Chapter XVII

The Great Man's Gratitude to his best Friend,
King's Promises, Whores Vows tow'rds thee they bend,
Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

The ADVICE.

All Things submit themselves to your Command,
Fair _Cælia_, when it does not Love withstand:
The Pow'r it borrows from your Eyes alone;
All but the God must yield to, who has none.
Were he not blind, such are the Charms you have,
He'd quit his Godhead to become your Slave:
Be proud to act a mortal Hero's Part,
And throw himself for Fame on his own Dart.
But Fate has otherwise dispos'd of Things,
In different Bands subjected Slaves and Kings:
Fetter'd in Forms of Royal State are they,
While we enjoy the Freedom to obey.
That Fate like you resistless does ordain,
To Love, that over Beauty he shall reign.
By Harmony the Universe does move,
And what is Harmony but mutual Love?
Who would resist an Empire so divine,
Which universal Nature does enjoin?
See gentle Brooks, how quietly they glide,
Kissing the rugged Banks on either Side.
While in their Crystal Streams at once they show,
And with them feed the Flow'rs which they bestow:
Tho' rudely throng'd by a too near Embrace,
In gentle Murmurs they keep on their Pace
To the lov'd Sea; for Streams have their Desires;
Cool as they are, they feel Love's powerful Fires;
And with such Passion, that if any Force
Stop or molest them in their amorous Course;
They swell, break down with Rage, and ravage o'er
The Banks they kiss'd, and Flow'rs they fed before.
Submit then, _Cælia_, e'er you be reduc'd;
For Rebels, vanquish'd once, are vilely us'd.
Beauty's no more but the dead Soil, which Love
Manures, and does by wise Commerce improve:
Sailing by Sighs, thro' Seas of Tears, he sends
Courtships from foreign Hearts, for your own Ends:
Cherish the Trade, for as with _Indians_ we
Get Gold and Jewels for our Trumpery:
So to each other for their useless Toys,
Lovers afford whole Magazines of Joys.
But if you're fond of Baubles, be, and starve,
Your Guegaw Reputation still preserve:
Live upon Modesty and empty Fame,
Foregoing Sense for a fantastick Name.

The DISCOVERY.

_Cælia_, that faithful Servant you disown,
Would in Obedience keep his Love his own:
But bright Ideas, such as you inspire,
We can no more conceal, than not admire.
My Heart at home in my own Breast did dwell,
Like humble Hermit in a peaceful Cell.
Unknown and undisturb'd it rested there,
Stranger alike to Hope and to Despair.
Now Love with a tumultuous Train invades
The sacred Quiet of those hollow'd Shades.
His fatal Flames shine out to ev'ry Eye,
Like blazing Comets in a Winter Sky.
How can my Passion merit your Offence,
That challenges so little Recompence?
For I am one, born only to admire;
Too humble e'er to hope, scarce to desire.
A Thing whose Bliss depends upon your Will,
Who wou'd be proud you'd deign to use him ill.
Then give me leave to glory in my Chain,
My fruitless Sighs, and my unpitied Pain.
Let me but ever Love, and ever be
Th' Example of your Pow'r and Cruelty.
Since so much Scorn does in your Breast reside,
Be more indulgent to its Mother Pride.
Kill all you strike, and trample on their Graves;
But own the Fates of your neglected Slaves:
When in the Croud yours undistinguish'd lies,
You give away the Triumph of your Eyes.
Perhaps (obtaining this) you'll think I find
More Mercy than your Anger has design'd:
But Love has carefully design'd for me,
The last Perfection of Misery.
For to my State the Hopes of Common Peace,
Which ev'ry Wretch enjoys in Death, must cease:
My worst of Fates attend me in my Grave,
Since, dying, I must be no more your Slave.

THE NINTH ELEGY, In the Second Book of _Ovid_'s Amours, translated.

