Amours

Unmask your lust, and vent each warm desire;

Throw off affected coyness, and remove

The bold intruder between thee and love:

Talk not of honour, lay that toy aside,

In men 'tis folly, and in women pride;

There without blushes you may naked lie,

Clasping his body with your tender thigh;

Shoot your moist dart into his mouth, to show

The sense you have of what he acts below;

Try all the ways, your pliant bodies twine,

In folds more strange than those of Aretine:

With melting looks fierce joys you may excite,

And with thick dying accents urge delight.

But when you're dress'd, then look as innocent

As if you knew not what such matters meant;

Cozen the prying town, and put a cheat

On it and me, I'll favour the deceit.

False as thou art, why must I daily see

Th' intriguing billet-doux he sends to thee ?

The wanton sonnet, or soft elegy ?

Why does your bed all tumbled seem to say,

See what they've done, see where the lovers lay!

Why do your locks and rumpled head-clothes show

'Tis more than usual sleep that made 'em so?

Why are the kisses which he gave, betray'd

By the impression which his teeth had made ?

Yet say you're chaste, and I'll be still deceived;

What much is wish'd for, is with ease believ'd.

But when you own what a lewd wretch thou art,

My blood grows cold and freezes at my heart,

Then do I curse thee, and thy crimes reprove,

But curse in vain, for still I find I love;

"Since she is false," oft to myself I cry,

"Would I were dead,"-yet 'tis with thee I'd die

I will not see your maid, to let me know

Who visits you, where, and with whom you go;

Nor by your lodging send my boy to scout,

And bring me word who passes in and out.

Enjoy the pleasure of the present times,

But let not me be knowing of your crimes.

Do you forswear't, tho' in the act you're caught,

I'll trust the oath, and think my eyes in fault.

To Virgil Mantua owes immortal fame,

Catullus to Verona gives a name;

Why mayn't, if I attempt some great design,

Peligne be as much oblig'd to mine ?

Why mayn't my muse a glorious toil pursue,

And as much honour to my country do ?

A people, who, when Rome has been alarm'd

By foreign foes, in her defence have arm'd;

Beneath your golden banners I have fought

So long, your discipline so much have taught,

'Tis time to give me a discharge, to prove

Some other, some more glorious theme than love

See Bacchus beckons me my voice to raise,

Of lofty deeds to sings, in lofty lays;

To mount my muse on some more generous horse,

And try her courage in some daring course.

Adieu, my sighing elegies, adieu!

I'll be no more concern'd with love or you;

But what I write my being shall survive,

And in his verse the poet ever live.