Aphra Behn

Amyntas led me to a Grove, Where all the Trees did shade us; The Sun it self, though it had Strove, It could not have betray’d us: The place secur’d from humane Eyes, No other fear allows. But when the Winds that gently rise, Doe Kiss the yielding Boughs. Down there we satt upon the Moss, And id begin to play A Thousand Amorous Tricks, to pass The heat of all the day. A many Kisses he did give: And I return’d the same Which made me willing to receive That which I dare not name. His Charming Eyes no Aid requir’d To tell their softning Tale; On her that was already fir’d ’Twas easy to prevaile. He did but Kiss and Clasp me round, Whilst those his thoughts Exprest: And lay’d me gently on the Ground; Ah who can guess the rest?

WHO MADE LOVE TO ME, IMAGIN’D MORE THAN WOMAN Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee, Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth: And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth. This last will justifie my soft complainte, While that may serve to lessen my constraint; And without Blushes I the Youth persue, When so much beauteous Woman is in view Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain With thy deluding Form thou giv’st us pain, While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain. In pity to our Sex sure thou wer’t sent, That we might Love, and yet be Innocent: For sure no Crime with thee we can commit; Or if we shou’d – thy Form excuses it. For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves. Thou beauteous Wonder of a different kind, Soft Cloris with the dear Alexis join’d; When e’er the Manly part of thee, wou’d plead Thou tempts us with the Image of the Maid, While we the noblest Passions do extend The Love to Hermes, Aphrodite the Friend.

(On some Verses he writ, and asking more for his Heart than ‘twas worth.) I Take back that Heart, you with such Caution give, Take the fond valu’d Trifle back; I hate Love-Merchants that a Trade wou’d drive And meanly cunning Bargains make. II I care not how the busy Market goes, And scorn to Chaffer for a price: Love does one Staple Rate on all impose, Nor leaves it to the Trader’s Choice. III A Heart requires a Heart Unfeign’d and True, Though Subt’ly you advance the Price, And ask a Rate that Simple Love ne’er knew: And the free Trade Monopolize. IV An humble Slave the Buyer must become, She must not bate a Look or Glance You will have all or you’ll have none; See how Love’s Market you inhance. V Is’t not enough, I gave you Heart for Heart, But I must add my Lips and Eies; I must no friendly Smile or Kiss impart; But you must Dun me with Advice. VI And every Hour still more unjust you grow, Those Freedoms you my life deny, You to Adraste are oblig’d to show, And giver her all my Rifled Joy. VII Without Controul she gazes on that Face, And all the happy Envyed Night, In the pleas’d Circle of your fond imbrace: She takes away the Lovers Right. VIII From me she Ravishes those silent hours, That are by Sacred Love my due; Whilst I in vain accuse the angry Powers, That make me hopeless Love pursue. IX Adrastes Ears with that dear Voice are blest, That Charms my Soul at every Sound, And with those Love-Inchanting Touches prest: Which I ne’er felt without a Wound. X She has thee all: whilst I with silent Greif, The Fragments of they Softness feel, Yet dare not blame the happy licenc’d Thief: That does my Dear-bought Pleasures steal. XI Whilst like a Glimering Taper still I burn, And waste my self in my own flame, Adraste takes the welcome rich Return: And leaves me all the hopeless Pain. XII Be just, my lovely Swain, and do not take Freedoms you’ll not to me allow; Or give Amynta so much Freedom back: That she may Rove as well as you. XIII Let us then love upon the honest Square, Since Interest neither have design’d, For the sly Gamester, who ne’er plays me fair, Must Trick for Trick expect to find.

Since man with that inconstancy was born, To love the absent, and the present scorn Why do we deck, why do we dress For such short-lived happiness? Why do we put attraction on, Since either way ’tis we must be undone? They fly if honour take our part, Our virtue drives ’em o’er the field. We love ’em by too much desert, And oh! they fly us if we yield. Ye gods! is there no charm in all the fair To fix this wild, this faithless wanderer? Man! our great business and our aim, For whom we spread our fruitless snares, No sooner kindles the designing flame, But to the next bright object bears The trophies of his conquest and our shame: Inconstancy’s the good supreme The rest is airy notion, empty dream! Then heedless nymph, be rul’d by me If e’re your swain the bliss desire; Think like Alexis he may be Whose wisht possession damps his fire; The roving youth in every shade Has left some sighing and abandon’d maid, For ’tis a fatal lesson he has learn’d, After fruition ne’er to be concern’d.

A thousand martyrs I have made, All sacrificed to my desire; A thousand beauties have betrayed, That languish in resistless fire. The untamed heart to hand I brought, And fixed the wild and wandering thought. I never vowed nor sighed in vain But both, though false, were well received. The fair are pleased to give us pain, And what they wish is soon believed. And though I talked of wounds and smart, Love’s pleasures only touched my heart. Alone the glory and the spoil I always laughing bore away; The triumphs, without pain or toil, Without the hell, the heav’n of joy. And while I thus at random rove Despise the fools that whine for love.