_To LOVE._

O Love! how cold and slow to take my part?
Thou idle Wanderer about my Heart:
Why, thy old faithful Soldier, wilt thou see
Oppress'd in thy own Tents? They murther me.
Thy Flames consume, thy Arrows pierce thy Friends:
Rather on Foes pursue more noble Ends.
_Achilles_ Sword would certainly bestow
A Cure, as certain as it gave the Blow.
Hunters, who follow flying Game, give o'er
When the Prey's caught, Hopes still lead on before.
We thine own Slaves feel thy tyrannick Blows,
Whilst thy tame Hand's unmov'd against thy Foes.
On Men disarm'd, how can you gallant prove?
And I was long ago disarm'd by Love.
Millions of dull Men live, and scornful Maids:
We'll own Love valiant when he these invades.
_Rome_ from each Corner of the wide World snatch'd
A Laurel, or't had been to this Day thatch'd.
But the old Soldier has his resting Place;
And the good batter'd Horse is turn'd to Grass:
The harrass'd Whore, who liv'd a Wretch to please,
Has leave to be a Bawd, and take her Ease.
For me then, who have truly spent my Blood
(Love) in thy Service; and so boldly stood
In _Cælia_'s Trenches; were't not wisely done,
E'en to retire, and live in Peace at home?
No--might I gain a Godhead to disclaim
My glorious Title to my endless Flame:
_Divinity_ with Scorn I wou'd forswear
Such sweet, dear, tempting Devils _Women_ are.
Whene'er those Flames grow faint, I quickly find
A fierce, black Storm pour down upon my Mind:
Headlong I'm hurl'd like Horsemen, who, in vain,
Their (Fury-flaming) Coursers would restrain.
As Ships, just when the Harbour they attain,
Are snatch'd by sudden Blasts to Sea again:
So Love's fantastick Storms reduce my Heart
Half rescu'd, and the God resumes his Dart.
Strike here, this undefended Bosom wound,
And for so brave a Conquest be renown'd.
Shafts fly so fast to me from ev'ry Part,
You'll scarce discern the Quiver from my Heart.
What Wretch can bear a live-long Night's dull Rest?
Fool--is not Sleep the Image of pale Death?
There's time for Rest, when Fate hath stopt your Breath.
Me may my soft deluding Dear deceive;
I'm happy in my Hopes while I believe.
Now let her flatter, then as fondly chide:
Often may I enjoy; oft be deny'd.
With doubtful Steps the God of War does move
By the Example, in ambiguous Love.
Blown to and fro like Down from thy own Wing;
Who knows when Joy or Anguish thou wilt bring:
Yet at thy Mother's and thy Slave's Request,
Fix an eternal Empire in my Breast:
And let th' inconstant, charming, Sex,
Whose wilful Scorn does Lovers vex,
Submit their Hearts before thy Throne:
The Vassal World is then thy own.

_Woman's HONOUR._

A SONG.

I.

_Love_ bid me hope, and I obey'd;
_Phillis_ continu'd still unkind:
Then you may e'en despair, he said,
In vain I strive to change her Mind.

II.

_Honour's_ got in, and keeps her Heart;
Durst he but venture once abroad,
In my own Right I'd take your part,
And shew my self a mightier _God_.

III.

This huffing _Honour_ domineers
In Breasts, where he alone has place:
But if true gen'rous _Love_ appears,
The Hector dares not shew his Face.

IV.

Let me still languish, and complain,
Be most inhumanly deny'd:
I have some Pleasure in my Pain,
She can have none with all her Pride.

V.

I fall a Sacrifice to _Love_,
She lives a Wretch for _Honour_'s sake;
Whose Tyrant does most cruel prove,
The Difference is not hard to make.

VI.

Consider _Real Honour_ then,
You'll find _Hers_ cannot be the same,
'Tis noble Confidence in Men,
In Women mean mistrustful Shame.

_Grecian_ KINDNESS.

A SONG.

I.

The utmost Grace the _Greeks_ could shew,
When to the _Trojans_ they grew kind,
Was with their Arms to let 'em go,
And leave their lingring Wives behind.
They beat the Men, and burnt the Town,
Then all the Baggage was their own.

II.

There the kind Deity of Wine
Kiss'd the soft wanton God of Love;
This clapt his Wings, that press'd his Vine,
And their best Pow'rs united move.
While each brave _Greek_ embrac'd his Punk,
Lull'd her asleep, and then grew drunk.

The MISTRESS.

A SONG.

I.

An Age in her Embraces past,
Would seem a Winter's Day;
Where Life and Light with envious haste,
Are torn and snatch'd away.

II.

But, oh! how slowly Minutes roul,
When absent from her Eyes;
That fed my Love, which is my Soul,
It languishes and dies.

III.

For then no more a Soul but Shade,
It mournfully does move;
And haunts my Breast, by Absence made
The living Tomb of Love.

IV.

You wiser Men despise me not;
Whose Love-sick Fancy raves,
On Shades of Souls, and Heav'n knows what;
Short Ages live in Graves.

V.

Whene'er those wounding Eyes, so full
Of Sweetness, you did see;
Had you not been profoundly dull,
You had gone mad like me.

VI.

Nor censure us, you who perceive
My best belov'd and me,
Sigh and lament, complain and grieve,
You think we disagree.

VII.

Alas! 'tis sacred Jealousie,
Love rais'd to an Extream;
The only Proof 'twixt them and me,
We love, and do not dream.

VIII.

Fantastick Fancies fondly move;
And in frail Joys believe:
Taking false Pleasure for true Love;
But Pain can ne'er deceive.