Aphra Behns Poems

Aphra Behn (1640-1689) Song from Abdelazar

Love in fantastic triumph sat, Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd, For whom fresh pains he did create, And strange tyrannic power he shew'd; From thy bright eyes he took his fire, Which round about in sport he hurl'd; But 'twas from mine he took desire Enough to undo the amorous world. From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty; From me his languishments and fears, And every killing dart from thee; Thus thou and I the God have arm'd, And set him up a Deity; But my poor heart alone is harm'd, Whilst thine the victor is, and free.

ON DESIRE by: Aphra Behn HAT art thou, oh! thou new-found pain? From what infection dost thou spring? Tell me -- oh! tell me, thou enchanting thing, Thy nature, and thy name; Inform me by what subtle art, What powerful influence, You got such vast dominion in a part Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart, That fame and honour cannot drive ye thence. Oh! mischievous usurper of my peace; Oh! soft intruder on my solitude, Charming disturber of my ease, That hast my nobler fate pursued, And all the glories of my life subdued. Thou haunt'st my inconvenient hours; The business of the day, nor silence of the night, That should to cares and sleep invite, Can bid defiance to thy conquering powers. Where hast thou been this live-long age That from my birth till now,

Thou never cloudst one thought engage, Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage That made it all its humble feebles know? Where wert thou, oh, malicious sprite, When shining honour did invite? When interest called, then thou wert shy, Nor to my aid one kind propension brought, Nor wouldst inspire one tender thought, When Princes at my feet did lie. When thou couldst mix ambition with my joy, Thou peevish phantom thou wert nice and coy, Not beauty could invite thee then Nor all the hearts of lavish men! Not all the powerful rhetoric of the tongue Not sacred wit could charm thee on; Not the soft play that lovers make, Nor sigh could fan thee to a fire, Not pleading tears, nor vows could thee awake, Or warm the unformed something -- to desire. Oft I've conjured thee to appear By youth, by love, by all their powers, Have searched and sought thee everywhere, In silent groves, in lonely bowers: On flowery beds where lovers wishing lie, In sheltering woods where sighing maids To their assigning shepherds hie, And hide their bushes in the gloom of shades. Yet there, even there, though youth assailed, Where beauty prostrate lay and fortune wooed, My heart insensible to neither bowed: Thy lucky aid was wanting to prevail. In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphere But thou in crowds were stifled there, Interest did all the loving business do, Invites the youths and wins the virgins too. Or if by chance some heart the empire own (Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone. Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate Thy mighty force through every part, What god, or human power did thee create In me, till now, unfacile heart? Art thou some welcome plague sent from above In this dear form, this kind disguise? Or the false offspring of mistaken love, Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove, With the bright piercing beauties of Lysander's eyes? Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now; And found to whom thou dost thy being owe, 'Tis thou the blushes dost impart, For thee this languishment I wear,

'Tis thou that tremblest in my heart When the dear shepherd does appear, I faint, I die with pleasing pain, My words intruding sighing break When e'er I touch the charming swain When e'er I gaze, when e'er I speak. Thy conscious fire is mingled with my love, As in the sanctified abodes Misguided worshippers approve The mixing idol with their gods. In vain, alas! in vain I strive With errors, which my soul do please and vex, For superstitions will survive, Purer religion to perplex. Oh! tell me you, philosophers, in love, That can its burning feverish fits control, By what strange arts you cure the soul, And the fierce calenture remove? Tell me, ye fair ones, that exchange desire, How 'tis you hid the kindling fire. Oh! would you but confess the truth, It is not real virtue makes you nice: But when you do resist the pressing youth, 'Tis want of dear desire, to thaw the virgin ice. And while your young adorers lie All languishing and hopeless at your feet, Raising new trophies to your chastity, Oh tell me, how you do remain discreet? How you suppress the rising sighs, And the soft yielding soul that wishes in your eyes? While to th' admiring crowd you nice are found; Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound Informs you, all your virtue's but a cheat And honour but a false disguise, Your modesty a necessary bait To gain the dull repute of being wise. Deceive the foolish world -- deceive it on, And veil your passions in your pride; But now I've found your feebles on my own, From me the needful fraud you cannot hide. Though 'tis a mighty power must move The soul to this degree of love, And though with virtue I the world perplex, Lysander finds the weakness of my sex, So Helen while from Theseus arms she fled, To charming Paris yields her heart and bed.

