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

Address.

LET your Address the humblest boldness show, So gain your Conquests, and maintain them so. Breath at her Feet the Triumphs of her Eyes, That Love stoops lowest, which sublimest flies, Sweet is the sound, when she shall bid you rise. With eager shiv'rings let her Hands be prest, Enervate force speaks the sond Soul the best, Let words urge all you can, and Murmurs breath the rest. From your fond Eyes let hasty glances rowl, Like troubled notions from the Poet's Soul. The speaking Eyes the fondest thoughts declare; Charm'd by her looks, yours must all sweetness wear, Your Visage guilded with a smiling air.

Pressing her Hands, while you approach more nigh, She backward leans, disdainful, coyly shy. Forbear, she crys, what mean you, Sir, forbear; Obey her now, but now bend yet more near. Love is a Theft, and you must softly Steal, Obtain the favour first, and then conceal. Whate'r advances in your Suit are got, Seem as if you your self perceiv'd them not. Whilst fondest Lovers such devices find, From hence it grows Love is reputed blind. Thus may your Hands glide gently to her Breast, Thus may those swelling softnesses be prest. Thus by kind art thou on Love's Thrones shal't Reign, But if you can't your Conquests still maintain, Back let your Hands softly be drawn again. Again approach within a little while, That Sky which thunders now, e're long will smile; These favours flow not from first Visits paid, The soft rewards of long addresses made.

Sometimes, the fair puts on a clowded Brow, And what but late was granted, is not now. The Charming Sex, still on new tryals bent, Shew that their favours are not given, but lent. Humour her present Coyness, seem reserv'd, Maids must sometimes by your neglect be serv'd, Feed their disdain, tho' their desires be starv'd. Now, sondly gaze, as her heav'd Bosom pants, And press that breast, which your soft presses wants, Against her will, what pleases her, she grants. With struggling hands let the dear Charm be prest, Tell her your Heart dwells in her panting Breast. Some saint Essays she makes, lays soft Commands, And gently strives, and with the gentlest hands. The short efforts she makes are never strong, Her Eyes entreat you, and her melting Tongue, But all their soft entreaties last not long.

To her own Breasts her wand'ring Hands repair, Which when you feel, receive, and press them there; Forbear she crys, but hopes you won't forbear. Her tender Hands remove not yours, but stay, Alas! neglected in her lap they lay. Why do's her Breast her Charming Hand receive? 'Tis to touch yours, which such endearings give. Let not her Snowy Fingers now be blam'd; They would press too, but that she's yet asham'd. Whilst your each touch, soft wishing thoughts impart, Your Hand runs thro' her to the very Heart. Much tho' they please, they must at last remove, I teach not still the same continu'd Love.

Observe my Rules, drawn from experienc'd skill, Now Fight, now Fly, so shall you Conquer still.

Earnest resentments now she seems to show, And crys you hurt her, who have Charm'd her so.

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How dares your Hand into her Breast intrude? Your Love's ill breeding, and your Passion rude. Dissembling fair! who almost sense surpass, You would not for the World he thought it was.