The art of love in two books. Written both to men and ladies. A new poem.

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.