Her eyes, which us'd to pierce the hardest hearts
Are now difarm'd of all their flames and darts;
Thofe ftars now heavily and flowly move;
And fickness triumphs in the throne of love:
The fever ev'ry moment more prevails,
Its rage her body feels, and tongue bewails:
She, whose difdain fo many Lovers prove,
Sighs now for torment, as they figh for love,
And with loud cries which rend the neighb'ring air,
Wounds my fad heart, and wakens my defpair. 186
Both men and Gods I charge now with my lofs,
And, wild with grief, my thoughts each other cross;
My heart and tongue labour in both extremes,
This fends up humble prayers, while that blafphemés
I ask their help, whofe malice I defy,
And mingle facrilege with piety.
But that which must yet more perplex my mind,
To love her truly, I muft feem unkind:
So unconcern'd a face my forrow wears,
I must restrain unruly floods of tears.!
My eyes and tongue put on diffembling forms,
I shew a calmness in the midst of storms;
I feem to hope when all my hopes are gone,
And almost dead with grief, discover none.
But who can long deceive a loving eye,
Or with dry eyes behold his mistress die?
When paffion had with all its terrors brought
Th'approaching danger nearer to my thought,
Off on a fudden fell the forc'd disguise,
And fhew'd a fighing heart in weeping eyes:
My apprehenfions now no more confin'd,
Expos'd my forrows, and betray'd my mind,
The fair afflicted foon perceives my tears, 209
Explains my fighs, and thence concludes my fears:
With fad prefages of her hopeless cafe,
She reads her fate in my dejected face;
Then feels my torment, and neglects her own,
While lam fenfible of her's alone;
Each does the other's burden kindly bear,
I fear her death, and the bewails my fear:
Tho' thus we fuffer under Fortune's darts,
Tis only thofe of Love which reach our hearts.
Mean while the fever mocks at all our fears,
Grows by our fighs, and rages at our tears;
Those vain effects of our as vain defire,
Like wind and oil increafe the fatal fire,
Almeria then, feeling the Deftinies
About to fhut her lips and clofe her eyes;
Weeping, in mine fix'd her fair trembling hand, 225
And with these words 1 fcarce could understand,
Her paffion in a dying voice exprefs'd,
Half, and her figh's alas! made out the reft.
Tis paft; this pang---Nature gives o'er the strife; Thou must thy Mistress lofe, and I my life. I die; but dying thine, the Fates may prove Their conqueft over me, but not my love; Thy memory, my glory, and my pain, In fpight of death it felf fhall ftill remain.. Dearest Orontes, my hard fate denies
That Hope is the last thing which in us dies:
From my griev'd breast all those foft thoughts are
And Love furvives it, tho'my Hope is dead;
1 yield my life, but keep my paffion yet,
And can all thoughts but of Orontes quit ;
My flame increases as my ftrength decays;
Death, which puts out the light, the heat will raise:
That still remains, tho' I from hence remove;
I lose my Lover, but I keep my Love..
The figh which fent forth that laft tender word, Uptow'rds the heav'ns like a bright meteor foar'd; And the kind Nymph, not yet bereft of charms, Fell cold and breathlefs in her Lover's arms:
Goddess, who now my fate haft understood;
Spare but my tears, and freely take my blood: 250
Here let me end the story of my cares,
My difmal grief enough the reft declares.
Judge thou by all this mifery display'd,
Whither I ought not to implore thy aid:
Thus to furvive, reproaches on me draws
Never fad wishes had fo juft a cause.
Come then, my only hope; in ev'ry place
Thou vifiteft, men tremble at thy face,
And fear thy name: once let thy fatal hand
Fall on a Swain that does the blow demand.
Vouchlafe thy dart; I need not one of those,
With which thou do'ft unwilling Kings depofe:
A welcome death the flighteft wound can bring,
And free a foul already on her wing,
Without thy aid, moft miferable I
Muft ever wish, yet not obtain to die.
Et others Songs or Satires write,
Provok'd by vanity or fpite;
My Mufe a nobler cause shall
To found aloud the praifee
That gentle, yet refiftless heat
Which raises man to all things good & great :
While other paffions of the mind
To low brutality debafe mankind,
By Love, we are above our felves refin'd.j
Oh Love, thou trance divine, in which the foul, 10 Unclogg'd with worldly cares, may range without
(teach And foaring to her heav'n, from thence infpird can High myfteries, above poorReafon's feeble reach.
To weak old age prudence fome aid may prove, I And curb thofe appetites that faintly move;
But wild,impetuous youth is tam'd by nothing lefs than Love.
Of men too rough for peace, too rude for arts,
Love's power can penetrate the hardest hearts;
And through the clofeft pores a paffage find,
Like that of light, to fhine all o'er the mind.
The want of Love does both extremes produce;
Maids are too nice, and men as much too loose ;
While equal good an am'rous couple find,
She makes him conftant, and he makes her kind.
New charms in vain a Lover's faith would prove;
Hermits or bed-rid men they'll fooner move:
The fair inveigler will but fadly find,
There's no fuch Eunuch as a man in love.
But when by his chafte Nymph embrac'd,
(For Love makes all embraces chaste)
Then the transported creature can
Do wonders, and is more than man.
Both heav'n and carth would our, defires confine;
But yet in vain both heav'n and earth combine,
Unless where Love bleffes the great defign.
Hymen makes faft the hand, but Love the heart;
He the fool's God, thou Nature's Hymen art;
Whofe laws once broke, we are not held by force
But the false breach it felf is a divorce.
For Love the mifer will his Gold defpife,
The falfe grow faithfull, and the foolish wife;
Cautious the young, and complaifant the old,
The cruel gentle, and the coward bold.
Thou glorious Sun within our fouls;
Whofe influence fo much controuls;
Ev'n dull and heavy lumps of love,
Quicken'd by thee, more lively move,
And if their heads but any fubftance hold,
Love ripens all that drofs into the pureft Gold.
In Heav'n's great work thy part is fuch,
That master-like thou giv'ft the last great touch,
To Heav'n's own mafter-piece of man;
And finishest what Nature but began:
Thy happy stroke can into foftnefs bring
Reason, that rough and wrangling thing.
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