ON HER LOVING TWO EQUALLY by: Aphra Behn

I. OW strongly does my passion flow, Divided equally 'twixt two? Damon had ne'er subdued my heart, Had not Alexis took his part; Nor could Alexis powerful prove, Without my Damon's aid, to gain my love. II. When my Alexis present is, Then I for Damon sigh and mourn; But when Alexis I do miss, Damon gains nothing but my scorn. But if it chance they both are by, For both alike I languish, sigh, and die. III. Cure then, thou mighty winged god, This restless fever in my blood; One golden-pointed dart take back: But which, O Cupid, wilt thou take? If Damon's, all my hopes are crossed; Or that of my Alexis, I am lost.

TO THE FAIR CLARINDA, WHO MADE LOVE TO ME, IMAGINED MORE THAN WOMAN by: Aphra Behn AIR lovely maid, or if that title be Too weak, too feminine for nobler thee, Permit a name that more approaches truth, And let me call thee, lovely charming youth. This last will justify my soft complaint, While that may serve to lessen my constraint; And without blushes I the youth pursue, When so much beauteous woman is in view. Against thy charms we struggle but in vain With thy deluding form thou giv'st us pain, While the bright nymph betrays us to the swain. In pity to our sex sure thou wert sent, That we might love, and yet be innocent: For sure no crime with thee we can commit; Or if we should -- thy form excuses it. For who, that gathers fairest flowers believes A snake lies hid beneath the fragrant leaves. Thou beauteous wonder of a different kind, Soft Cloris with the dear Alexis joined; When e'er the manly part of thee, would plead Thou tempts us with the image of the maid,

While we the noblest passions do extend The love to Hermes, Aphrodite the friend. Aphra Behn A Thousand Martyrs A thousand martyrs I have made, All sacrificed to my desire; A thousand beauties have betray'd, That languish in resistless fire. The untamed heart to hand I brought, And fixed the wild and wandering thought. I never vowed nor sighed in vain But both, though false, were well receiv'd. The fair are pleased to give us pain, And what they wish is soon believ'd. And though I talked of wounds and smart, Loves pleasures only touched my heart. Alone the glory and the spoil I always laughing bore away; The triumphs, without pain or toil, Without the hell, the heav'n of joy. And while I thus at random rove Despise the fools that whine for Love. A Congratulatory Poem by Arphra Behn While my sad Muse the darkest Covert Sought, To give a loose to Melancholy Thought; Opprest, and sighing with the Heavy Weight Of an Unhappy dear Lov'd Monarch's Fate; A lone retreat, on Thames's Brink she found, With Murmering Osiers fring'd, and bending Willows Crown'd, Thro' the thick Shade cou'd dart no Chearful Ray, Nature dwelt here as in disdain of Day: Content, and Pleas'd with Nobler Solitude, No Wood-Gods, Fawns, nor Loves did here Intrude, Nor Nests for wanton Birds, the Glade allows; Scarce the soft Winds were heard amongst the Boughs. While thus She lay resolv'd to tune no more Her fruitless Songs on Brittains Faithless Shore, All on a suddain thro' the Woods there Rung, Loud Sounds of Joy that Jo Peans Sung. Maria! Blest Maria! was the Theam, Great Brittains happy Genius, and her Queen. The River Nimphs their Crystal Courts forsake, Curl their Blew Locks, and Shelly Trumpets take: And the surprising News along the Shore, In raptur'd Songs the wondring Virgins bore; Whilst Mourning Eccho now forgot her Sighs, And sung the new taught Anthem to the Skyes. All things in Nature, a New Face put on, Thames with Harmonious Purlings glides along,

