Your charms in harmless childhood lay,
Like metals in the mine:

Age from no face took more away
Than youth concealed in thine.

LOVE in fantastic triumph sate,

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 fires, Which round about in sport he hurled; But 'twas from mine he took desires

Enough to undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishment 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,
While thine the victor is, and free.

Aphra Behn.

281

OF HIS MISTRESS

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.

But, O! how slowly minutes roll,
When absent from her eyes,
That fed my love, which is my soul !
It languishes and dies;

For then, no more a soul, but shade,

It mournfully does move,

And haunts my breast, by absence made
The living tomb of love.

ABSENT

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

282

FROM

THEE

ABSENT from thee, I languish still!
Then ask me not :-When I return?
The straying fool 'twill plainly kill

To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,
That my fantastic mind may prove
The torments it deserves to try,

That tears my fix'd heart from my love.

When, wearied with a world of woe,
To thy safe bosom I retire,

Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,
May I contented there expire!

Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,

I fall on some base heart unblest

Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven

And lose my everlasting rest!

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

The time that is to come is not;

How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot,
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phyllis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,

False hearts, and broken vows!

If I by miracle can be

This live-long minute true to thee,

'Tis all that Heaven allows.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

284

UPON DRINKING IN A BOWL

VULCAN, contrive me such a cup

As Nestor used of old!

Show all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with gold.

Make it so large that, fill'd with sack
Up to the swelling brim,

Vast toasts on the delicious lake

Like ships at sea may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek:
With war I've nought to do!
I'm none of those that took Mæstrick,
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

Let it no name of planets tell,
Fix'd stars, or constellations:

For I am no Sir Sidrophel,

Nor none of his relations.

But carve thereon a spreading vine;
Then add two lovely boys;

Their limbs in amorous folds entwine,
The type of future joys.

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are.
May drink and love still reign!
With wine I wash away my care,
And then to love again.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

285

I CANNOT CHANGE

I CANNOT change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn,

Since that poor swain, that sighs for you,
For you alone was born.

No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move

A surer way I'll try,

And, to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on and die.

When, kill'd with grief, Amyntas lies,

And you to mind shall call

The sighs that now unpity'd rise,

The tears that vainly fall,

That welcome hour, that ends this smart,

Will then begin your pain;

For such a faithful tender heart

Can never break in vain.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester.

286

TO HIS MISTRESS

WHY dost thou shade thy lovely face? O, why
Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny
The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?

Without thy light, what light remains in me?
Thou art my life: my way, my light's in thee;
I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.

Thou art my life: if thou but turn away,
My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way:
Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray.

My light thou art: without thy glorious sight,
My eyes are darkened with eternal night.
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.

Thou art my way: I wander if thou fly.
Thou art my light: if hid, how blind am I !
Thou art my life: if thou withdraw'st, I die.