P. Thou hast bewitch'd me with thy powerful
And I, by drawing blood, would cure my harms.
C. He that does love would set his heart a-tilt,
Ere one drop of his lady's should be spilt.
P. Your wounds are but without, and mine within;
You wound my heart, and I but prick your skin;
And while your eyes pierce deeper than my claws,
You blame the' effect, of which you are the cause.
C. How could my guiltless eyes your heart invade,
Had it not first been by your own betray'd?
Hence 'tis my greatest crime has only been
(Not in mine eyes, but your's) in being seen.
P. I hurt to love, but do not love to hurt.
C. That's worse than making cruelty a sport.
P. Pain is the foil of pleasure and delight,
That sets it off to a more noble height.
C. He buys his pleasure at a rate too vain,
That takes it up beforehand of his pain.
P. Pain is more dear than pleasure when 'tis past.
C. But grows intolerable if it last.
P. Love is too full of honour to regard
What it enjoys, but suffers as reward.
What knight durst ever own a lover's name,
That had not been half-murder'd by his flame;
Or lady, that had never lain at stake,
To death, or force of rivals for his sake?
C. When love does meet with injury and pain,
Disdain's the only medicine for disdain.
P. At once I'm happy, and unhappy too,
In being pleased, and in displeasing you.
C. Preposterous way of pleasure and of love,
That contrary to its own end would move!
"Tis rather hate, that covets to destroy;
Love's business is to love, and to enjoy.
P. Enjoying and destroying are all one ;
As flames destroy that which they feed upon.
C. He never loved at any generous rate,
That in the' enjoyment found his flame abate;
As wine (the friend of love) is wont to make
The thirst more violent it pretends to slake,
So should fruition do the lover's fire,
Instead of lessening, inflame desire.
P. What greater proof that passion does transport,
When what I would die for, I'm forced to hurt?
C. Death among lovers is a thing despised,
And far below a sullen humour prized,
That is more scorn'd and rail'd at than the gods,
When they are cross'd in love, or fall at odds:
But since you understand not what you do,
I am the judge of what I feel, not you.
P. Passion begins indifferent to prove,
When love considers any thing but love.
C. The darts of love, like lightning, wound within,
And though they pierce it, never hurt the skin;
"They leave no marks behind them where they fly,
Though through the tenderest part of all, the eye;
But your sharp claws have left enough to shew
How tender I have been, how cruel you.
P. Pleasure is pain; for when it is enjoy'd,
All it could wish for was but to be' alloy'd.
C. Force is a rugged way of making love.
P. What you like best, you always disapprove.
C. He that will wrong his love will not be nice,
To' excuse the wrong he does to wrong her twice.
P. Nothing is wrong but that which is ill meant.
C. Wounds are ill cured with a good intent.
P. When you mistake that for an injury
I never meant, you do the wrong, not I.
C. You do not feel yourself the pain you give;
But 'tis not that alone for which I grieve,
But 'tis your want of passion that I blame,
That can be cruel where you own a flame.
P. Tis you are guilty of that cruelty
Which you at once outdo, and blame in me;
For while you stifle and inflame desire,
You burn, and starve me, in the self-same fire.
C. It is not I, but you, that do the hurt,
Who wound yourself, and then accuse me for❜t:
As thieves, that rob themselves 'twixt sun and sun,
Make others pay for what themselves have done.
INCOMPARABLE POEM OF THE BRITISH PRINCES'.
You have obliged the British nation more
Than all their bards could ever do before;
And, at your own charge, monuments more hard
Than brass or marble to their fame have rear'd:
For as all warlike nations take delight
To hear how brave their ancestors could fight,
You have advanced to wonder their renown,
And no less virtuously improved your own:
For 'twill be doubted whether you do write,
Or they have acted at a nobler height.
1 Most of the celebrated wits in Charles the Second's reign addressed this gentleman, in a bantering way, upon his poem called 'The British Princes,' and, among the rest, Butler.
You of their ancient princes have retrieved
More than the ages knew in which they lived;
Described their customs and their rites anew,
Better than all their Druids ever knew;
Unriddled their dark oracles as well
As those themselves that made them could foretell:
For as the Britons long have hoped, in vain,
Arthur would come to govern them again,
You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone,
And in this poem placed him on his throne.
Such magic power has your prodigious pen,
To raise the dead, and give new life to men;
Make rival princes meet in arms and love,
Whom distant ages did so far remove:
For as eternity has neither past
Nor future, (authors say) nor first nor last,
But is all instant; your eternal Muse
ages can to any one reduce.
Then why should you, whose miracle of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-busied head
To' observe what time they lived in, or were dead?
For since you have such arbitrary power,
It were defect in judgment to go lower,
Or stoop to things so pitifully lewd,
As use to take the vulgar latitude.
There's no man fit to read what you have writ,
That holds not some proportion with your wit;
As light can no way but by light appear,
He must bring sense that understands it here.
INCOMPARABLE POEM OF THE BRITISH PRINCES.
It is your pardon, sir, for which
my Muse
Thrice humbly thus, in form of paper, sues;
For having felt the dead weight of your wit,
She comes to ask forgiveness, and submit ;
Is sorry for her faults, and, while I write,
Mourns in the black, does penance in the white :
But such is her belief in your just candour,
She hopes you will not so misunderstand her,
To wrest her harmless meaning to the sense
Of silly emulation or offence;
No: your sufficient wit does still declare
Itself too amply, they are mad that dare
So vain and senseless a presumption own,
To yoke your vast parts in comparison:
And yet you might have thought upon a way
To' instruct us how you'd have us to obey,
And not command our praises; and then blame
All that's too great or little for your fame:
For who could choose but err, without some trick
To take your elevation to a nick?
As he that was desired, upon occasion,
To make the Mayor of London an oration,
Desired his Lordship's favour, that he might
Take measure of his mouth, to fit it right:
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