And tells her Ravisht Banks, she lately bore A Prize more great than all her hidden Store, Or all the Sun it self e're saw before. The brooding Spring, her Fragrant Bloom sent out, Scattering her early Perfumes round about; No longer waits the Lasie teeming Hours, But e're her time produc'd her Oderous Flowers; Maria's Eyes Anticipate the May, And Life inspir'd beyond the God of Day. The Muses all upon this Theam Divine, Tun'd their best Lays, the Muses all, but mine, Sullen with Stubborn Loyalty she lay, And saw the World its eager Homage pay, While Heav'n and Earth on the new Scene lookt gay. But Oh! What Human Fortitude can be Sufficient to Resist a Deity? Even our Allegiance here, too feebly pleads, The Change in so Divine a Form perswades; Maria with the Sun has equal Force, No Opposition stops her Glorious Course, Her pointed Beams thro' all a passage find, And fix their Rays Triumphant in the Mind. And now I wish'd among the Crouds to Adore, And constant wishing did increase my Power; From every thought a New-born Reason came Which fortifyed by bright Maria's Fame, Inspir'd My Genious with new Life and Flame, And thou, Great Lord, of all my Vows, permit My Muse who never fail'd Obedience yet, To pay her Tribute at Marias Feet, Maria so Divine a part of You, Let me be Just -- but Just with Honour too. Resolv'd, She join'd her Chorus with the Throng, And to the listning Groves Marias Vertues Sung; Maria all Inchanting, Gay, and Young, All Hail Illustrious Daughter of a King, Shining without, and Glorious all within, VVhose Eyes beyond your scantier Power give Laws, Command the VVord, and justifie the Cause; Nor to secure your Empire needs more Arms Than your resistless, and all Conquering Charms; Minerva Thus alone, Old Troy Sustain'd, Whilst her Blest Image with three Gods remain'd; But Oh! your Form and Manner to relate, The Envying Fair as soon may Imitate, 'Tis all Engaging Sweet, 'tis all Surprising Great; A thousand Beauties Triumph in your Air, Like those of soft Young Loves your Smiles appear, And to th'Ungarded Hearts, as dangerous are:

All Natures Charms are open'd in your Face, You Look, you Talk, with more than Human Grace; All that is Wit, all that is Eloquence. The Births of finest Thought and Noblest Sense, Easie and Natural from your Language break, And 'tis Eternal Musick when you speak; Thro' all no formal Nicety is seen, But Free and Generous your Majestick Meen, In every Motion, every Part a Queen; All that is Great and Lovely in the Sex, Heav'n did in this One Glorious Wonder fix, Apellis thus to dress the Queen of Love, Rob'd the whole Race, a Goddess to improve. Yet if with Sighs we View that Lovely Face, And all the Lines of your great Father's Trace, Your Vertues should forgive, while we adore That Face that Awes, and Charms our Hearts the more; But if the Monarch in your Looks we find, Behold him yet more glorious in your Mind; 'Tis there His God-like Attributes we see. A Gratious Sweetness, Affability, A Tender Mercy and True Piety; And Vertues even sufficient to Attone For all the Ills the Ungrateful VVorld has done, Where several Factions, several Intrests sway, And that is still it'h Right who gains the Day; How e're they differ, this they all must grant, Your Form and Mind, no One Perfection want, Without all Angel, and within all Saint. The Murmering World till now divided lay, Vainly debating whom they shou'd Obey, Till You Great Cesar's Off-spring blest our Isle, The differing Multitudes to Reconcile; Thus Stiff-neckt Israel in defiance stood, Till they beheld the Prophet of their God; Who from the Mount with dazling brightness came, And Eyes all shining with Celestial Flame; Whose Awful Looks, dispel'd each Rebel Thought, And to a Just Compliance, the wilde Nations brought. Dream, The by Arphra Behn All trembling in my arms Aminta lay, Defending of the bliss I strove to take; Raising my rapture by her kind delay, Her force so charming was and weak. The soft resistance did betray the grant, While I pressed on the heaven of my desires; Her rising breasts with nimbler motions pant; Her dying eyes assume new fires. Now to the height of languishment she grows,

