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   to
                   receive
                   my
                   Book
                   you
                   find
                   her
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sigh
                   then
                   ,
                   and
                   speak
                   ,
                   as
                   if
                   you
                   envy'd
                   me
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Reward
                 .
              
               
                 SUccess
                 sufficient
                 in
                 this
                 Charm
                 I
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 only
                 gain'd
                 ,
                 my
                 Labours
                 are
                 not
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 would
                 not
                 Write
                 ,
                 while
                 Love
                 commanding
                 stands
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 would
                 not
                 love
                 ?
                 Held
                 in
                 such
                 tender
                 bands
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 clasps
                 my
                 living
                 numbers
                 in
                 her
                 Hands
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 her
                 fair
                 Hands
                 my
                 tuneful
                 Numbers
                 rowl
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 She
                 reads
                 ,
                 they
                 flow
                 into
                 her
                 Soul.
              
               
                 Tuneful
                 indeed
                 is
                 all
                 my
                 Artful
                 Song
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 a
                 silver
                 Current
                 glides
                 along
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 warbled
                 sweetly
                 from
                 her
                 fluent
                 Tongue
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 my
                 soft
                 Verse
                 the
                 moving
                 Virgin
                 speaks
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 I
                 ,
                 but
                 She
                 ,
                 the
                 melting
                 Numbers
                 makes
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 Orpheus
                 play'd
                 ,
                 thus
                 at
                 his
                 tuneful
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 Saw
                 the
                 charm'd
                 Stones
                 in
                 Artful
                 measures
                 fall
                 ;
              
               
                 Thus
                 play'd
                 Amphion
                 too
                 —
              
               
                 Thus
                 built
                 his
                 Fame
                 ,
                 building
                 the
                 Theban
                 Wall.
              
               
                 Close
                 is
                 my
                 Book
                 prest
                 by
                 the
                 angry
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 you
                 ,
                 nor
                 I
                 ,
                 can
                 hope
                 She
                 now
                 shall
                 read
                 .
              
               
                 Blest
                 be
                 those
                 Hands
                 which
                 press
                 my
                 Numbers
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 melting
                 Soul
                 does
                 in
                 those
                 Numbers
                 flow
                 .
              
               
                 Beyond
                 my self
                 I
                 find
                 my
                 Verses
                 blest
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Author
                 may
                 not
                 by
                 those
                 Hands
                 be
                 prest
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Fate
                 of
                 Poets
                 .
              
               
                 MY
                 Book
                 fair
                 bound
                 perhaps
                 the
                 Maid
                 receives
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 guilded
                 Cover
                 ,
                 and
                 for
                 golden
                 Leaves
                 .
              
               
                 Curst
                 be
                 the
                 Artist
                 ,
                 who
                 the
                 pains
                 shall
                 take
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 golden
                 Present
                 to
                 the
                 Fair
                 I
                 make
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 charge
                 you
                 cease
                 ,
                 your
                 impious
                 hands
                 with-hold
                 ,
              
               
                 Against
                 my
                 Will
                 must
                 I
                 present
                 her
                 Gold
                 ?
              
               
               
                 The
                 Sex
                 would
                 Midas
                 golden
                 Wish
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 turn
                 whate'er
                 they
                 touch
                 to
                 shining
                 Oare
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 Midas
                 did
                 ,
                 may
                 such
                 fair
                 Misers
                 thrive
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 golden
                 Verse
                 is
                 all
                 I
                 have
                 to
                 give
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 cheating
                 Trades-Man's
                 
                   senseless
                   Son
                
                 swells
                 great
              
               
                 With
                 Titles
                 puff't
                 ,
                 supported
                 with
                 Estate
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 his
                 guilt
                 Charriot
                 thunders
                 thro'
                 his
                 Gate
                 ▪
              
               
                 Of
                 his
                 new
                 Pageantry
                 ,
                 new
                 Honours
                 proud
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 
                   lolling
                   Brute
                
                 ore-looks
                 the
                 nobler
                 Crowd
                 .
              
               
                 Rais'd
                 on
                 strong
                 Brass
                 ,
                 slighting
                 the
                 Pow'rs
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 Salmoneus
                 like
                 ,
                 he
                 fancies
                 he
                 's
                 some
                 Iove
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 more
                 ,
                 far
                 more
                 ,
                 he
                 claims
                 a
                 right
                 to
                 Love.
              
               
                 Long
                 ,
                 powder'd
                 Wiggs
                 show
                 
                   Swarthy
                   S
                   —
                   l
                
                 Fair
                 ,
              
               
                 Dress
                 shall
                 adorn
                 the
                 
                   Aukward
                   ,
                   Rustick
                
                 Heir
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 who
                 has
                 Gold
                 ,
                 each
                 Charmer's
                 heart
                 commands
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 dull
                 as
                 Hinds
                 ,
                 who
                 plow
                 his
                 Father's
                 Lands
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 at
                 each
                 word
                 he
                 offers
                 shining
                 Oare
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 must
                 confess
                 my
                 boasted
                 Art
                 but
                 poor
                 .
              
               
               
                 He
                 ,
                 in
                 that
                 Word
                 ,
                 more
                 charming
                 Force
                 displays
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 I
                 in
                 all
                 my
                 Numbers
                 ,
                 all
                 my
                 Lays
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 flippant
                 Lawyer
                 ,
                 canting
                 ,
                 gains
                 Supplies
                 ,
              
               
                 Gets
                 Gold
                 by
                 noisy
                 bawling
                 ,
                 lives
                 by
                 Lyes
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 at
                 the
                 thund'ring
                 Bar
                 he
                 knows
                 to
                 plead
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Suit
                 goes
                 still
                 successful
                 with
                 the
                 Maid
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 
                   struting
                   H
                   —
                   s
                
                 of
                 his
                 Feathers
                 proud
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 ,
                 without
                 fighting
                 ,
                 constant
                 pay
                 allow'd
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 wearing
                 gawdy
                 Cloaths
                 ,
                 and
                 swearing
                 loud
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 Poets
                 with
                 the
                 love
                 of
                 Courts
                 are
                 Curst
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 leaves
                 them
                 Poets
                 ,
                 as
                 it
                 found
                 them
                 first
                 ;
              
               
                 Thought
                 wholly
                 for
                 the
                 smallest
                 Trust
                 unfit
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 reckon'd
                 useless
                 for
                 their
                 very
                 Wit.
              
               
                 By
                 some
                 strange
                 whirl
                 of
                 Fate
                 confus'dly
                 hurl'd
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 above
                 ,
                 and
                 yet
                 beneath
                 the
                 World.
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 doom'd
                 Wretch
                 ,
                 whom
                 in
                 the
                 Floods
                 they
                 Paint
                 ,
              
               
                 Exalted
                 o're
                 those
                 Blessings
                 which
                 they
                 want
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Perseverance
                 .
              
               
                 
                   ADdress
                   the
                   Maid
                   ,
                   your
                   Resolution
                   hold
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   yet
                   shall
                   Conquer
                   ,
                   tho'
                   you
                   have
                   not
                   Gold.
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   She
                   would
                   fly
                   ,
                   perswade
                   her
                   yet
                   to
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   scatter
                   blushing
                   Roses
                   in
                   her
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   gentle
                   Force
                   let
                   her
                   a
                   while
                   be
                   held
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   
                     gentle
                     Force
                  
                   maids
                   love
                   to
                   be
                   compell'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Desist
                   not
                   Youth
                   till
                   thou
                   hast
                   gain'd
                   the
                   Field
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   you
                   must
                   Conquer
                   ,
                   or
                   She
                   cannot
                   yield
                   .
                
                 
                   Pray'rs
                   on
                   repeated
                   Pray'rs
                   be
                   still
                   renew'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Maids
                   ever
                   fly
                   ,
                   in
                   hopes
                   to
                   be
                   pursu'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Still
                   tho'
                   She
                   frowns
                   ,
                   give
                   not
                   your
                   Courtship
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   tho'
                   She
                   frowns
                   ,
                   press
                   harder
                   than
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   Entreat
                   a
                   thousand
                   times
                   ,
                   ten
                   thousand
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Think
                   not
                   I
                   here
                   impose
                   too
                   hard
                   a
                   Task
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   grant
                   Charms
                   most
                   ,
                   yet
                   much
                   it
                   Charms
                   to
                   ask
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   After
                   denyals
                   on
                   denyals
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   long
                   She
                   Vows
                   She
                   won't
                   ,
                   She
                   will
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
                 
                   Ten
                   thousand
                   ,
                   thousand
                   times
                   has
                   She
                   reply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oft
                   as
                   you
                   ask'd
                   ,
                   has
                   She
                   as
                   oft
                   deny'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   Yet
                   at
                   the
                   last
                   shall
                   you
                   your
                   Suit
                   obtain
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   She
                   believes
                   you
                   will
                   not
                   ask
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   She
                   protests
                   ,
                   do
                   not
                   her
                   Vows
                   believe
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   fair
                   Deceiver
                   shall
                   her self
                   deceive
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Actions
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Words
                   shall
                   ne'er
                   agree
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Words
                   are
                   Air
                   ,
                   like
                   that
                   to
                   which
                   they
                   flee
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Vows
                   dissolv'd
                   ,
                   shall
                   in
                   the
                   Air
                   be
                   free
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   now
                   ,
                   inrag'd
                   ,
                   She
                   weares
                   a
                   clowdy
                   Brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   's
                   only
                   fearful
                   least
                   She
                   kind
                   should
                   grow
                   .
                
                 
                   Quit
                   her
                   howe'er
                   ,
                   be
                   my
                   late
                   Truths
                   forgot
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   knowing
                   well
                   ,
                   yet
                   seem
                   to
                   know
                   them
                   not
                   .
                
                 
                   Sigh
                   sadly
                   now
                   ,
                   and
                   pressing
                   ,
                   loose
                   her
                   Hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   bow
                   —
                   She
                   flyes
                   ,
                   you
                   still
                   dejected
                   stand
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Quit
                   not
                   the
                   Place
                   ,
                   till
                   out
                   of
                   sight
                   She
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   She
                   fleets
                   ,
                   pursue
                   her
                   with
                   your
                   Eyes
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   skill
                
                 
                   For
                   ,
                   if
                   She
                   flies
                   ,
                   so
                   shall
                   you
                   Conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Write
                   now
                   again
                   ,
                   feign
                   Sickness
                   and
                   Despair
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   some
                   Friend
                   the
                   dismal
                   Tydings
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   thus
                   some
                   Friend
                   be
                   trusted
                   to
                   attend
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   well
                   assur'd
                   he
                   be
                   indeed
                   your
                   Friend
                   .
                
                 
                   Friendship
                   ,
                   like
                   Coin
                   ,
                   a
                   Royal
                   Image
                   bears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   Coin
                   ,
                   made
                   currant
                   by
                   the
                   Stamp
                   it
                   bears
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   both
                   Men
                   Traffick
                   ,
                   as
                   their
                   Int'rest
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Gold
                   and
                   Friendship
                   are
                   exchang'd
                   for
                   Love.
                
                 
                   As
                   fainter
                   Fires
                   before
                   the
                   stronger
                   Dye
                   .
                
