A Collection of poems written upon several occasions by several persons with many additions, never before in print.
Sedley, Charles, Sir, 1639?-1701. Poems. Selections. 1673., Etherege, George, Sir, 1635?-1691. Poems. Selections. 1673., Buckingham, John Sheffield, Duke of, 1648-1720 or 21. Poems. Selections. 1673., Behn, Aphra, 1640-1689. Poems. Selections. 1673.
The Imperfect Enjoyment.
AFter a pretty amorous discourse,
She does resist my love with pleasing force;
Mov'd not with Anger, but with Modesty,
Against her will she is my Enemy.
Page 62Her eyes the rudeness of her Arms excuse,
Whilst those accept what these seem to refuse;
To ease my passion, and to make me blest,
Th'obliging smock falls from her whiter breast;
Then with her lovely hands she does conceal
Those wonders Chance so kindly did reveal;
In vain, alas, her nimble fingers strove
To shield her Beauties from my greedy Love;
Guarding her Breasts, her Lips she did expose,
To save a Lilly she must lose a Rose;
So many charms she has in ev'ry place,
A hundred hands cannot defend each Grace.
Sighing at length her force she does recal,
For since I must have Part, she'll give me All.
Her arms the joyful Conqueror embrace,
And seem to guide me to the fought-for place.
Her love is in her sparkling eyes exprest,
She falls o'th' bed for pleasure, more then rest.
Page 61But Oh, strange passion! Oh, abortive joy!
My zeal does my devotion quite destroy
Come to the Temple where I shou'd adore
My Saint, I worship at the sacred door;
Oh, cruel chance! the Town which did oppose
My strength so long, now yields to my dispose;
When, overjoy'd with victory, I fall
Dead at the foot of the surrender'd wall
Without the usual Ceremony, we
Have both fulfill'd the am'rous mystery
The action which we shou'd have joyntly done,
Each has unluckily perform'd alone;
The Union which our Bodies shou'd enjoy,
The Union of our eager souls destroy.
Our flames are punish'd by their own excess,
W'd had more pleasure had our Loves been less;
She blush'd and frown'd, perceiving we had done;
The sport she thought we scarce had yet begun;
Page 64Alas, said I, condemn your self, not me,
This is th'effect of too much modesty.
Hence with that peevish virtue, the delight
Of both our Victories was lost i'th fight;
Yet from my shame your glory does arise,
My weakness proves the vigour of your eyes;
They did consume the Victim, ere it came
Unto the Altar, with a purer flame:
Phillis, let then this comfort ease your care,
Y'ad been more happy had you been less fair.