And still her looks new charms put on; Now the last mystery of Love she knows, We sigh, and kiss: I waked, and all was done. `Twas but a dream, yet by my heart I knew, Which still was panting, part of it was true: Oh how I strove the rest to have believed; Ashamed and angry to be undeceived! On the Death of E. Waller, Esq. by Arphra Behn How, to thy Sacred Memory, shall I bring (Worthy thy Fame) a grateful Offering? I, who by Toils of Sickness, am become Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb? While every soft, and every tender Strain Is ruffl'd, and ill-natur'd grown with Pain. But, at thy Name, my languisht Muse revives, And a new Spark in the dull Ashes strives. I hear thy tuneful Verse, thy Song Divine; And am lnspir'd by every charming Line. But, Oh! What Inspiration, at the second hand, Can an Immortal Elegic Command? Unless, Me Pious Offerings, mine should be Made Sacred, being Consecrate to thee. Eternal, as thy own Almighty Verse, Should be those Trophies that adom thy Hearse. The Thought Illustrious, and the Fancy Young; The Wit Sublime, the Judgment Fine, and Strong; Soft, as thy Notes to Sacharissa sung. Whilst mine, like Transitory Flowers, decay, That come to deck thy Tomb a short-liv'd Day. Such Tributes are, like Tenures, only fit To shew from whom we hold our Right to Wit. Hafl, wondrous Bard, whose Heav'n-born Genius first My Infant Muse, and Blooming Fancy Nurst. With thy soft Food of Love I first began, Then fed on nobler Panegyrick Strain, Numbers Seraphic! and, at every View, My Soul extended, and much larger grew: Where e're I Read, new Raptures seiz'd my Blood; Methought I heard the Language of a God. Long did the untun'd World in Ignorance stray, Producing nothing that was Great and Gay, Till taught, by thee, the true Poetick way. Rough were the Tracts before, Dull, and Obscure; Nor Pleasure, nor Instruction could procure. Their thoughtless Labour could no Passion move; Sure, in that Age, the Poets knew not Love: That Charming God, like Apparitions, then Was only talk'd on, but ne're seen by Men: Darkness was o're the Muses Land displaid, And even the Chosen Tribe unguided straid. Till, by thee rescu'd from th' Egyptian Night,

They now look up, and view the God of Light, That taught them how to Love, and how to Write; And to Enhance the Blessing which Heav'n lent, When for our great Instructor thou wert sent. Large was thy Life, but yet thy Glories more; And, like the Sun, did still dispense thy Power, Producing somthing wondrous every hour: And, in thy Circulary Course, didst see The very Life and Death of Poetry. Thou saw'st the Generous Nine neglected lie, None listning to their Heav'nly Harmony; The World being grown to that low Ebb of Sense, To disesteem the noblest Excellence; And no Encouragement to Phophets shewn, Who in past Ages got so great Renown. Though Fortune Elevated thee above Its scanty Gratitude, or fickle Love; Yet, fallen with the World, untir'd by Age, Scorning th'unthinking Crowd, thou quit'st the Stage On the Death of the late Earl of Rochester by Arphra Behn Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more. Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing Light, And ne're shall rise from Deaths eternal Night, So rich a Prize the Stygian Gods ne're bore, Such Wit, such Beauty, never grac'd their Shore. He was but lent this duller World t'irnprove In all the charms of Poetry, and Love; Both were his gift, which freely he bestow'd, And like a God, dealt to the wond'ring Crowd. Scorning the little Vanity of Fame, Spight of himself attain'd a Glorious name. But oh! in vain was all his peevish Pride, The Sun as soon might his vast Lustre hide, As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright, As suffering no vicissitudes of Night. Mourn, Mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The Young, the Noble Strephon is no more. Now uninspired upon your Banks we lye, Unless when we wou'd moum his Elegie; His name's a Genius that wou'd Wit dispense, And give the Theme a Soul, the Words a Sense. But A fine thought that Ravisht when it spoke With the soft Youth eternal leave has took; Uncommon Wit that did the soul o'recome, Is buried all in Strephon 's Worship'd Tomb; Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone, The Fop and Cully now may be undone; That dear instructing Rage is now Aay'd, And no sharp Pen dares tell 'em how they've stray'd; Bold as a God was ev'ry lash he took, But kind and gentle the chastising stroke.