                 
                   Friendship
                   expires
                   ,
                   when
                   Beauty's
                   Flames
                   blaze
                   high
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   whom
                   you
                   venter
                   in
                   this
                   dang'rous
                   Post
                   ,
                
                 
                   Should
                   be
                   himself
                   bound
                   for
                   some
                   other
                   Coast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Else
                   both
                   your
                   Mistress
                   and
                   your
                   Friend
                   are
                   lost
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   About
                   her
                   House
                   in
                   silent
                   Moon-light
                   wait
                   ,
                
                 
                   Pass
                   like
                   some
                   Ghost
                   by
                   her
                   obdurate
                   Gate
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Ghosts
                   glide
                   on
                   ,
                   thus
                   the
                   fond
                   Phantom
                   flies
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   haunts
                   that
                   Place
                   ,
                   where
                   the
                   dear
                   Treasure
                   lies
                
                 
                   Rise
                   ,
                   Porter
                   ,
                   haste
                   ,
                   be
                   the
                   hard
                   doors
                   unbarr'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   O
                   Porter
                   !
                   Harder
                   than
                   the
                   Posts
                   you
                   guard
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   wishing
                   Youth
                   beneath
                   her
                   Window
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   wishing
                   Youth
                   waits
                   for
                   the
                   blest
                   Commands
                   ▪
                
                 
                   And
                   curses
                   oft
                   the
                   rugged
                   Porters
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   Ill
                   ,
                   cruel
                   Fair
                   ,
                   is
                   such
                   Attendance
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Too
                   cold
                   you
                   treat
                   the
                   Lover
                   ,
                   cruel
                   Maid
                   !
                
                 
                   Why
                   thus
                   severe
                   ,
                   ingrateful
                   ,
                   feigning
                   Fair
                   !
                
                 
                   Why
                   to
                   thy
                   Lover
                   ,
                   and
                   thy self
                   severe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Admit
                   ,
                   admit
                   the
                   Youth
                   —
                
                 
                   Admit
                   him
                   to
                   thy
                   Breast
                   ,
                   already
                   there
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   pinching
                   Cold
                   ,
                   by
                   starry
                   glim'ring
                   Light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oft
                   have
                   I
                   wander'd
                   the
                   whole
                   Winter
                   Night
                   .
                
                 
                   Guiltless
                   of
                   Thought
                   my self
                   ,
                   my
                   Feet
                   would
                   stray
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   conscious
                   Feet
                   found
                   of
                   themselves
                   the
                   way
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   At
                   lov'd
                   
                   Amasia's
                   Doors
                   ,
                   as
                   in
                   some
                   Trance
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oft
                   have
                   I
                   lay'n
                   ,
                   like
                   Neroes
                   in
                   Romance
                   .
                
                 
                   Like
                   Iphis
                   ,
                   oft
                   on
                   the
                   hard
                   Pavement
                   lay'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   seem'd
                   the
                   Guardian
                   of
                   the
                   sleeping
                   Maid
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Mastives
                   ,
                   conscious
                   that
                   the
                   Gates
                   are
                   barr'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bark
                   not
                   ,
                   but
                   fawning
                   meet
                   their
                   fellow
                   Guard.
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   the
                   Stars
                   my
                   gazing
                   Eyes
                   cou'd
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   mark'd
                   not
                   one
                   whose
                   Influence
                   smil'd
                   on
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Sighted
                   like
                   me
                   ,
                   yet
                   must
                   you
                   patient
                   wake
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   Night
                   reign
                   now
                   ,
                   the
                   Day
                   at
                   length
                   will
                   break
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   with
                   soft
                   Musick
                   Serenade
                   the
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   the
                   gentlest
                   ,
                   sweetest
                   Tunes
                   be
                   plaid
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   Maid
                   ,
                   some
                   wakeful
                   Servant
                   may
                   behold
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   be
                   assur'd
                   your
                   Services
                   are
                   told
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Feasts
                 .
              
               
                 IF
                 to
                 some
                 Feast
                 the
                 Virgin
                 shall
                 repair
                 ,
              
               
                 Do
                 thou
                 contrive
                 to
                 be
                 invited
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 Courteous
                 to
                 all
                 ,
                 complyant
                 Words
                 let
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 whom
                 She
                 favours
                 ,
                 favour
                 most
                 of
                 all
                 .
              
               
                 Treat
                 all
                 her
                 Friends
                 without
                 the
                 least
                 constraint
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 wrinkled
                 Guardian
                 ,
                 or
                 her
                 aged
                 Aunt
                 .
              
               
                 Smile
                 on
                 the
                 Maid
                 that
                 whispers
                 in
                 her
                 Ear
                 ;
              
               
                 You
                 must
                 treat
                 well
                 your
                 very
                 Rival
                 here
                 .
              
               
                 Above
                 the
                 rest
                 ,
                 to
                 him
                 commend
                 the
                 Wine
                 ,
              
               
                 Drink
                 to
                 him
                 ofr
                 ,
                 discourse
                 him
                 as
                 you
                 Dine
                 .
              
               
                 Place
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 can
                 ,
                 your
                 Rival
                 near
                 the
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 no
                 Addresses
                 ,
                 but
                 soft
                 Looks
                 ,
                 be
                 paid
                 .
              
               
                 Fronting
                 the
                 Fair
                 ,
                 let
                 some
                 loose
                 glances
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 gaze
                 not
                 on
                 her
                 with
                 your
                 constant
                 Eye
                 .
              
               
                 Drink
                 to
                 those
                 Beauties
                 which
                 the
                 Maid
                 surround
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 no
                 Goblet
                 with
                 Her
                 Health
                 be
                 Crown'd
                 .
              
               
               
                 Soon
                 as
                 her
                 Hands
                 the
                 sparkling
                 Glass
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 Call
                 you
                 ,
                 and
                 drink
                 just
                 where
                 She
                 drank
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 Eat
                 very
                 sparingly
                 ,
                 and
                 seem
                 to
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 best
                 lov'd
                 Food
                 ,
                 your
                 Norishment
                 is
                 Love.
              
               
                 Affect
                 no
                 Fast
                 ,
                 yet
                 so
                 contrive
                 to
                 Eat
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 you
                 relish'd
                 not
                 ,
                 but
                 fore'd
                 the
                 Meat
                 .
              
               
                 Some
                 smiling
                 Fair
                 ,
                 perhaps
                 ,
                 with
                 laughing
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 ask
                 the
                 Cause
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 her
                 own
                 Replies
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 —
                 Love
                 —
                 she
                 Vows
                 ,
                 she
                 reads
                 it
                 in
                 your
                 Face
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 plays
                 on
                 you
                 with
                 Satyrick
                 grace
                 .
              
               
                 Pretends
                 the
                 sad
                 Distemper
                 she
                 can
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 crys
                 ,
                 
                   Sir
                   ,
                   are
                   you
                   not
                   in
                   love
                   with
                   me
                   ?
                
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 ,
                 the
                 Fair
                 ,
                 lov'd
                 Charmer's
                 self
                 is
                 mov'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Charmer's
                 self
                 seems
                 conscious
                 that
                 She
                 's
                 lov'd
                 .
              
               
                 Offers
                 you
                 Meat
                 ,
                 with
                 careless
                 ,
                 loose
                 reserve
                 ;
              
               
                 Accept
                 the
                 offer
                 ,
                 when
                 the
                 Maid
                 shall
                 Carve
                 .
              
               
                 Tho'
                 at
                 her
                 Chair
                 the
                 ready
                 Servant
                 stands
                 ,
              
               
                 T
                 is
                 offer'd
                 you
                 by
                 her
                 own
                 charming
                 Hands
                 .
              
               
               
                 Meet
                 on
                 the
                 suddain
                 her
                 extended
                 Arm
                 ,
              
               
                 Starting
                 surpriz'd
                 ,
                 as
                 Soldiers
                 in
                 Allarm
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 seign'd
                 confusion
                 thus
                 o're-reach
                 the
                 Plate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sliding
                 ,
                 touch
                 her
                 Hands
                 ,
                 as
                 your's
                 Retreat
                 .
              
               
                 Gaze
                 on
                 her
                 Eyes
                 with
                 Eyes
                 confessing
                 Flames
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 glance
                 new
                 Rays
                 fast
                 on
                 her
                 glancing
                 Beams
                 .
              
               
                 E're
                 from
                 the
                 room
                 the
                 hast'ning
                 Fair
                 be
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 Fast
                 ,
                 tho'
                 She
                 moves
                 ,
                 move
                 you
                 ,
                 unmark't
                 as
                 fast
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 if
                 She
                 stays
                 ,
                 attend
                 her
                 to
                 the
                 last
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 with
                 her
                 Maids
                 She
                 passes
                 in
                 the
                 throng
                 ,
              
               
                 Brush
                 gently
                 by
                 her
                 ,
                 as
                 you
                 sail
                 along
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 some
                 close
                 entrance
                 if
                 She
                 crowded
                 stands
                 ,
              
               
                 Approach
                 her
                 nigh
                 ,
                 and
                 press
                 by
                 stealth
                 her
                 hands
              
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 as
                 you
                 move
                 into
                 the
                 spatious
                 Hall
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 your
                 Addresses
                 at
                 some
                 distance
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 the
                 Fair
                 mingles
                 in
                 the
                 shining
                 Ball.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 Praise
                 .
              
               
                 
                   LEt
                   her
                   each
                   step
                   your
                   Admiration
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   She
                   Dances
                   ,
                   in
                   your
                   Eyes
                   dance
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Let
                   her
                   each
                   Motion
                   ravish'd
                   wonder
                   raise
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Praise
                   her
                   now
                   ,
                   for
                   now
                   She
                   Courts
                   your
                   Praise
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   stronger
                   Gale
                   of
                   Praises
                   you
                   bestow
                   ,
                
                 
                   More
                   beauteous
                   Charms
                   shall
                   her
                   each
                   Movement
                   show
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   flies
                   the
                   Vessel
                   with
                   auspicious
                   Gales
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   the
                   Winds
                   encrease
                   ,
                   more
                   swift
                   She
                   Sails
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   
                   Iuno's
                   Bird
                   spreads
                   wide
                   his
                   starry
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   hides
                   ,
                   unprais'd
                   ,
                   his
                   gawdy
                   Wealth
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Poet
                   thus
                   in
                   Praises
                   feels
                   delight
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   paid
                   with
                   Fame
                   alone
                   ,
                   grows
                   fond
                   to
                   Write
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fear
                   not
                   to
                   Praise
                   ,
                   whatever
                   Form
                   they
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   lives
                   not
                   one
                   but
                   fancies
                   that
                   She
                   's
                   Fair.
                
                 
                 
                   High
                   in
                   Conceit
                   ,
                   Women
                   ,
                   like
                   Authors
                   sit
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   proud
                   of
                   fancy'd
                   Beauty
                   ,
                   those
                   ,
                   of
                   Wit.
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   some
                   pretend
                   their
                   want
                   of
                   Charms
                   to
                   know
                   '
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   from
                   themselves
                   their
                   real
                   failings
                   flow
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   you
                   but
                   softly
                   Vow
                   they
                   are
                   deceiv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   sure
                   ,
                   how
                   soon
                   is
                   the
                   Deceit
                   believ'd
                   ?
                
                 
                   Thus
                   every
                   Maid
                   to
                   her
                   own
                   wants
                   grows
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Woman's
                   Pride
                   ,
                   like
                   Woman's
                   Love
                   is
                   blind
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   now
                   you
                   see
                   the
                   glowing
                   virgin
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   every
                   aiery
                   step
                   She
                   measures
                   Love.
                
