The mysteries of love & eloquence, or, The arts of wooing and complementing as they are manag'd in the Spring Garden, Hide Park, the New Exchange, and other eminent places : a work in which is drawn to the life the deportments of the most accomplisht persons, the mode of their courtly entertainments, treatments of their ladies at balls, their accustom'd sports, drolls and fancies, the witchcrafts of their perswasive language in their approaches, or other more secret dispatches ...

The Golden Age.

WHen from each Thought a seed did spring, And every Look a plant did bring, And every Breath a flower; The Earth unplough'd did yield her crop, And honey from the Oak did drop, The Fountains did run milk: The Thistle did the Lilly bear, And every Bramble Roses wear, And every Worm made Silk. The very Shrub did Balsom sweat, And Nectar melt the Rock with heat, And Earth did drink her fill: Then she no hurtful weed did know, Nor barren Fern, nor Mandrake low, Nor Mineral to kill. The Male and Female us'd to join, And into all delight did coin, That pure simplicity: Then Feature did to Form advance, And Youth call'd Beauty forth to dance, And every Grace was by. It was a time of no distrust,

So much of Love had nought of Lust, None fear'd a jealous eye. The Language melted in the ear, Yet all without a blush might hear; They liv'd with open vow. Each touch and kiss was so well plac't, They were as sweet as they were chaste.

FRom the fair Lavanion shore, I your Markets come to store; Muse not at me that so far dwell, And hither bring my Wares to sell. Such is the sacred hunger of gold, Then come to my pack where I cry, What do you lack, what do you buy? For here it is to be sold.

You, whose birth and breeding base, Are rank'd into a noble race; And whose Parents heretofore, Neither Arms nor Scutchons bore: Such is the sacred hunger of gold, Then come to my pack, where I cry, What do you lack, what do you buy? For here is Honors to be sold.

Madam, for your wrinkled face, Here's complection it to grace; Which, if your earnest be but small, It takes away the vertue all: But if your palms be well anointed with gold, Then shall you seem like a Queen of fifteen, Though you be threescore years old.