Mourn, Mourn, ye Youths, whom Fortune has betray'd, The last Reproacher of your Vice is dead. Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your Cyprus on, The truest Swain that e're Ador'd you's gone; Think how he lov'd, and writ, and sigh'd, and spoke, Recall his Meen, his Fashion, and his Look. By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize, Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes. Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow'rs, Bedew'd with everlasting failing Show'rs; Fix your fair eyes upon your victim'd Slave, Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave. See where the Noble Swain Extended lies, Too sad a Triumph of your Victories; Adom'd with all the Graces Heav'n e're lent, All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent You've laid into his early Monument. Mourn, Mourn, ye Beauties, your sad loss deplore, The Young, the Charming Strephon is no more. Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whose Darts Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts; Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow, The useless Toys can do no Mischief now, Those Eyes that all your Arrows points inspir'd, Those Lights that gave ye fire are now retir'd, Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mothers Doves; Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves, For you the humblest Votary have lost That ever your Divinities could boast; Upon your hands your weeping Heads decline, And let your wings encompass round his Shrine; In stead of Flow'rs your broken Arrows strow, And at his feet lay the neglected Bow. Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore, The soft, the Charming Strephon is no more. Large was his Fame, but short his Glorious Race, Like young Lucretius and dy'd apace. So early Roses fade, so over all They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall, While all the scatter'd perfum'd leaves declare, How lovely 'twas when whole, how sweet, how fair. Had he been to the Roman Empire known, When great Augustus fili'd the peaceful Throne; Had he the noble wond'rous Poet seen, And known his Genius, and survey'd his Meen, (When Wits, and Heroes grac'd Divine abodes,) He had increas'd the number of their Gods; The Royal Judge had Temples rear'd to's name, And made him as Immortal as his Fame; In Love and Verse his Ovid he'ad out-done, And all his Laurels, and hisjulia won.

Mourn, Mourn, unhappy World, his loss deplore, The great, the charming Strephon is no more. Song by Arphra Behn Oh love! that stronger art than Wine, Pleasing Delusion, Witchery divine, Wont to be priz'd above all Wealth, Disease that has more Joys than Health; Though we blaspheme thee in our Pain, And of Tyranny complain, We are all better'd by thy Reign. What Reason never can bestow, We to this useful Passion owe: Love wakes the dull from sluggish ease, And learns a Clown the Art to please: Humbles the Vain, kindles the Cold, Makes Misers free, and Cowards bold; And teaches airy Fops to think. When full brute Appetite is fed, And choakd the Glutton lies and dead; Thou new Spirits dost dispense, And fine'st the gross Delights of Sense. Virtue's unconquerable Aid That against Nature can persuade; And makes a roving Mind retire Within the Bounds of just Desire. Chearer of Age, Youth's kind Unrest, And half the Heaven of the blest! The Willing Mistress Aphra Behn Amyntas led me to a Grove, Where all the Trees did shade us; The Sun it self, though it had Strove, It could not have betray'd us: The place secur'd from humane Eyes, No other fear allows, But when the Winds that gently rise, Doe Kiss the yielding Boughs. Down there we satt upon the Moss, And did begin to play A Thousand Amorous Tricks, to pass The heat of all the day. A many Kisses he did give: And I return'd the same Which made me willing to receive That which I dare not name. His Charming Eyes no Aid requir'd To tell their softning Tale; On her that was already fir'd,

'Twas Easy to prevaile. He did but Kiss and Clasp me round, Whilst those his thoughts Exprest: And lay'd me gently on the Ground: Ah who can guess the rest? The Disappointment Aphra Behn ONE Day the amorous Lisander, 2 By an impatient passion swayed, 3 Surprised fair Cloris, that loved maid, 4 Who could defend her self no longer. 5 All things did with his love conspire; 6 The gilded planet of the day, 7 In his gay chariot, drawn by fire, 8 Was now descending to the sea, 9 And left no light to guide the world, 10But what from Cloris brighter eyes was hurled. 11 In a lone thicket, made for love, 12 Silent as yielding maids' consent, 13 She with a charming languishment 14 Permits his force, yet gently strove; 15 Her hands his bosom softly meet, 16 But not to put him back designed, 17 Rather to draw him on inclined; 18 Whilst he lay trembling at her feet; 19 Resistance 'tis in vain to show; 20She wants the power to say - Ah!what do you do? 21 Her bright eyes sweet, and yet severe, 22 Where love and shame confusedly strive, 23 Fresh vigor to Lisander give; 24 And breathing faintly in his ear, 25 She cry'd -- Cease -- cease -- your vain desire, 26 Or I'll call out -- What would you do ? 27 My dearer honor, ev'n to you, 28 I cannot -- must not give -- retire, 29 Or take this life whose chiefest part 30I gave you with the conquest of my heart. 31 But he as much unused to fear, 32 As he was capable of love, 33 The blessed minutes to improve, 34 Kisses her lips, her neck, her hair ; 35 Each touch her new desires alarms , 36 His burning trembling hand he prest 37 Upon her swelling snowy breast, 38 While she lay panting in his arms. 39 All her unguarded beauties lie 40The spoils and trophies of the enemy. 41 And now, without respect or fear, 42 He seeks the objects of his vows ; 43 His love no modesty allows : 44 By swift degrees advancing where