                 
                   The
                   Ball
                   broke
                   up
                   ,
                   before
                   her
                   bowing
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   offer
                   humbly
                   your
                   conducting
                   Hand
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   coy
                   She
                   turns
                   ,
                   with
                   slights
                   your
                   service
                   paid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lead
                   off
                   before
                   her
                   Eyes
                   some
                   other
                   Maid
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   Skill
                
                 
                   Engaging
                   there
                   ,
                   here
                   shall
                   you
                   Conquer
                   still
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Theatre
                 .
              
               
                 
                   IF
                   in
                   the
                   Theatre
                   the
                   Maid
                   be
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thence
                   may
                   your
                   Passion
                   with
                   success
                   be
                   Crown'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   now
                   She
                   Mourns
                   the
                   fancy'd
                   Hero's
                   Fate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   in
                   her
                   Eyes
                   her
                   ready
                   Sorrows
                   wait
                   ,
                
                 
                   Attend
                   their
                   fall
                   ;
                   claim
                   all
                   her
                   Tears
                   your
                   due
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   fancy'd
                   Lover
                   never
                   lov'd
                   like
                   you
                   ,
                
                 
                   Claim
                   not
                   her
                   Tears
                   alone
                   ,
                   —
                
                 
                   But
                   claim
                   the
                   charming
                   Eyes
                   which
                   shed
                   them
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   Strange
                   Contradiction
                   reigns
                   in
                   Woman's
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Only
                   to
                   shew
                   ,
                   and
                   false
                   appearance
                   ,
                   kind
                   .
                
                 
                   Mind
                   not
                   the
                   Action
                   ,
                   nor
                   the
                   Authors
                   strain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Slight
                   gawdy
                   Shows
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   her
                   Face
                   thy
                   Scene
                   .
                
                 
                   Raise
                   no
                   ill-natur'd
                   Hiss
                   to
                   Damn
                   the
                   Play
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   Criticize
                   on
                   what
                   dull
                   Criticks
                   say
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   those
                   who
                   bite
                   the
                   Poet
                   ,
                   so
                   be
                   bit
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   whilst
                   you
                   show
                   good
                   Nature
                   ,
                   show
                   your
                   Wit.
                
                 
                 
                   Alike
                   with
                   you
                   the
                   Author's
                   Sense
                   they
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   Alike
                   with
                   you
                   ,
                   who
                   did
                   not
                   see
                   ,
                   nor
                   hear
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   modest
                   Fop
                   daubs
                   his
                   nice
                   Nose
                   with
                   Snuff
                   ,
                
                 
                   Damn
                   me
                   ,
                   then
                   crys
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   wretched
                   ,
                   wretched
                   stuff
                   .
                
                 
                   Glance
                   on
                   such
                   Fops
                   with
                   a
                   disdainful
                   Eye
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   a
                   sleering
                   Smile
                   give
                   such
                   proud
                   Fools
                   the
                   Lye.
                
                 
                   The
                   Curtain
                   fall'n
                   ,
                   press
                   to
                   the
                   Charmer's
                   side
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   claim
                   her
                   Hand
                   ,
                   nor
                   be
                   at
                   last
                   deny'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Entreat
                   her
                   oft
                   ,
                   nor
                   give
                   entreaties
                   o're
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Vow
                   you
                   will
                   conduct
                   her
                   to
                   her
                   Door
                   .
                
                 
                   Force
                   is
                   but
                   weak
                   ,
                   Intreaty
                   has
                   the
                   Odds
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   we
                   can't
                   force
                   ,
                   we
                   may
                   intreat
                   the
                   Gods.
                
                 
                   Thro'
                   tedious
                   importunity
                   She
                   moves
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   can't
                   deny
                   the
                   pressing
                   Youth
                   She
                   loves
                   .
                
                 
                   Enter
                   her
                   House
                   ,
                   your
                   fond
                   Address
                   renew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Vow
                   you
                   was
                   ,
                   and
                   ever
                   will
                   be
                   true
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Charmer
                   now
                   at
                   distant
                   coldness
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   must
                   quit
                   her
                   from
                   your
                   clasping
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   kinder
                   warmth
                   your
                   Courtship
                   shall
                   impart
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   seems
                   more
                   Cold
                   ,
                   more
                   Frozen
                   in
                   her
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Feign
                   all
                   the
                   Lover
                   ,
                   all
                   the
                   Hero
                   feign
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   your
                   Looks
                   transported
                   Passion
                   reign
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   different
                   Strains
                   Both
                   with
                   dissembling
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   feigning
                   Anger
                   ,
                   and
                   you
                   feigning
                   Love.
                
                 
                   With
                   your
                   drawn
                   Sword
                   ,
                   rush
                   with
                   a
                   hasty
                   Vow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   just
                   striking
                   ,
                   She
                   prevents
                   you
                   now
                   .
                
                 
                   Fast
                   to
                   your
                   Arms
                   the
                   frighted
                   Maid
                   shall
                   flee
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   cry
                   ,
                   so
                   striking
                   you
                   had
                   wounded
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   to
                   the
                   unmost
                   pitch
                   your
                   Flames
                   must
                   rise
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   She
                   's
                   your
                   own
                   ,
                   clasp
                   fast
                   the
                   lovely
                   prize
                   .
                
                 
                   Great
                   is
                   your
                   fondness
                   ,
                   nor
                   shall
                   her's
                   be
                   less
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   gives
                   you
                   Kiss
                   for
                   Kiss
                   ,
                   and
                   Press
                   for
                   Press
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   mutual
                   Love
                   flows
                   strong
                   with
                   mutual
                   Pow'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   Hand
                   ,
                   her
                   Heart
                   ,
                   her
                   Life
                   ,
                   her
                   Soul
                   are
                   yours
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Observe
                   my
                   Rules
                   ,
                   drawn
                   from
                   experienc'd
                   skill
                   ,
                
                 
                   Still
                   tho'
                   you
                   Conquer
                   ,
                   Conquer
                   yielding
                   still
                   .
                
                 
                   Go
                   on
                   triumphant
                   so
                   ,
                   and
                   Triumph
                   ,
                   —
                   at
                   your
                   Will.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Crown
                   me
                   ,
                   each
                   Love-sick
                   Youth
                   ,
                   each
                   Love-sick
                   Maid
                   ,
                
                 
                   Your
                   mutual
                   Flame
                   ,
                   as
                   my
                   Reward
                   ,
                   be
                   paid
                   .
                
                 
                   Whisper
                   each
                   other
                   ,
                   in
                   your
                   Bridals
                   blest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thus
                   far
                   Art
                   taught
                   —
                   
                     Let
                     Nature
                     teach
                     the
                     rest
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 FINIS
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
      
       
         
           
             
             
               THE
               ART
               OF
               LOVE
               :
               The
               Second
               Book
               .
            
             
               Written
               to
               the
               LADIES
               .
               A
               NEW
               POEM
               .
            
             
               Hoc
               mihi
               ,
               si
               quando
               ;
               puer
               et
               Cytharea
               ,
               favete
               :
               Nunc
               Erato
               ;
               nam
               tu
               Nomen
               amoris
               habes
               .
            
             
               LONDON
               :
               Printed
               for
               
                 Ioseph
                 Wild
              
               ,
               at
               the
               Elephant
               at
               Charing-Cross
               ,
               1700.
               
            
             
               Where
               Gentlemen
               and
               Ladies
               may
               pick
               Novels
               at
               6
               
                 s.
                 per
              
               Doz
               .
               And
               be
               ,
               furnish'd
               with
               most
               Sorts
               of
               Plays
               .
            
          
           
             
               
               
               
                 TO
                 THE
                 AUTHOR
                 ,
                 ON
                 HIS
                 ART
                 of
                 LOVE
                 .
              
               
                 IF
                 Numbers
                 can
                 immortalize
                 a
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 descending
                 Times
                 transmit
                 the
                 Poet's
                 Fame
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 happy
                 Youth
                 !
                 Thy
                 sweet
                 ,
                 harmonieus
                 Lays
                 ,
              
               
                 Fix
                 the
                 Foundations
                 of
                 a
                 lasting
                 Praise
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 Loves
                 Physician
                 !
                 Thou
                 can'st
                 best
                 impart
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Sovraign
                 Balm
                 to
                 Cure
                 the
                 bleeding
                 Heart
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 Love's
                 Maeanders
                 with
                 such
                 skill
                 you
                 Write
                 ,
              
               
                 Sure
                 ,
                 
                 Cupid's
                 wings
                 sustain'd
                 your
                 Muse's
                 Flight
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 Transmigration
                 more
                 than
                 fancy
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Soul
                 of
                 Ovid
                 is
                 transfus'd
                 in
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 was
                 a
                 Labrynth
                 ▪
                 like
                 the
                 Cretan
                 Maze
                 ,
              
               
                 Its
                 Paths
                 untrod
                 ,
                 a
                 Wilderness
                 its
                 Ways
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 
                 Araidne's
                 kind
                 conducting
                 Clue
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Muse
                 ,
                 disclos'd
                 it
                 ;
                 Love's
                 best
                 Thescus
                 You
              
               
               
                 What
                 Gallus
                 ,
                 nor
                 Propertius
                 could
                 express
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 greater
                 Ovid
                 touch'd
                 with
                 ill
                 Success
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 lustre
                 sparkles
                 in
                 an
                 English
                 Dress
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 Thought
                 unchast
                 thy
                 melting
                 Muse
                 affords
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 charming
                 Sense
                 drest
                 in
                 as
                 charming
                 Words
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 British
                 Maids
                 shall
                 read
                 thy
                 Verse
                 and
                 smile
                 ,
              
               
                 Imploring
                 Venus
                 to
                 reward
                 the
                 toyl
              
               
                 Of
                 thee
                 ,
                 the
                 lost
                 Columbus
                 of
                 her
                 Isle
                 .
              
               
                 Whilst
                 Cytharea
                 on
                 Love's
                 Throne
                 shall
                 sit
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 Phaebus
                 Reigns
                 the
                 Lawrell'd
                 God
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 Envy
                 nor
                 Time
                 shall
                 blast
                 what
                 you
                 have
                 writ
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Dryden
                 ,
                 Prince
                 of
                 all
                 ,
                 in
                 Satyr
                 Reign
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 Congreve
                 Charm
                 ,
                 with
                 his
                 rich
                 ,
                 Comick
                 Vein
                 ,
              
               
                 Love
                 be
                 thy
                 Charge
                 ,
                 do
                 thou
                 Love's
                 Cause
                 maintain
                 .
              
               
                 A.
                 S.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 the
                 Author
                 ,
                 on
                 his
                 Art
                 of
                 Love.
                 
              
               
                 'T
                 IS
                 Art
                 ,
                 all
                 Art
                 ;
                 
                   yet
                   't
                   is
                   all
                   Nature
                   too
                
                 !
              
               
                 What
                 wonders
                 cannot
                 Love
                 and
                 Fancy
                 do
                 ?
              
               
                 Thy
                 Muse
                 ha's
                 made
                 each
                 slighted
                 Youth
                 amends
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shews
                 that
                 Wit
                 and
                 Chastity
                 are
                 Friends
                 ;
              
               
                 Venus
                 ,
                 as
                 Gay
                 as
                 when
                 by
                 Paris
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 Paint's
                 ;
                 She
                 Paint's
                 her
                 Love's
                 and
                 Beautie
                 's
                 Queen
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 with
                 a
                 modest
                 Air
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 a
                 Virgin
                 Mein
                 :
              
               
               
                 She
                 Paint's
                 her
                 like
                 Diana
                 in
                 the
                 Chase
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Chastity
                 triumphant
                 seated
                 in
                 her
                 Face
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 Charms
                 like
                 those
                 Amasia
                 ha's
                 put
                 on
                 ▪
              
               
                 Only
                 ,
                 She
                 Paint's
                 her
                 ,
                 that
                 She
                 may
                 be
                 Won
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 reads
                 your
                 Verse
                 ,
                 must
                 wonder
                 and
                 approve
                 ;
              
               
                 Your
                 Lines
                 are
                 modest
                 ,
                 yet
                 your
                 Subject
                 ,
                 Love.
              
