Poems upon several occasions with, A voyage to the island of love / by Mrs. A. Behn.
About this Item
- Title
- Poems upon several occasions with, A voyage to the island of love / by Mrs. A. Behn.
- Author
- Behn, Aphra, 1640-1689.
- Publication
- London :: Printed for R. Tonson and J. Tonson ...,
- 1684.
- Rights/Permissions
-
To the extent possible under law, the Text Creation Partnership has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to this keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above, according to the terms of the CC0 1.0 Public Domain Dedication (http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/). This waiver does not extend to any page images or other supplementary files associated with this work, which may be protected by copyright or other license restrictions. Please go to http://www.textcreationpartnership.org/ for more information.
- Subject terms
- English poetry -- Early modern, 1500-1700.
- Cite this Item
-
"Poems upon several occasions with, A voyage to the island of love / by Mrs. A. Behn." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A27315.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 16, 2024.
Pages
Page 89
Respect of Blood, nor sacred friendship tyes;
Can reconcile the Civil War,
Rage, Horror, Death, and wild despair,
Are still Rencounter'd, and still practis'd there.
'Twas here the lovely cruel Maid I found,
Incompass'd with a thousand Lovers round;
At my approach I saw their Blushes rise,
And they regarded me with angry Eyes.
Aminta too, or else my Fancy 'twas,
Receiv'd me with a shy and cold Address,
I cou'd not speak—but Sigh'd, retir'd and Bow'd;
With pain I heard her Talk and Laugh aloud,
And deal her Freedoms to the greedy Crowd.
I Curst her Smiles, and envy'd every look,
And Swore it was too kind, what e're she spoke;
Condemn'd her Air, rail'd on her soft Address,
And vow'd her Eyes did her false Heart confess,
And vainly wisht their Charming Beauties less.
A Secret hatred in my Soul I bear,
Against these objects of my new despair;
Page 90
I waited all the day, and all in vain;
Not one lone minute snatcht, to ease my pain;
Her Lovers went and came in such a sort,
It rather seem'd Loves-Office than his Court,
Made for eternal Bus'ness, not his Sport.
Love saw my pain, and found my rage grew high,
And led me off, to lodge at Iealousie.