45 His daring hand that altar seized, 46 Where gods of love do sacrifice : 47 That awful throne, that paradise 48 Where rage is calmed, and anger pleased ; 49 That fountain where delight still flows, 50 And gives the universal world response. 51 Her balmy lips encountring his, 52 Their bodies as their souls are joyned, 53 Where both in transports unconfined, 54 Extend themselves upon the moss. 55 Cloris half dead and breathless lay, 56 Her soft eyes cast a humid light, 57 Such as divides the day and night; 58 Or falling stars, whose fires decay ; 59 And now no signs of life she shows, 60But what in short-breath sighs returns and goes. 61 He saw how at her length she lay; 62 He saw her rising bosom bare; 63 Her loose thin robes, through which appear 64 A shape designed for love and play; 65 Abandoned by her pride and shame, 66 She does her softest joys dispence, 67 Off'ring her virgin-Innocence 68 A victim to loves sacred flame ; 69 Whilst the o'er-ravished shepherd lies 70Unable to perform the sacrifice. 71 Ready to taste a thousand joys, 72 Thee too transported hapless swain, 73 Found the vast pleasure turned to pain ; 74 Pleasure which too much love destroys: 75 The willing garments by he laid, 76 And heaven all open to his view , 77 Mad to possess, himself he threw 78 On the defenceless lovely maid. 79 But Oh ! what envying gods conspire 80To snatch his power, yet leave him the desire ! 81 Nature's support, (without whose aid 82 She can no human being give) 83 It self now wants the art to live; 84 Faintness it slackened nerves invade: 85 In vain the enraged youth essayed 86 To call his fleeting vigour back, 87 No motion 'twill from motion take, 88 Excess of love his love betrayed ; 89 In vain he toils, in vain commands, 90The insensible fell weeping in his Hands. 91 In this so amorous cruel strife, 92 Where love and fate were too severe, 93 The poor Lisander in despair, 94 Renounced his reason with his life: 95 Now all the brisk and active fire

96 That should the nobler part inflame, 97 Served to increase his rage and shame, 98 And left no spark for new desire : 99 Not all her naked charms could move, 100Or calm that rage that had debauched his love. 101 Cloris returning from the trance 102 Which love and soft desire had bred, 103 Her timorous hand she gently laid 104 Or guided by design or chance, 105 Upon that fabulous Priapus, 106 That potent god, as Poets feign; 107 But never did young shepherdess 108 Gathering of fern upon the plain 109 More nimbly draw her fingers back, 110Finding beneath the verdant leaves a snake. 111 Then Cloris her fair hand withdrew, 112 Finding that god of her desires 113 Disarmed of all his powerful fires, 114 And cold as flowers bathed in the morning dew. 115 Who can the Nymph's Confusion guess ? 116 The blood forsook the hinder place, 117 And strewed with blushes all her face, 118 Which both disdain and shame exprest : 119 And from Lisanders arms she fled, 120Leaving him fainting on the gloomy bed. 121 Like lightning through the grove she hies, 122 Or Daphne from the Delphick God ; 123 No print upon the grassie road 124 She leaves, t' instruct pursuing eyes. 125 The wind that wantoned in her hair, 126 And with her ruffled garments played, 127 Discovered in the flying maid 128 All that the gods e'er made of fair. 129 So Venus, when her love was slain, 130With fear and haste flew o'er the fatal plain. 131 The Nymph's resentments, none but I 132 Can well imagine or condole: 133 But none can guess Lisander's soul, 134 But those who swayed his destiny. 135 His silent griefs, swell up to storms, 136 And not one god his fury spares; 137 He cursed his birth, his fate, his stars, 138 But more the Shepherdess's charms, 139 Whose soft bewitching influence, 140Had damn'd him to the hell of impotence Aphra Behn (1640-1689) Epitaph on the Tombstone of a Child, the Last of Seven that Died Before This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument, Contains all that was sweet and innocent ; The softest pratler that e'er found a Tongue,

His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song ; Which now each List'ning Angel smiling hears, Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres; Wanton as unfledg'd Cupids, ere their Charms Has learn'd the little arts of doing harms ; Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind, And tho translated could not be refin'd ; The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given, Toil'd here on Earth, retir'd to rest in Heaven ; Where they the shining Host of Angels fill, Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.