               
                 With
                 Charms
                 so
                 Chast
                 your
                 Numbers
                 are
                 endu'd
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 you
                 teach
                 others
                 as
                 your self
                 has
                 Woo'd
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 pity
                 any
                 Poet
                 shou'd
                 be
                 Lewd
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 charming
                 Laws
                 on
                 Love-sick
                 Youths
                 you
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 all
                 ,
                 who
                 wou'd
                 be
                 Happy
                 ,
                 must
                 Obey
                 .
              
               
                 Soft
                 as
                 Amasia's
                 Bosom
                 is
                 thy
                 Song
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 its
                 flowing
                 Tides
                 it
                 bears
                 our
                 Souls
                 along
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 Wings
                 untir'd
                 ,
                 thy
                 soaring
                 Cupid
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 ease
                 he
                 mount's
                 ,
                 and
                 does
                 with
                 Pleasure
                 rise
                 .
              
               
                 May
                 conquer'd
                 Beauty
                 be
                 the
                 Poets
                 Spoil
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Woman
                 ,
                 glorious
                 Woman
                 ,
                 Crown
                 thy
                 Toyl
                 .
              
               
                 P.
                 M.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 the
                 Ingenious
                 AUTHOR
                 ,
                 of
                 the
                 Art
                 of
                 Love.
                 
              
               
                 
                   NAture
                   has
                   often
                   Play'd
                   the
                   Artist's
                   Part
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   ne're
                   was
                   Nature
                   so
                   display'd
                   by
                   Art.
                
                 
                   Never
                   before
                   was
                   Woman
                   naked
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   modest
                   still
                   as
                   when
                   with
                   Garments
                   on
                   .
                
                 
                   Such
                   Pleasure
                   we
                   in
                   your
                   soft
                   Rules
                   discern
                   ,
                
                 
                   Instruction
                   Charms
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   ravishment
                   to
                   learn.
                
                 
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   such
                   Delight
                   to
                   read
                   your
                   Numbers
                   o're
                   ▪
                
                 
                   We
                   think
                   the
                   Practice
                   scarce
                   can
                   give
                   us
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   thee
                   the
                   bleeding
                   Love-sick
                   Youth
                   is
                   shown
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   the
                   scornful
                   ,
                   haughty
                   Fair
                   his
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   tender
                   Maid
                   ,
                   taught
                   by
                   thy
                   charming
                   Pen
                   ,
                
                 
                   May
                   scape
                   the
                   Wiles
                   ,
                   of
                   false
                   Designing
                   Men.
                
                 
                   The
                   Virgin
                   's
                   taught
                   to
                   Love
                   ,
                   the
                   Youth
                   to
                   Wooe
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   once
                   you
                   Ravish
                   and
                   Instruct
                   us
                   too
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Each
                   Sex
                   must
                   own
                   ,
                   to
                   make
                   a
                   just
                   return
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   charming
                   Youth
                   ,
                   wer
                   't
                   
                     Britain
                     's
                     Ovid
                  
                   born
                   .
                
              
               
                 C.
                 L.
                 
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               THE
               ART
               of
               LOVE
               ,
               THE
               SECOND
               BOOK
            
             
               ARm'd
               at
               all
               Points
               ,
               Men
               to
               the
               Feild
               are
               gone
               ,
            
             
               Now
               ,
               Venus
               ,
               fight
               the
               Battle
               of
               thy
               Son.
            
             
               Assist
               me
               Beauty
               ,
               for
               thy
               Fame
               I
               Write
               ,
            
             
               Art
               shall
               teach
               Charming
               Nature
               to
               delight
               ,
            
             
               And
               thou
               shalt
               gain
               the
               Trophies
               of
               the
               Fight
               .
            
             
             
               To
               you
               the
               secrets
               of
               that
               Art
               I
               'll
               show
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               leave
               you
               Naked
               to
               so
               fierce
               a
               Foe
               ;
            
             
               I
               'll
               teach
               you
               all
               ,
               you
               shall
               know
               all
               my
               skill
               ,
            
             
               And
               Men
               shall
               Love
               ,
               while
               you
               shall
               smile
               and
               kill
               ▪
            
             
               
                 The
                 Arms.
                 
              
               
                 YE
                 Female
                 Warriours
                 ,
                 hast
                 ,
                 to
                 Arms
                 ,
                 to
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 Put
                 on
                 ▪
                 your
                 Smiles
                 ,
                 your
                 Glances
                 ,
                 and
                 your
                 Charms
                 ,
              
               
                 Paint
                 ,
                 Patches
                 ,
                 Pins
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 little
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 must
                 be
                 done
                 e'er
                 Beauty
                 can
                 be
                 drest
                 ,
              
               
                 Flames
                 in
                 your
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 and
                 Coldness
                 in
                 your
                 Breast
                 .
              
               
               
                 Put
                 on
                 a
                 modest
                 mildness
                 with
                 your
                 dress
                 ,
              
               
                 Put
                 on
                 those
                 somethings
                 which
                 I
                 can't
                 express
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 all
                 with
                 Artful
                 negligence
                 be
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 put
                 each
                 Charm
                 ,
                 put
                 the
                 whole
                 Woman
                 on
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 softly
                 sweet
                 let
                 
                 Cupid's
                 Trumpet
                 sound
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 Flags
                 of
                 streaming
                 Ribbonds
                 wave
                 around
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 a
                 Heart
                 be
                 every
                 standard
                 Crown'd
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 bearded
                 Arrow
                 bears
                 a
                 Bleeding
                 Heart
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 
                 Cupid's
                 Standard
                 is
                 a
                 Golden
                 Dart.
              
               
                 Let
                 a
                 soft
                 Blush
                 ,
                 the
                 Ensign
                 ,
                 be
                 display'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Charming
                 Ensign
                 of
                 the
                 Charming
                 Maid
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 Arm'd
                 ,
                 ye
                 Amazons
                 ,
                 insult
                 the
                 Field
                 ,
              
               
                 Sighs
                 be
                 your
                 Swords
                 ,
                 and
                 silence
                 be
                 your
                 shield
                 .
              
               
                 Trust
                 to
                 my
                 skill
                 ,
                 in
                 spite
                 of
                 Precepts
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 you
                 shall
                 Conquer
                 ,
                 tho'
                 to
                 yield
                 at
                 last
                 .
              
               
               
                 Believe
                 me
                 Maids
                 ,
                 who
                 never
                 yet
                 deceiv'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Thro'
                 me
                 ,
                 none
                 e'er
                 repented
                 she
                 believ'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Int'rest
                 in
                 Love
                 draws
                 on
                 a
                 Cloud
                 of
                 Woes
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 Love
                 and
                 Int'rest
                 are
                 eternal
                 Foes
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 fatal
                 Rules
                 my
                 Numbers
                 shall
                 unfold
                 ▪
              
               
                 For
                 those
                 mean
                 things
                 ,
                 who
                 sell
                 themselves
                 for
                 Gold
              
               
                 In
                 Spheres
                 more
                 bright
                 my
                 richer
                 Precepts
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Song
                 's
                 compos'd
                 of
                 Beauty
                 and
                 of
                 Love.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 Woman
                 the
                 Dissemblers
                 .
              
               
                 SHall
                 Waves
                 be
                 bid
                 to
                 Roll
                 ,
                 when
                 Tempests
                 roar
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 Calms
                 succeed
                 ,
                 when
                 the
                 loud
                 Storm
                 Blow
                 ore
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 Poets
                 live
                 Dejected
                 ,
                 Proud
                 and
                 Poor
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 Ice
                 be
                 Cold
                 ?
                 Shall
                 Fire
                 be
                 bid
                 to
                 Burn
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 Darkness
                 vanish
                 at
                 the
                 Sun's
                 return
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 Silvius
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 shall
                 Amasia
                 Scorn
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 I
                 teach
                 Misers
                 to
                 embrace
                 their
                 store
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 they
                 teach
                 me
                 bright
                 Beauty
                 to
                 adore
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 I
                 bid
                 Gods
                 ,
                 who
                 are
                 Immortal
                 ,
                 Live
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 I
                 bid
                 Women
                 ,
                 all
                 deceit
                 ,
                 deceive
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Women
                 and
                 Kings
                 alike
                 their
                 sway
                 maintain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 dissembling
                 what
                 the
                 feel
                 ,
                 they
                 Reign
                 .
              
               
                 Blameless
                 ,
                 your
                 Sex
                 does
                 in
                 this
                 art
                 excel
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 no
                 deceit
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 deceive
                 us
                 well
                 .
              
               
                 Dissemble
                 on
                 ,
                 Shoot
                 your
                 devices
                 far
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 every
                 Charm
                 ,
                 yet
                 be
                 but
                 what
                 you
                 are
                 .
              
               
                 Be
                 all
                 ,
                 that
                 Man
                 ,
                 unsinning
                 would
                 adore
                 .
              
               
                 Be
                 Woman
                 —
                 Woman
                 !
                 can
                 a
                 Name
                 be
                 more
                 ?
              
               
                 You
                 are
                 of
                 those
                 whom
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 admire
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Hearts
                 of
                 Mortals
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 Gods
                 you
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 Men
                 ,
                 to
                 be
                 Blest
                 ,
                 retires
                 to
                 Shades
                 with
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 you
                 please
                 we
                 grow
                 Immortal
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 Beauteous
                 Spheres
                 ,
                 more
                 bright
                 than
                 ours
                 ,
                 you
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 give
                 us
                 Paradise
                 ,
                 you
                 give
                 us
                 Love.
              
               
               
                 For
                 you
                 ,
                 bright
                 Maids
                 ,
                 I
                 draw
                 my
                 conqu'ring
                 Pen
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 fix
                 your
                 Empire
                 ore
                 presuming
                 Men.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Prostrate
                 .
              
               
                 
                   LOe
                   !
                   there
                   ,
                   before
                   your
                   Feet
                   the
                   Victim
                   lyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   Vict'ry
                   laughs
                   within
                   your
                   smiling
                   Eyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   See
                   how
                   the
                   Prostrate
                   Captive
                   ,
                   Sighs
                   ,
                   and
                   Dies
                   .
                
                 
                   Believe
                   him
                   not
                   ,
                   he
                   's
                   Man
                   ,
                   and
                   will
                   deceive
                   ;
                
                 
                   What
                   have
                   I
                   said
                   ?
                   Ye
                   Maids
                   ,
                   believe
                   ,
                   believe
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   are
                   not
                   false
                   ,
                   tho'
                   the
                   sincere
                   be
                   few
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   ,
                   Amasia
                   knows
                   her
                   Silvius
                   true
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   my
                   Amasia
                   has
                   my
                   suit
                   deny'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   none
                   can
                   e'er
                   deceive
                   ,
                   who
                   is
                   not
                   try'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   Oh!
                   that
                   Charmer
                   does
                   such
                   Charms
                   improve
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   't
                   is
                   impossible
                   I
                   should
                   not
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Could
                   I
                   but
                   show
                   you
                   how
                   Amasia
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   There
                   were
                   no
                   need
                   of
                   Amor'us
                   Arts
                   and
                   Arms.
                
