chapter  77
On Desire A Pindarick
Pages 4

What Art thou, oh! thou new-found pain? From what infection dost thou spring? Tell me —— oh! tell me, thou inchanting thing, Thy nature, and thy name; 5 Inform me by what subtil Art, What powerful Influence, You got such vast Dominion in a part Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart, That fame and Honour cannot drive yee thence. 10 Oh! mischievous usurper of my Peace; Oh! soft Intruder on my solitude, Charming disturber of my ease, That hast my nobler fate persu’d, And all the Glorys of my life subdu’d. 15 Thou haunt’st my inconvenient hours; The business of the Day, nor silence of the night, That shou’d to cares and sleep invite, Can bid defyance to thy conquering powers. Where hast thou been this live-long Age 20 That from my Birth till now, Thou never coud’st one thought engage, Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage That made it all its humble feebles know? Where wert thou, oh, malicious spright, 25 When shining Honour did invite? When interest call’d, then thou wert shy, Nor to my aid one kind propension brought, Nor wou’d’st inspire one tender thought, When Princes at my feet did lye. 28230 When thou coud’st mix ambition with my joy, Then peevish Phantom thou wer’t nice and coy, Not Beauty cou’d invite thee then Nor all the Arts of lavish Men! Not all the powerful Rhetorick of the Tongue 35 Not sacred Wit cou’d charm thee on; Not the soft play that lovers make, Nor sigh cou’d fan thee to a fire, Not pleading tears, nor vows cou’d thee awake, Or warm the unform’d somthing ——— to desire. 40 Oft I’ve conjur’d thee to appear By youth, by love, by all their powrs, Have searcht and sought thee every where, In silent Groves, in lonely bowrs: On Flowry beds where lovers wishing lye, 45 In sheltering Woods where sighing maids To their assigning Shepherds hye, And hide their blushes in the gloom of shades: Yet there, even there, thô youth assail’d, Where Beauty prostrate lay and fortune woo’d, 50 My heart insensible to neither bow’d Thy lucky aid was wanting to prevail. In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphear But thou in crowds we’rt stifl’d there, Int’rest did all the loving business do, 55 Invites the youths and wins the Virgins too. Or if by chance some heart thy empire own (Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone. Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate Thy mighty force thrô every part, 60 What God, or Human power did thee create In my, till now, unfacil heart? Art thou some welcome plague sent from above In this dear form, this kind disguise? Or the false offspring of mistaken love, 65 Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove, With the bright peircing Beautys of Lysanders Eyes? Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now; And found to whom thou dost thy being owe, 283’Tis thou the blushes dost impart, 70 For thee this languishment I wear, ’Tis thou that tremblest in my heart When the dear Shepherd do’s appear, I faint, I dye with pleasing pain, My words intruding sighing break 75 When e’re I touch the charming swain When e’re I gaze, when e’re I speak. Thy conscious fire is mingl’d with my love, As in the sanctify’d abodes Misguided worshippers approve 80 The mixing Idol with their Gods. In vain, alas! in vain I strive With errors, which my soul do please and vex, For superstition will survive, Purer Religion to perplex. 85 Oh! tell me you, Philosophers, in love, That can its burning feaverish fits controul, By what strange Arts you cure the soul, And the fierce Calenture remove? Tell me, yee fair ones, that exchange desire, 90 How tis you hid the kindling fire. Oh! wou’d 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. 95 And while your young adorers lye 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, 100 And the soft yeilding soul that wishes in your Eyes? While to th’ admiring crow’d you nice are found; Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound Informs you, all your virtu’s but a cheat And Honour but a false disguise, 105 Your modesty a necessary bait To gain the dull repute of being wise. 284Deceive the foolish World— deceive it on, And veil your passions in your pride; But now I’ve found your feebles by my own, 110 From me the needful fraud you cannot hide. Thô tis a mighty power must move The soul to this degree of love, And thô with virtue I the World perplex, Lysander finds the weekness of my sex, 115 So Helen while from Theseus arms she fled, To charming Paris yeilds her heart and Bed.