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

Gold.

CUrse on your Hellish Tongues, ye impious hence▪ The Youth has Love, the Youth has wit and Sense. Constant in Truth, and moving in Address, And shall this Lover be deny'd Access? It will be so.—This fatal Maxim hold; Fleering Attendants must be brib'd with Gold. What can't the Maid that's voluble of Tongue? False, she shows true, and right she renders wrong▪ For shame, ye Brittish Maids! your Thrones maintain, Reign all your selves; for thus your Servants Reign. Thro' ways too Thorny do's that Swain pursue, Who serves the Mistress, and the Servants too.

All have not Gold, by which the Sex is won, At least I'm sure that I my self have none. Thus Beauty do's a sordid Traffick hold, Sordid indeed, tho' thus it deals in Gold, Whilst Love, more pretious Love, is bought, and sold. How shall I heal, poor Swain! these fatal woes? For Love and Poverty are mortal Foes. Curse on those Sulph'rous Mines which feed the Oare, Curse on those Misers Eyes, which sed it more, And gave it first that value, which it bore. Want's a Disease for which I know no Cure, Those Swains will still be slighted, who are poor. Fond expectation may the Maids deceive, Perhaps, your Passion may on promise live, Promise hower' tho' you want Gold to give. Nought should to needy Lovers seem to hard, Promise vast Golden Mountains for reward.

What you request, if they believe, they grant, Never, no never let them know your want. Their expectation then their Aid excites; Aloud the Lady reads your am'rous flights, And the Maids cry,—how prettily he Writes! But if you still are giving, much have given, They stretch your Bounty and your Praise to Heav'n. Brave, Handsom, Great, they term the Youth that's free; Thus brib'd with Gold, they would extoll ev'n me. Inspiring Phaebus! Let some Cause be told, Why thy Beams make not for thy off-spring Gold. Falsely attribute we thy guilded praise, Gold is not sure the Product of thy Rays. If Gold be thine, thy Sons are Minors still, And you, severest Parent! Use them ill. Hence with thy ill fam'd Laurel's useless Tree, Its spreading Branches bear no Fruits for me.

Too plain its fatal barrenness is seen, It never blossoms, tho' 'tis ever Green. Wrire yet again, fond Youth! and by the Maid, Let the soft, secret Letter be convey'd. With guilded edges let thy Note be lac't, 'Tis fit thou give her all the Gold thou hast. The Maid's assistance in kind words implore, Gain her, She soon shall gain your Mistress more By that Epistle, than by all before. Now shall She practice all her closest Wiles, She meets the smiling Charmer, then She smiles. The Maid commends each flourish of your Pen, Vows 'tis the prettiest Letter She has seen. Intreats an Answer from the gentler Fair, Again intreats, renews again her pray'r, And crys, how can you let the Youth despair? In all his Lines such melting Accents move, Madam, I'm sure he does sincerely love.

Write, tho' your Letter bear the hardest strain, Bid him desist, tell him his Suit is vain; Better to kill, than let him live in pain. Charge him, command him, give his Passion o're, Command the dying Youth to love no more. Perhaps She Writes, but that's a large advance, Who trusts her Pen, leanes on a yielding Lance.

Observe my Rules, drawn from experienc'd Skill. Lye now in Ambush, and so Conquer still.

Waiting not far the trembling Lover stands, Receives the Letter from the Servants hands, And seems Distracted at the hard Commands. Disturb not, Youth! Your anxious bosom so, For She would have you come, who bids you go.