                 
                   She
                   's
                   all
                   ore
                   Charm
                   ,
                   all
                   Ravishing
                   in
                   Youth
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   's
                   Love
                   it self
                   ,
                   She
                   's
                   Beauty
                   and
                   She
                   's
                   Truth
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Oh!
                   She
                   must
                   not
                   all
                   your
                   Actions
                   guide
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   's
                   all
                   o're
                   Woman
                   too
                   ,
                   all
                   over
                   Pride
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   teach
                   you
                   how
                   to
                   make
                   the
                   Lover
                   Burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   teach
                   you
                   Love
                   ,
                   but
                   Nature
                   teaches
                   Scorn
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Trust
                   to
                   my
                   skill
                   ,
                   in
                   spite
                   of
                   precepts
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   teach
                   you
                   conquest
                   ,
                   so
                   you
                   yield
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Turn
                   there
                   ,
                   the
                   Swain
                   do's
                   on
                   his
                   Knees
                   implore
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   only
                   beggs
                   permission
                   to
                   adore
                   ,
                
                 
                   Begs
                   you
                   would
                   but
                   believe
                   ,
                   and
                   hopes
                   no
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   O
                   treach'rous
                   Man
                   !
                   Who
                   can
                   so
                   falsly
                   press
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   hope
                   no
                   more
                   !
                   O
                   no
                   ,
                   he
                   doubts
                   no
                   less
                   .
                
                 
                   Believe
                   him
                   not
                   ,
                   command
                   him
                   to
                   forbear
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   must
                   not
                   speak
                   ,
                   protest
                   you
                   will
                   not
                   hear
                   .
                
                 
                   Check
                   each
                   attempt
                   he
                   makes
                   to
                   prove
                   his
                   Flame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   still
                   new
                   hints
                   for
                   new
                   addresses
                   frame
                   .
                
                 
                   Seem
                   all
                   suprize
                   ,
                   all
                   Coyness
                   ,
                   all
                   a
                   Frown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   let
                   your
                   Eyes
                   shed
                   soft
                   compassion
                   down
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   hopes
                   and
                   fears
                   ,
                   he
                   Freezes
                   and
                   he
                   Burns
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   protests
                   ,
                   when
                   e're
                   the
                   Fit
                   returns
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   not
                   Kneel
                   ,
                   but
                   as
                   his
                   Fires
                   rage
                   on
                   ,
                
                 
                   Say
                   he
                   must
                   Rise
                   ,
                   or
                   you
                   must
                   else
                   be
                   gone
                   .
                
                 
                   Divert
                   the
                   talk
                   ,
                   forbid
                   him
                   to
                   adore
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   so
                   forbid
                   as
                   to
                   engage
                   him
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Farewell
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   the
                   parting
                   Lover
                   cryes
                   ;
                
                 
                   Bid
                   him
                   farewell
                   ,
                   but
                   with
                   relenting
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   goes
                   but
                   to
                   return
                   ;
                   why
                   let
                   him
                   go
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   yours
                   —
                   or
                   if
                   you
                   please
                   he
                   may
                   be
                   so
                   ,
                
              
            
             
               
                 Attire
                 .
              
               
                 COnsult
                 your
                 Glass
                 what
                 Garments
                 to
                 put
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Man
                 's
                 retir'd
                 ,
                 but
                 not
                 the
                 Lover
                 gone
                 .
              
               
                 Take
                 counsel
                 what
                 attire
                 becomes
                 you
                 best
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 a
                 Charming
                 negligence
                 be
                 drest
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 negligence
                 becomes
                 not
                 your
                 Attire
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 in
                 the
                 Pride
                 of
                 Pompous
                 Garments
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 Shew
                 your
                 fair
                 Neck
                 ,
                 your
                 tempting
                 Bosom
                 bare
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 Gemms
                 deck
                 your
                 Ornamental
                 Hair.
              
               
               
                 Retir'd
                 ,
                 unseen
                 ,
                 the
                 lovely
                 Warriours
                 Arm
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 drest
                 ,
                 at
                 once
                 with
                 new
                 surprize
                 you
                 Charm.
              
               
                 As
                 Light'ning
                 ,
                 Flashing
                 fast
                 from
                 Pole
                 to
                 Pole
                 ,
              
               
                 Strikes
                 quick
                 the
                 Eye
                 ,
                 so
                 Beauty
                 strikes
                 the
                 Soul.
              
               
                 With
                 glancing
                 Light
                 ,
                 the
                 subtil
                 Flashes
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 are
                 they
                 temper'd
                 in
                 the
                 gloomy
                 Sky
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 know
                 not
                 whence
                 they
                 Issue
                 ,
                 but
                 we
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 must
                 admire
                 whatever
                 strikes
                 us
                 so
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 may
                 in
                 splendid
                 Theaters
                 behold
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 guilded
                 Columns
                 show
                 like
                 massy
                 Gold.
              
               
                 The
                 Men
                 ,
                 who
                 act
                 for
                 Bread
                 ,
                 talk
                 loud
                 ,
                 grow
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 three
                 big
                 Hours
                 of
                 empty
                 greatness
                 reign
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 till
                 this
                 Pomp
                 of
                 folly
                 be
                 prepar'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 longing
                 Guests
                 are
                 of
                 all
                 view
                 debarr'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Love's
                 Warfare
                 .
              
               
                 NOw
                 ye
                 are
                 Arm'd
                 ,
                 ye
                 Charming
                 Maids
                 ,
                 repair
              
               
                 To
                 Beauty's
                 Camps
                 ,
                 and
                 Fight
                 ,
                 and
                 Conquer
                 there
                 ▪
              
               
                 In
                 martial
                 Fields
                 the
                 bold
                 successful
                 prove
                 ;
              
               
                 You
                 must
                 seem
                 tim'rous
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 gain
                 in
                 Love.
              
               
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 as
                 cowardize
                 ,
                 sometimes
                 prevails
                 ;
              
               
                 False
                 flights
                 oft
                 conquer
                 ,
                 when
                 true
                 courage
                 fails
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Looks
                 and
                 Smiles
                 in
                 subtil
                 ambush
                 ly
                 ,
              
               
                 Seem
                 always
                 Flying
                 ,
                 yet
                 scarce
                 ever
                 Fly.
              
               
               
                 Sing
                 ,
                 Dance
                 ,
                 be
                 Airey
                 ,
                 put
                 on
                 all
                 your
                 Aires
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 easy
                 Mirth
                 shall
                 cause
                 the
                 Lovers
                 cares
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 shall
                 you
                 give
                 those
                 Wounds
                 your
                 Eyes
                 ne're
                 meant
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Bow
                 of
                 Cupid
                 never
                 stands
                 unbent
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 random
                 Arrow
                 ,
                 strikes
                 with
                 more
                 surprize
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 force
                 ,
                 when
                 Wing'd
                 with
                 negligence
                 it
                 flyes
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 on
                 the
                 Rock
                 Andromeda
                 was
                 bound
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 waited
                 Death
                 ,
                 yet
                 there
                 her
                 Lover
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Wounding
                 him
                 first
                 ,
                 who
                 did
                 the
                 Monster
                 wound
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Modest
                 Pride
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SEem
                   Proud
                   ,
                   yet
                   humble
                   too
                   ;
                   let
                   never
                   Pride
                   ,
                
                 
                   Shown
                   in
                   the
                   silent
                   Face
                   ,
                   the
                   softness
                   hide
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   Minds
                   too
                   haughty
                   Love
                   has
                   seldom
                   bow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Be
                   near
                   at
                   distance
                   ,
                   modestly
                   be
                   Proud.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Trust
                   to
                   my
                   skill
                   ,
                   in
                   spite
                   of
                   precepts
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   shall
                   conquer
                   ,
                   tho'
                   to
                   yield
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Sometimes
                   ,
                   soft
                   things
                   in
                   Tragedies
                   rehearse
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   the
                   Poet
                   happy
                   in
                   his
                   Verse
                   .
                
                 
                   Smiling
                   sometimes
                   ,
                   in
                   whispering
                   accents
                   bear
                
                 
                   Some
                   Trifling
                   saying
                   ,
                   to
                   some
                   Neighb'ring
                   fair
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Lover
                   then
                   ,
                   unknowing
                   what
                   you
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Smiles
                   too
                   ,
                   and
                   fancies
                   some
                   fine
                   Jest
                   was
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   You
                   ,
                   from
                   your
                   own
                   impertinences
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   makes
                   the
                   Jest
                   ,
                   when
                   e're
                   he
                   fancies
                   so
                   .
                
                 
                   Read
                   Poetry
                   ,
                   the
                   mighty
                   Dryden
                   Read
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   Congreve
                   next
                   ,
                   and
                   Wicherly
                   succeed
                   .
                
                 
                   Read
                   Cowley
                   Living
                   still
                   ,
                   Read
                   
                     Otway
                     ,
                     Lee
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Read
                   Elder
                   Hopkins
                   with
                   those
                   lofty
                   three
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   if
                   you
                   please
                   ,
                   at
                   leisure
                   Hours
                   ,
                   —
                   Read
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Muses
                   works
                   may
                   shorten
                   tedious
                   Days
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   when
                   the
                   Evening
                   calls
                   ,
                   repair
                   to
                   Plays
                   .
                
                 
                   Retir'd
                   at
                   home
                   ,
                   be
                   oft
                   ,
                   and
                   oft
                   deny'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   indiff'rence
                   act
                   the
                   part
                   of
                   Pride
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   easy
                   grant
                   the
                   price
                   of
                   bliss
                   destroys
                   ,
                
                 
                   Man
                   ever
                   least
                   esteems
                   what
                   he
                   enjoys
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Repulse
                   sometimes
                   makes
                   Love
                   more
                   fierce
                   rebound
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   Balls
                   rise
                   highest
                   struck
                   on
                   Stony
                   Ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   the
                   fond
                   Lover
                   ,
                   curse
                   the
                   cruel
                   Door
                   ,
                
                 
                   Do
                   humbly
                   much
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   his
                   threats
                   much
                   more
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   taste
                   of
                   bitter
                   things
                   can
                   Sweets
                   renew
                   ;
                
                 
                   Winds
                   sink
                   that
                   Ship
                   sometimes
                   ,
                   by
                   which
                   it
                   flew
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Visit.
                 
              
               
                 REceive
                 the
                 Visit
                 ,
                 which
                 the
                 Youth
                 shall
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 seen
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 by
                 chance
                 ,
                 or
                 by
                 mistake
                 .
              
               
                 Play
                 with
                 your
                 Fan
                 ,
                 call
                 for
                 your
                 Coach
                 ,
                 your
                 Chair
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 just
                 a
                 going
                 out
                 to
                 take
                 the
                 Air.
              
               
                 Pretend
                 some
                 Visits
                 ,
                 which
                 must
                 needs
                 be
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 his
                 you
                 can't
                 receive
                 ,
                 till
                 those
                 be
                 paid
                 .
              
               
                 Business
                 pretend
                 ,
                 or
                 Sickness
                 ,
                 seem
                 in
                 hast
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 many
                 things
                 to
                 do
                 ;
                 some
                 Minutes
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 late
                 you
                 know
                 ,
                 you
                 may
                 do
                 none
                 at
                 last
                 .
              
