Amours

I swear by Venus, by love's darts and bow,

(A desp'rate oath, you must believe me now,)

I am not guilty, I've not broke my vow!

Dear, skilful Betty, who dost far excel

My lady's other maids in dressing well;

Dear Betty, fit to be preferred above

To Juno's chamber, or the queen of love;

Genteel, well-bred, not rustically coy,

Not easy to deny desired joy;

Thro' whose soft eyes still secret wishes shine,

Fit for thy mistress' use, but more for mine;

Who, Betty, did the fatal secret see?

Who told Corinna you were kind to me!

Yet when she chid me for my kind embrace,

Did any guilty blush spread o'er my face!

Did I betray thee, maid, or could she spy

The least confession in my conscious eye !

Not that I think it a disgrace to prove

Stol'n sweets, or make a chambermaid my love;

Achilles wanton'd in Briseis' arms,

Atrides bow'd to fair Cassandra's charms:

Sure I am less than these,-then what can bring

Disgrace to me, that so became a king !

But when she look'd on you, poor harmless maid,

You blush'd, and all the kind intrigue betray'd;

Yet still I vow'd, I made a stout defence,

I swore, and look'd as bold as innocence;

"Damme,—egad!" all that, and—"let me die!"'

Kind Venus, do not hear my perjury;

Kind Venus, stop thy ears when lovers lie.

Now, Betty, how will you my oaths requite?

Come, pr'ythee let's compound for more delight;

Faith, I am easy, and but ask a night.

What! start at the proposal? how! deny

Pretend fond fears of a discovery ?

Refuse, lest some sad chance the thing betray ?

Is this your kind, your damn'd obliging way ?

Well, deny on; I'll lie, I'll swear no more;

Corinna now shall know thou art a whore.

I'll tell, since you my fair address forbid,

How often, when, and where, and what we did!

O Love! how cold and slow to take my part,

Thou idle wanderer about my heart!

Why thy old faithful soldier wilt thou see

Oppress'd in thy own tents? they murder me;

Thy flames consume, thy arrows pierce thy friends;

Rather on foes pursue more noble ends.

Achilles' sword would certainly bestow

A cure as certain as it gave the blow.

Hunters, who follow flying game, give o'er

When the prey's caught, hope still leads on before;

We, thine own slaves, feel thy tyrannic blows.

While thy tame hand's unmov'd against thy foes.

On men disarm'd, how can you gallant prove ?

And I was long ago disarm'd by love.

Millions of dull men live, and scornful maids;

We'll own love valiant when he these invades.

Rome from each corner of the wide world snatch'd

A laurel, or't had been to this day thatch'd;

But the old soldier has his resting-place,

And the good batter'd horse is turn'd to grass:

The harass'd whore, who liv'd a wretch to please,

Has leave to be a bawd, and take her ease.

For me then, who have truly spent my blood,

Love, in thy service, and so boldly stood

In Celia's trenches, were't not wisely done,

E'en to retire, and live at peace at home ?

No-might I gain a godhead to disclaim

My glorious title to my endless flame,

Divinity with scorn I would forswear,

Such sweet, dear, tempting devils women are.

Whene'er those flames grow faint, I quickly find

A fierce black storm pour down upon my mind;

Headlong I'm hurl'd like horsemen who in vain

Their fury-flaming coursers would restrain.

As ships, just when the harbour they attain,

Are snatch'd by sudden blasts to sea again,

So Love's fantastic storms reduce my heart,

Half rescu'd, and the god resumes his dart.

Strike here, this undefended bosom wound,

And for so brave a conquest be renown'd.

Shafts fly so fast to me from ev'ry part,

You'll scarce discern the quiver from my heart.

What wretch can bear a livelong night's dull rest,

Or think himself in lazy slumbers blest?

Fool-is not sleep the image of pale death?

There's time for rest when fate has stopp'd your breath.

Me may my soft deluding dear deceive,

I'm happy in my hopes, while I believe:

Now let her flatter, then as fondly chide,

Often may I enjoy, oft be denied.

With doubtful steps the god of war does move,

By thy example, in ambiguous love.

Blown to and fro, like down from thy own wing,

Who knows when joy or anguish thou wilt bring?

Yet at thy mother's and thy slave's request,

Fix an eternal empire in my breast;

And let th' inconstant charming sex,

Whose wilful scorn does lovers vex,

Submit their hearts before thy throne;