O Love! that stronger art than wine, Pleasing delusion, witchery divine, Wont to be prized above all wealth, Disease that has more joys than health; Though we blaspheme thee in our pain, And of thy tyranny complain, We are all bettered by they reign. What reason never can bestow We to this useful passion owe; Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease, And learns a clown the art to please, Humbles the vain, kindles the cold, Makes misers free, and cowards bold; ’Tis he reforms the sot from drink, And teaches airy fops to think. When full brute appetite is fed, And choked the glutton lies and dead, Thou new spirits dost dispense And ’finest the gross delights of sense: Virtue’s unconquerable aid That against Nature can persuade, And makes a roving mind retire Within the bounds of just desire; Cheerer of age, youth’s kind unrest, And half the heaven of the blest!

Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The young, the noble Strephon is no more. Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing light, And ne’er shall rise from Death’s eternal night, So rich a prize the Stygian gods ne’er bore, Such wit, such beauty, never graced their shore. He was but lent this duller world t’ improve In all the charms of poetry, and love; Both were his gift, which freely he bestowed, And like a god, dealt to the wond’ring crowd. Scorning the little vanity of fame, Spight of himself attained a glorious name. But oh! in vain was all his peevish pride, The sun as soon might his vast luster hide, As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright, As suffering no vicissitudes of night. Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The young, the noble Strephon is no more. Now uninspired upon your banks we lie, Unless when we would mourn his elegy; His name’s a genius that would wit dispense, And give the theme a soul, the words a sense. But all fine thought that ravisht when it spoke, With the soft youth eternal leave has took; Uncommon wit that did the soul o’ercome, Is buried all in Strephon’s worshipped tomb; Satire has lost its art, its sting is gone, The Fop and Cully now may be undone; That dear instructing rage is now allayed, And no sharp pen dares tell ’em how they’ve strayed; Bold as a god was ev’ry lash he took, But kind and gentle the chastizing stroke. Mourn, mourn, ye youths, whom fortune has betrayed, The last reproacher of your vice is dead. Mourn, all ye beauties, put your Cyprus on, The truest swain that e’re adored you’s gone; Think how he loved, and writ, and sighed, and spoke, Recall his mien, his fashion, and his look. By what dear arts the soul he did surprise, Soft as his voice, and charming as his eyes. Bring garlands all of never-dying flowers, Bedewed with everlasting falling showers; Fix your fair eyes upon your victimed slave, Sent gay and young to his untimely grave. See where the noble swain extended lies, Too sad a triumph of your victories; Adorned with all the graces Heaven e’er lent, All that was great, soft, lovely, excellent You’ve laid into his early monument. Mourn, mourn, ye beauties, your sad loss deplore, The young, the charming Strephon is no more. Mourn, all ye little gods of love, whose darts Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts; Lay by the gilded quiver and the bow, The useless toys can do no mischief now, Those eyes that all your arrows’ points inspired, Those lights that gave ye fire are now retired, Cold as his tomb, pale as your mother’s doves; Bewail him then oh all ye little loves, For you the humblest votary have lost That ever your divinities could boast; Upon your hands your weeping heads decline, And let your wings encompass round his shrine; In stead of flowers your broken arrows strow, And at his feet lay the neglected bow. Mourn, all ye little gods, your loss deplore, The soft, the charming Strephon is no more. Large was his fame, but short his glorious race, Like young Lucretius lived and died apace. So early roses fade, so over all They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall, While all the scattered perfumed leaves declare, How lovely ’twas when whole, how sweet, how fair. Had he been to the Roman Empire known, When great Augustus filled the peaceful throne; Had he the noble wond’rous poet seen, And known his genius, and surveyed his mien, (When wits, and heroes graced divine abodes), He had increased the number of their gods; The royal judge had temples rear’d to’s name, And made him as immortal as his fame; In love and verse his Ovid he’ad out-done, And all his laurels, and his Julia won. Mourn, mourn, unhappy world, his loss deplore, The great, the charming Strephon is no more.

Oh, how the hand the lover ought to prize ’Bove any one peculiar grace! While he is dying for the eyes And doting on the lovely face, The unconsid’ring little knows How much he to this beauty owes. That, when the lover absent is, Informs him of his mistress’ heart; ’Tis that which gives him all his bliss When dear love-secrets ’twill impart: That plights the faith the maid bestows, And that confirms the tim’rous vows. ’Tis that betrays the tenderness Which the too bashful tongue denies; ’Tis that which does the heart confess, And spares the language of the eyes; ’Tis that which treasure gives so vast, Ev’n Iris ’twill to Damon give at last.

Slight unpremeditated Words are borne By every common Wind into the Air; Carelessly utter’d, die as soon as born, And in one instant give both Hope and Fear: Breathing all Contraries with the same Wind According to the Caprice of the Mind. But Billetdoux are constant Witnesses, Substantial Records to Eternity; Just Evidences, who the Truth confess, On which the Lover safely may rely; They’re serious Thoughts, digested and resolv’d; And last, when Words are into Clouds devolv’d.

Song from Abdelazar Love in Fantastic Triumph sat, Whilst Bleeding Hearts around him flowed, For whom Fresh pains he did Create, And strange Tyrannic power he showed; From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire, Which round about, in sport he hurled; But ’twas from mine he took desire Enough to undo the Amorous World. From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his Pride and Cruelty; From me his Languishments and Fears, And every Killing Dart from thee; Thus thou and I, the God have armed, And set him up a Deity; But my poor Heart alone is harmed, Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.