               
               
                 You
                 think
                 the
                 Weather
                 dull
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 Cold
                 ,
                 if
                 not
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 you
                 would
                 change
                 it
                 spite
                 of
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 —
                 't
                 is
                 hot
                 .
              
               
                 Say
                 any
                 thing
                 impertinence
                 can
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Enquire
                 the
                 news
                 ;
                 he
                 answers
                 you
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 Love.
              
               
                 Hear
                 all
                 he
                 says
                 ,
                 sit
                 in
                 some
                 distant
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 his
                 Eyes
                 fasten
                 on
                 your
                 Charming
                 Face
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Silence
                 .
              
               
                 
                   ALtho'
                   you
                   hear
                   ,
                   seem
                   not
                   at
                   all
                   to
                   heed
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   while
                   you
                   wound
                   him
                   ,
                   he
                   shall
                   inward
                   Bleed
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   while
                   you
                   muse
                   ,
                   the
                   Youth
                   shall
                   softly
                   press
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nearer
                   ,
                   and
                   nearer
                   to
                   a
                   close
                   address
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   in
                   your
                   Thoughts
                   you
                   seem
                   your self
                   to
                   lose
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   find
                   your
                   Lover
                   there
                   ,
                   who
                   tells
                   his
                   News
                   ;
                
                 
                   On
                   weightier
                   things
                   ,
                   your
                   solid
                   Mind
                   was
                   bent
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   hear'd
                   not
                   what
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   you
                   know
                   not
                   what
                   he
                   meant
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   talk
                   on
                   ,
                   and
                   ask
                   ,
                   and
                   answer
                   too
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   need
                   not
                   hope
                   to
                   have
                   a
                   word
                   from
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   you
                   may
                   smile
                   ,
                   when
                   next
                   you
                   hear
                   him
                   speak
                   ▪
                
                 
                   And
                   let
                   some
                   tune
                   in
                   thoughtless
                   accents
                   break
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   you
                   may
                   Sigh
                   ,
                   as
                   he
                   approaches
                   near
                   ,
                
                 
                   Now
                   shall
                   he
                   press
                   ,
                   now
                   shall
                   you
                   cry
                   ,
                   forbear
                   ,
                
                 
                   You
                   Frown
                   ,
                   he
                   Loves
                   ,
                   you
                   Laugh
                   ,
                   and
                   he
                   shall
                   Swear
                   .
                
                 
                   O
                   Love
                   !
                   O
                   Folly
                   !
                   O
                   dissembling
                   Maid
                   !
                
                 
                   O
                   Man
                   !
                   whose
                   Strength
                   by
                   Weakness
                   is
                   betray'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Caught
                   in
                   those
                   Nets
                   for
                   subtil
                   Women
                   laid
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Trust
                   to
                   my
                   skill
                   ,
                   in
                   spite
                   of
                   precepts
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   shall
                   Conquer
                   ,
                   but
                   to
                   yield
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   asks
                   you
                   now
                   ,
                   what
                   't
                   is
                   employs
                   your
                   thought
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wonders
                   what
                   has
                   such
                   deep
                   silence
                   wrought
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Inward
                   he
                   struggles
                   ,
                   not
                   resolv'd
                   by
                   you
                   .
                
                 
                   Longing
                   to
                   know
                   ,
                   yet
                   he
                   grows
                   silent
                   too
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Burning
                   Pains
                   ,
                   now
                   makes
                   his
                   Passion
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rack'd
                   with
                   your
                   silence
                   long
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   his
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   Loves
                   ,
                   he
                   Loves
                   ,
                   again
                   ,
                   again
                   he
                   cryes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Consults
                   you
                   oft
                   ,
                   but
                   you
                   make
                   no
                   replies
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Answer
                 .
              
               
                 WHen
                 grown
                 by
                 long
                 ,
                 long
                 repetition
                 dull
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 at
                 the
                 last
                 ,
                 you
                 answer
                 him
                 in
                 full
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 is
                 this
                 strange
                 request
                 which
                 you
                 have
                 made
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 is
                 it
                 Sir
                 ,
                 I
                 know
                 not
                 what
                 you
                 said
                 ?
              
               
                 O
                 Blest
                 dissimulation
                 of
                 the
                 Sex
                 !
              
               
                 Who
                 can
                 Mankind
                 by
                 carelessness
                 perplex
                 ,
              
               
                 O
                 Glorious
                 Sense
                 ,
                 of
                 Ignorance
                 in
                 shew
                 !
              
               
                 Which
                 makes
                 us
                 Fools
                 ,
                 while
                 you
                 act
                 Folly
                 so
                 .
              
               
               
                 O
                 happy
                 Art
                 of
                 Nature
                 !
                 Which
                 can
                 wind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 turn
                 ten
                 Thousand
                 ways
                 the
                 changing
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 folly
                 thus
                 ,
                 Man's
                 Wisdom
                 can
                 confound
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cast
                 his
                 baffled
                 Eyes
                 and
                 Senses
                 on
                 the
                 Ground
                 .
              
               
                 Happy
                 that
                 Wit
                 ,
                 which
                 is
                 in
                 silence
                 shown
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 than
                 in
                 all
                 the
                 works
                 of
                 Poets
                 known
                 .
              
               
                 Amasia
                 thus
                 receiv'd
                 her
                 Lover's
                 suit
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 did
                 her
                 silence
                 my
                 weak
                 words
                 confute
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 she
                 spoke
                 ,
                 all
                 Sense
                 ,
                 but
                 Love
                 was
                 mute
                 .
              
               
                 Even
                 Love
                 it self
                 by
                 silence
                 was
                 exprest
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 only
                 Vow'd
                 I
                 Lov'd
                 ,
                 and
                 look'd
                 the
                 rest
                 .
              
               
                 Against
                 himself
                 his
                 Foes
                 the
                 Poet
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Beauty
                 seen
                 ,
                 silence
                 in
                 Beauty
                 Charms
                 .
              
               
               
                 Beauty
                 's
                 describ'd
                 only
                 by
                 being
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 silence
                 speaks
                 ,
                 lodg'd
                 in
                 the
                 Beauteous
                 Mien
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 importunity
                 at
                 last
                 prevails
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 charming
                 turn
                 of
                 answers
                 never
                 fails
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 forc'd
                 to
                 answer
                 thousand
                 Queries
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 can
                 rely
                 with
                 questions
                 at
                 the
                 last
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Penalty
                 .
              
               
                 
                   WEll
                   ,
                   't
                   is
                   suppos'd
                   you
                   have
                   confest
                   you
                   hear'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   now
                   the
                   Lover
                   be
                   of
                   speech
                   debarr'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Lock
                   up
                   his
                   Lips
                   ,
                   lock
                   up
                   thy
                   injur'd
                   Ear
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   has
                   said
                   things
                   a
                   Virgin
                   should
                   not
                   hear
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   must
                   be
                   silent
                   ,
                   you
                   must
                   else
                   remove
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   he
                   grew
                   Impudent
                   and
                   talk'd
                   of
                   Love.
                
                 
                   The
                   Youth
                   stands
                   Speechless
                   ,
                   nor
                   dares
                   think
                   of
                   Bliss
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Lips
                   are
                   Seal'd
                   ,
                   but
                   Seal'd
                   without
                   a
                   Kiss
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Trust
                   to
                   my
                   skill
                   ,
                   in
                   spite
                   of
                   Precepts
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   shall
                   Conquer
                   ,
                   so
                   to
                   yield
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Lover
                   now
                   believes
                   his
                   Passion
                   curst
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   will
                   speak
                   ,
                   for
                   he
                   has
                   felt
                   the
                   worst
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   fears
                   now
                   urge
                   him
                   most
                   ,
                   when
                   most
                   they
                   awe
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   Cowards
                   from
                   despair
                   can
                   Courage
                   draw
                   .
                
                 
                   Use
                   him
                   like
                   Cowards
                   ,
                   all
                   his
                   rage
                   controul
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wound
                   him
                   ,
                   wound
                   the
                   Rebel
                   to
                   the
                   Soul.
                
                 
                   Tell
                   him
                   ,
                   himself
                   alone
                   he
                   must
                   deceive
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   't
                   is
                   impossible
                   you
                   should
                   believe
                   .
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   time
                   to
                   Visit
                   now
                   ,
                   you
                   must
                   not
                   stay
                
                 
                   Send
                   him
                   once
                   more
                   with
                   kinder
                   looks
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   goes
                   but
                   to
                   return
                   ;
                   why
                   ,
                   let
                   him
                   go
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   yours
                   ,
                   —
                   or
                   if
                   you
                   please
                   ,
                   he
                   may
                   be
                   so
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 Deportment
                 .
              
               
                 THe
                 Day
                 grows
                 fair
                 ,
                 your
                 Coach
                 ,
                 or
                 〈◊〉
                 may
                 wait
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 you
                 may
                 walk
                 ,
                 if
                 graceful
                 in
                 your
                 Gate
                 .
              
               
                 See
                 how
                 
                   R
                   —
                   h
                
                 displays
                 her
                 stately
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 Pride
                 of
                 Steps
                 ,
                 the
                 haughty
                 Wind
              
               
                 Swells
                 her
                 loose
                 Robes
                 before
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 behind
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   —
                   n
                
                 there
                 ,
                 trips
                 nimbly
                 ore
                 the
                 Park
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 she
                 fear'd
                 to
                 dissappoint
                 some
                 spark
                 .
              
               
                 
                   C
                   —
                   l
                
                 demurely
                 on
                 the
                 Ground
                 does
                 look
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 she
                 measur'd
                 every
                 Step
                 she
                 took
                 .
              
               
               
                 That
                 hasty
                 H
                 —
                 there
                 Walks
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 she
                 ran
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 whisks
                 her
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 and
                 brandishes
                 her
                 Fan.
              
               
                 The
                 Tall
                 Walk
                 slowly
                 ,
                 others
                 Walk
                 apace
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 movement
                 ,
                 every
                 gesture
                 has
                 its
                 grace
                 ,
              
               
                 Men
                 are
                 not
                 always
                 Charm'd
                 with
                 but
                 a
                 Face
                 .
              
               
                 Consult
                 that
                 Gate
                 ,
                 which
                 suits
                 your
                 Stature
                 best
                 ,
              
               
                 Walk
                 〈◊〉
                 to
                 please
                 your self
                 ,
                 nor
                 doubt
                 the
                 rest
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Humour
                 .
              
               
                 YOu
                 who
                 have
                 change
                 of
                 Garments
                 changes
                 wear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Daily
                 deck
                 in
                 various
                 forms
                 your
                 Hair.
              
               
                 Change
                 too
                 your
                 Humours
                 as
                 your
                 Dress
                 you
                 change
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Lyon
                 always
                 does
                 not
                 furious
                 Range
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 your
                 mild
                 Air
                 sometimes
                 compassion
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 disdain
                 ,
                 yet
                 ever
                 mingling
                 Love.
              
               
                 Now
                 Pleas'd
                 ,
                 now
                 Vex'd
                 ,
                 now
                 Aiery
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 Sad
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 very
                 thoughtful
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 very
                 Mad.
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 Humours
                 move
                 a
                 thousand
                 ways
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 most
                 of
                 all
                 ,
                 Variety
                 must
                 please
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Charmer
                 .
              
               
                 AMasia
                 thus
                 could
                 every
                 Passion
                 wear
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 wore
                 all
                 Charms
                 in
                 her
                 expressive
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Love
                 —
                 fond
                 Love
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
                 was
                 never
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 every
                 Passion
                 did
                 my
                 sense
                 controul
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Love
                 alone
                 possest
                 her
                 Lover's
                 Soul.
              
               
                 Love
                 and
                 Dispair
                 in
                 me
                 one
                 Passion
                 grew
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 ne're
                 knew
                 Love
                 but
                 when
                 Despair
                 I
                 knew
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 Smil'd
                 ,
                 —
                 yet
                 while
                 that
                 Sunshine
                 was
                 display'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Despairing
                 Love
                 gloom'd
                 in
                 a
                 thicker
                 Shade
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 Smil'd
                 —
                 and
                 strait
                 my
                 hopes
                 like
                 Phantoms
                 flee
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 Oh!
                 she
                 never
                 ,
                 never
                 Smil'd
                 on
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Smiles
                 .
              
               
                 SMile
                 Charming
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 change
                 from
                 Smiles
                 to
                 Smiles
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 Glories
                 Gild
                 the
                 tempting
                 Wiles
                 .
              
               
                 Smile
                 on
                 ,
                 Aerial
                 Beauties
                 we
                 shall
                 Trace
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 Paradise
                 sits
                 Blooming
                 in
                 your
                 Face
                 .
              
               
                 Whilst
                 Charms
                 thus
                 Lovely
                 all
                 your
                 Features
                 Crown
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 whilst
                 you
                 Smile
                 ,
                 Ah!
                 Who
                 can
                 bid
                 you
                 Frown
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 Frowns
                 .
              
               
                 THe
                 Sun
                 's
                 o're
                 cast
                 ,
                 the
                 sullen
                 gloom's
                 display'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Awfull
                 she
                 Frowns
                 ,
                 behold
                 the
                 Frowning
                 Maid
                 .
              
               
                 Iove
                 dwells
                 not
                 ever
                 in
                 the
                 Skies
                 serene
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Storms
                 sometimes
                 in
                 a
                 Tempestuous
                 scene
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Light'nings
                 first
                 Flash
                 from
                 the
                 shining
                 Cloud
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 as
                 the
                 Light'nings
                 fly
                 ,
                 Heaven
                 Thunders
                 loud
                 .
              
               
                 Tempests
                 at
                 Sea
                 serve
                 to
                 endear
                 the
                 Shore
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 Gods
                 ne'er
                 Thunder'd
                 ,
                 Men
                 would
                 scarce
                 adore
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 now
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 time
                 your
                 fury
                 were
                 appeas'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Youth
                 shall
                 offer
                 incense
                 ,
                 You
                 be
                 pleas'd
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 Tears
                 he
                 comes
                 to
                 pacify
                 your
                 Rage
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 falling
                 Show'rs
                 ev'n
                 Thunder
                 can
                 asswage
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Belief
                 .
              
               
                 
                   SEe
                   how
                   he
                   Weeps
                   ,
                   I
                   know
                   the
                   Youth
                   sincere
                
                 
                   He
                   Loves
                   ,
                   he
                   Vows
                   ,
                   and
                   offers
                   up
                   his
                   Prayer
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   True
                   ;
                   believe
                   him
                   True
                   ,
                   as
                   you
                   are
                   Fair.
                
                 
                   He
                   begs
                   you
                   would
                   his
                   Racking
                   Pains
                   relieve
                   ,
                
                 
                   Believe
                   —
                   how
                   can
                   it
                   hurt
                   you
                   to
                   believe
                   ?
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   no
                   uncommon
                   ,
                   no
                   new
                   Suit
                   he
                   moves
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   only
                   begs
                   you
                   would
                   believe
                   he
                   Loves
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Grant
                   the
                   request
                   he
                   does
                   so
                   oft
                   implore
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   let
                   hin
                   know
                   he
                   must
                   expect
                   no
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Inwards
                   he
                   's
                   Ravish'd
                   that
                   you
                   think
                   him
                   true
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Coast
                   of
                   Love
                   he
                   does
                   more
                   swift
                   pursue
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   still
                   one
                   Grant
                   prepares
                   the
                   way
                   for
                   New.
                
                 
                   Now
                   fresh
                   desires
                   spread
                   full
                   his
                   Passion
                   's
                   Sails
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   Sighs
                   ,
                   and
                   Steers
                   his
                   Passage
                   thro'
                   the
                   Gales
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Trust
                   to
                   my
                   skill
                   ,
                   in
                   spite
                   of
                   Precepts
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   you
                   shall
                   Conquer
                   ,
                   tho'
                   to
                   yield
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   If
                   you
                   are
                   full
                   convinc'd
                   he
                   does
                   not
                   feign
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   the
                   Youth
                   Loves
                   ,
                   he
                   should
                   be
                   Lov'd
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   thousand
                   ,
                   thousand
                   ways
                   there
                   are
                   to
                   try
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   word
                   implies
                   them
                   all
                   —
                   Deny
                   ,
                   Deny
                   .
                
                 
                   Grant
                   ,
                   or
                   Deniall
                   ,
                   in
                   succession
                   ,
                   Burns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Like
                   the
                   twin
                   Stars
                   ,
                   that
                   mount
                   the
                   Skies
                   by
                   turns
                
                 
                 
                   Grants
                   and
                   Denialls
                   the
                   amour
                   improve
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whatever
                   Star
                   shall
                   Shine
                   ,
                   the
                   Youth
                   shall
                   Love
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   your
                   last
                   Breath
                   own'd
                   you
                   believ'd
                   his
                   Vow
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   ,
                   now
                   he
                   Vows
                   again
                   ,
                   deny
                   it
                   now
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   he
                   such
                   protestations
                   shall
                   renew
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Youth
                   must
                   Damn
                   himself
                   twho
                   is
                   not
                   true
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Favours
                 .
              
               
                 
                   PErmit
                   him
                   now
                   ,
                   sometimes
                   your
                   Hands
                   to
                   press
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Sigh
                   ,
                   but
                   seldom
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   warm
                   address
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   while
                   his
                   presses
                   rise
                   too
                   fierce
                   ,
                   too
                   fast
                   ,
                
                 
                   Withdraw
                   your
                   Hands
                   ,
                   those
                   favours
                   must
                   not
                   last
                
                 
                 
                   seem
                   serious
                   now
                   ,
                   while
                   now
                   you
                   hear
                   him
                   Court
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   he
                   may
                   know
                   you
                   make
                   not
                   Love
                   your
                   Sport.
                
                 
                   Attend
                   ,
                   and
                   Answer
                   every
                   thing
                   he
                   says
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   soft
                   attention
                   must
                   the
                   Lover
                   please
                   .
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   now
                   more
                   fierce
                   ,
                   more
                   Passionate
                   he
                   Wooes
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   Love's
                   ,
                   Believe
                   ,
                   seem
                   Sorry
                   that
                   he
                   does
                   .
                
                 
                   Seem
                   much
                   concern'd
                   to
                   see
                   the
                   Lover
                   Burn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Seem
                   much
                   concern'd
                   you
                   can't
                   his
                   Love
                   Return
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   your
                   Eyes
                   kindly
                   with
                   compassion
                   move
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   say
                   you
                   hate
                   the
                   Sex
                   ,
                   and
                   cannot
                   Love.
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   your
                   aversion
                   ;
                   Monst'rous
                   !
                   Love
                   a
                   Man
                   !
                
                 
                   Say
                   ,
                   vow
                   you
                   cannot
                   ,
                   when
                   you
                   know
                   you
                   can
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   leaves
                   you
                   now
                   ,
                   half
                   desp'rate
                   as
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bids
                   you
                   farewell
                   ;
                   but
                   Vows
                   he
                   must
                   adore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   He
                   goes
                   but
                   to
                   return
                   ;
                   why
                   let
                   him
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   yours
                   ,
                   —
                   Or
                   if
                   you
                   please
                   he
                   may
                   be
                   so
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Letters
                 .
              
               
                 HE
                 Writes
                 ,
                 perhaps
                 ,
                 peruse
                 what
                 he
                 has
                 Writ
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 the
                 bearer
                 waits
                 ,
                 extoll
                 his
                 Wit.
              
               
                 Say
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 above
                 your
                 reach
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 implore
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 he
                 would
                 Write
                 ,
                 you
                 know
                 not
                 what
                 ,
                 no
                 more
              
               
                 Give
                 your
                 cold
                 Service
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Note
                 return
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 if
                 some
                 Fire
                 be
                 near
                 ,
                 the
                 Letter
                 Burn.
              
               
                 Say
                 ,
                 it
                 requires
                 no
                 Answer
                 ,
                 so
                 remove
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 Maids
                 should
                 never
                 Answer
                 Notes
                 of
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 Trust
                 me
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 dang'rous
                 ;
                 for
                 if
                 Virgins
                 Write
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 lose
                 the
                 noblest
                 Trophies
                 of
                 the
                 Fight
                 .
              
               
               
                 Some
                 Men
                 boast
                 Favours
                 which
                 they
                 never
                 knew
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 some
                 are
                 secret
                 still
                 ,
                 tho'
                 very
                 few
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Men
                 feel
                 vanity
                 —
                 as
                 much
                 as
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 maids
                 ,
                 whose
                 Sparks
                 ,
                 their
                 Loving
                 Notes
                 expose
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 ills
                 they
                 find
                 in
                 Writing
                 can
                 disclose
              
               
                 Write
                 not
                 ,
                 tho'
                 most
                 in
                 Letters
                 you
                 excell
                 ,
              
               
                 Write
                 not
                 to
                 show
                 your
                 Lover
                 you
                 Write
                 well
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 be
                 not
                 tempted
                 ,
                 tho'
                 you
                 know
                 to
                 Spell
                 .
              
               
                 Write
                 not
                 ,
                 no
                 never
                 ,
                 never
                 Write
                 to
                 Men
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 cannot
                 take
                 denyals
                 from
                 your
                 Pen
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 ours
                 to
                 Write
                 ,
                 and
                 Write
                 ,
                 and
                 Write
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 Silence
                 in
                 you
                 ,
                 shall
                 all
                 our
                 thoughts
                 deceive
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 make
                 reply
                 sufficient
                 ,
                 to
                 receive
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Distance
                 .
              
               
                 THe
                 Youth
                 returns
                 ,
                 your
                 Silence
                 makes
                 him
                 come
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 your
                 dear
                 Lips
                 he
                 must
                 receive
                 his
                 doom
                 .
              
               
                 Receive
                 him
                 coyly
                 ,
                 ask
                 him
                 what
                 he
                 meant
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 the
                 unwelcome
                 compliment
                 he
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 Seem
                 more
                 and
                 more
                 reserv'd
                 ,
                 and
                 for
                 a
                 while
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 he
                 protests
                 and
                 vows
                 ,
                 you
                 must
                 not
                 Smile
                 .
              
               
                 Keep
                 him
                 at
                 distance
                 while
                 he
                 talks
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 let
                 his
                 Hands
                 around
                 your
                 Bosom
                 Rove
                 ▪
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 shall
                 you
                 raise
                 more
                 Passion
                 in
                 his
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Flames
                 rage
                 highest
                 ,
                 when
                 a
                 while
                 confin'd
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 calls
                 you
                 cruel
                 ,
                 most
                 unhumane
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 will
                 no
                 favours
                 for
                 such
                 Love
                 allow
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Kindness
              
               
                 WHen
                 to
                 the
                 last
                 excess
                 of
                 Fondness
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 longs
                 for
                 all
                 ,
                 will
                 you
                 afford
                 him
                 none
                 ?
              
               
                 Yes
                 ,
                 grant
                 a
                 little
                 ,
                 now
                 a
                 little
                 more
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 a
                 little
                 greater
                 than
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Heaven
                 must
                 be
                 giving
                 still
                 ,
                 if
                 Men
                 adore
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Life
                 of
                 Love.
                 
              
               
                 YEt
                 here
                 be
                 cautious
                 favour
                 not
                 too
                 fast
                 ,
              
               
                 Give
                 not
                 too
                 much
                 ,
                 yet
                 give
                 your self
                 at
                 last
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 should
                 have
                 mod'rate
                 fuel
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 like
                 Fires
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 too
                 much
                 ,
                 damps
                 ;
                 yet
                 slighted
                 ,
                 it
                 expires
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 have
                 not
                 Souls
                 deserving
                 Virgin
                 Flame
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 vainly
                 think
                 all
                 Women
                 are
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
               
                 Keep
                 still
                 your
                 favours
                 now
                 ,
                 let
                 none
                 be
                 lost
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 give
                 so
                 little
                 that
                 no
                 Youth
                 may
                 boast
                 .
              
               
                 Men
                 are
                 but
                 Men
                 ,
                 Maids
                 are
                 but
                 mortal
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 Give
                 and
                 Refuse
                 ,
                 thus
                 you
                 grow
                 ever
                 new
                 .
              
               
                 Else
                 will
                 the
                 Youth
                 ,
                 continu'd
                 fondness
                 flee
                 ▪
              
               
                 For
                 every
                 Lover
                 does
                 not
                 Love
                 like
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 Flames
                 had
                 I
                 for
                 my
                 Amasia
                 Born
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 she
                 been
                 kind
                 ,
                 when
                 I
                 so
                 Lov'd
                 her
                 Scorn
                 .
              
               
                 Beauty
                 like
                 her's
                 ,
                 whole
                 Ages
                 might
                 deny
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Men
                 persue
                 like
                 me
                 ,
                 Maids
                 ,
                 ever
                 fly
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 Oh!
                 no
                 Man
                 like
                 Sylvius
                 can
                 adore
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Woman
                 like
                 Amasia
                 Charm
                 —
              
               
                 No
                 Woman
                 —
                 (
                 Maids
                 forgive
                 me
                 )
                 she
                 was
                 more
              
            
             
               
               
                 Consent
                 .
              
               
                 COnsent
                 at
                 last
                 ,
                 and
                 send
                 the
                 Youth
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 him
                 go
                 now
                 that
                 he
                 may
                 ever
                 stay
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Advice
                 .
              
               
                 
                   HE
                   goes
                   but
                   to
                   return
                   ;
                   why
                   let
                   him
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   's
                   yours
                   ,
                   —
                   but
                   be
                   advis'd
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   him
                   so
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Trust
                   to
                   my
                   Skill
                   ,
                   observe
                   my
                   precepts
                   past
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   you
                   now
                   have
                   Conquer'd
                   ,
                   Yield
                   at
                   last
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Both
                   Men
                   and
                   Maids
                   ,
                   Fighting
                   in
                   Cupid's
                   Feild
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   Men
                   and
                   Maids
                   ,
                   if
                   you
                   would
                   Conquer
                   ,
                   Yield
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Conclusion
                 .
              
               
                 BOth
                 Men
                 and
                 Maids
                 ,
                 whilst
                 in
                 your
                 Bridals
                 Blest
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 ,
                 my
                 reward
                 ,
                 be
                 for
                 a
                 truth
                 confest
                 ,
              
               
                 Art
                 has
                 done
                 all
                 can
                 be
                 by
                 Art
                 exprest
                 .
              
               
                 FINIS
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               A
               Catalogue
               of
               BOOKS
               Printed
               for
               ,
               and
               Sold
               by
               Ioseph
               Wild
               ,
               at
               the
               Elephant
               at
               Charing-Cross
               ▪
               Where
               Gentlemen
               and
               Ladies
               may
               be
               furnished
               with
               Novels
               and
               Playes
               of
               all
               sorts
               .
            
             
               Newly
               Published
               .
            
             
               A
               Collection
               of
               Novels
               viz.
               The
               secret
               History
               of
               the
               Earl
               of
               Essex
               ,
               and
               Queen
               Elizabeth
               .
               The
               Happy
               Slave
               ,
               and
               the
               Double
               Cuckold
               ;
               to
               which
               is
               added
               the
               Art
               of
               Pleasing
               in
               Conversation
               ;
               by
               the
               famous
               Cardinal
               Richlieu
               .
            
             
               A
               Collection
               of
               Pleasant
               Modern
               Novels
               Vol.
               II.
               viz.
               The
               Heroine
               Musqueteer
               or
               the
               Female
               Warriour
               ,
               in
               Four
               Parts
               .
               Incognita
               ,
               or
               Love
               and
               Duty
               reconcil'd
               ,
               by
               Mr.
               Congreve
               .
               The
               Pilgrim
               ,
               in
               Four
               Parts
               .
            
             
               Collier's
               Essay's
               on
               several
               Moral
               Subjects
               in
               two
               Parts
               ,
               the
               Fourth
               Edition
               .
            
             
               Reflections
               on
               Learning
               by
               a
               Gentleman
               ,
               the
               Third
               Edition
               :
            
             
               The
               Certainty
               of
               a
               Future
               State
               ;
               or
               a
               Discourse
               concerning
               Apparitions
               ,
               Written
               by
               
                 I.
                 Roe
              
               .
               A.
               M.
               
               Chaplain
               to
               the
               Right
               Honourable
               the
               Earl
               of
               Burlington
               .
               The
               Second
               Edition
               ,
               Price
               Sticht
               Is.
               
            
             
               A
               Sermon
               at
               the
               Funeral
               of
               Mrs.
               Bullivant
               ,
               who
               was
               Murder'd
               by
               
                 Edmond
                 Audley
              
               ,
               in
               St
               
                 Martins
                 Le-Grand
              
               .
               Preached
               by
               B.
               Crook
               A.
               M.
               Rector
               of
               St.
               
                 Michael
                 Woodstreet
              
               .
            
             
               A
               Brief
               and
               full
               Account
               ,
               of
               the
               New
               Version
               of
               the
               Psalms
               ,
               by
               N.
               Tate
               ,
               and
               N.
               Brady
               .
            
             
               The
               Spanish
               Decameron
               ,
               or
               ten
               Novels
               viz.
               The
               Rival
               Ladies
               ,
               The
               Mistakes
               ,
               the
               Generous
               Lover
               ,
               the
               Libertine
               ,
               The
               Virgin
               Captive
               ,
               The
               Perfidious
               Mistriss
               .
               The
               Metamorphos'd
               Lover
               The
               Imposture
               out-witted
               ,
               the
               Amorous
               Miser
               ,
               and
               the
               Pretended
               Alchymist
               ,
               the
               Second
               Edition
               .
            
             
               All
               the
               Histories
               and
               Novels
               ,
               Written
               by
               the
               late
               ingenious
               Mrs.
               Behn
               ,
               in
               one
               entire
               Volume
               ,
               together
               with
               the
               Life
               and
               Memoires
               of
               Mrs.
               Behn
               ,
               never
               before
               Printed
               ,
               the
               Fourth
               Edition
               with
               large
               Addition
               .
            
             
               Familiar
               Letters
               :
               Written
               by
               Iohn
               late
               Earl
               of
               Rochester
               ,
               to
               the
               Honourable
               
                 Henry
                 Savil
              
               Esq
               :
               And
               other
               Persons
               of
               Quality
               ▪
               with
               Love
               Letters
               Written
               by
               the
               late
               ingenious
               Mr.
               Otway
               ,
               Sir
               
                 George
                 Etehredge
              
               ,
               and
               the
               late
               Duke
               of
               Buckingham
               .
            
             
               The
               Wise
               and
               Ingenious
               Compainon
               ,
               French
               ,
               and
               English
               ,
               or
               a
               Collection
               of
               Wits
               of
               the
               Illustrious
               Persons
               ,
               both
               Ancient
               ,
               and
               Modern
               containing
               ,
               their
               Wise
               sayings
               ,
               Noble
               sentments
               ,
               Witty
               Repartees
               &c.
               By
               Mr
               Boyer
               .
            
             
               The
               Crucified
               Saviour
               ,
               or
               a
               Preparation
               to
               a
               worthy
               receiving
               the
               Holy
               Sacrament
               of
               the
               Lord's
               Supper
               in
               Meditations
               and
               Prayers
               for
               every
               Day
               in
               the
               VVeek
               ▪
               for
               the
               use
               of
               the
               Societies
               in
               and
               about
               London
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               Catalogue
               of
               some
               single
               Novels
               ,
               Printed
               and
               sold
               by
               Ioseph
               Wild
               ,
               at
               the
               Elephant
               at
               Charing-Cross
               ,
               for
               six
               Shillings
               per
               Dozen
               :
               Where
               you
               may
               be
               furnished
               with
               most
               sorts
               of
               Plays
               ,
            
             
               
                 THe
                 Amours
                 of
                 Count
                 Teckely
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Character
                 of
                 Love.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Court
                 secret
                 in
                 two
                 Parts
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 intrigues
                 of
                 Christina
                 Queen
                 of
                 Sweeden
                 .
              
               
                 Count
                 Amboise
                 ,
                 or
                 generous
                 Lover
                 .
              
               
                 Count
                 Soisions
                 .
              
               
                 Dialogues
                 of
                 the
                 Dead
                 .
              
               
                 Disorders
                 of
                 Love.
                 
              
               
                 Don
                 Sebastian
                 .
              
               
                 Fatal
                 Beauty
                 .
              
               
                 Fatal
                 Prudence
                 .
              
               
                 Woman's
                 Malice
                 .
              
               
                 Gallant
                 Ladies
                 or
                 the
                 Mutual
                 Confidents
                 .
              
               
                 Virtue
                 Betray'd
                 or
                 the
                 Irish
                 Princess
                 .
              
               
                 Hattige
                 .
              
               
                 Homais
                 Queen
                 of
                 Tunis
                 .
              
               
                 Reviv'd
                 Fugitive
              
               
                 Unhappy
                 Lovers
                 .
                 eraglian
                 ,
              
               
                 Chasts
              
               
                 Humours
                 of
                 the
                 Town
                 .
              
               
                 Ibrahim
                 .
              
               
                 Duke
                 of
                 Lorrain
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 Victorious
                 .
              
               
                 Rival
                 Princess
                 .
              
               
                 Rival
                 Mother
                 .
              
               
                 Agiatis
                 Queen
                 of
                 Sparta
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 History
                 of
                 Nicerotis
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 secret
                 History
                 of
                 the
                 Duke
                 of
                 Alancon
                 and
                 Queen
                 Elizabeth
                 .
              
               
                 Empire
                 Betray'd
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Relign
                   Laici
                
                 ,
                 by
                 Mr.
                 Dryden
              
               
                 Lisarda
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Travails
                 of
                 Love
                 aud
                 Jealovsie
              
               
                 The
                 Revengful
                 Mistress
                 ,
                 a
                 Romance
                 ,
                 by
                 
                   Philip
                   Ayres
                
                 Esq.
                 
              
               
                 Princess
                 of
                 Cleve
                 ,
                 a
                 Romance
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 Letters
                 from
                 a
                 Nun
                 to
                 a
                 Cavalier
                 ,
                 Englsh'd
                 by
                 Sir
                 R.
                 L.
                 
              
            
             
          
        
      
    
     
  

