The Thund'rer, who, without the female Bed,
Could Goddeffes bring forth from out his Head;
Chofe rather Mortals this Way to create,
So much h'efteem'd his Pleasure 'bove his State.
When Souls mix 'tis a Happiness,

But not compleat till Bodies too combine,
And clofely as our Minds together join :
But Half of Heav'n the Souls in Glory taste,
Till by Love in Heav'n at laft
Their Bodies too are plac'd.

The Ties of Minds are but imperfect Bands,
Unless the Bodies join to feal the Contract.
Then hafte to Bed:

There let me tell my Story in thy Arms.
There in the gentle Paufes of our Love,
Between our Dyings, e'er we live again,
Thou shalt be told the Battel and Succefs ;
Which I fhall oft begin, and then break off;
For Love will often interrupt my Tale,
And make fo fweet Confufion in our Talk,
That thou shalt ask, and I fhall anfwer, things
That are not of a Piece; but patch'd with Kiffes,
And Sighs, and Murmurs, and imperfect Speech;
And Nonfenfe fhall be eloquent in Love.

I fpeak I know not what.

Speak ever fo, and if I answer you

I know not what, it fhews the more of Love.
Love is a Child that talks in broken Language,
Yet then he speaks moft plain.

Dryd. Don Seb.

Dryd. Amphit.

Dryd. Troil.& Cress.

Love tunes the Organs of my Voice, and speaks
Unknown to me within me.

Oh with what foft Devotion in her Eyes,
The tender Lamb came to the Sacrifice!
Oh! how her Charms furpriz'd me as I lay!
Like too near Sweets, they took my Senfe away,
And I ev'n loft the Pow'r to reach at Joy!
But thofe crofs Witchcrafts foon unravell'd were,
And I was lull'd in Tranceś fweeter far:
As anchor'd Veffels in calm Harbours ride,
Rock'd on the Swellings of the floating Tide.
When all were gone,

And none but I left with the charming Maid;
What furious Fires did my hot Nerves invade ?
With open Arms upon my Bliss I ran,

With Pangs I grafp'd her like a dying Man:
Like Light and Heat incorporate we lay;

Dryd. Don Seb.

}

Otw. Don Carl.

We blefs'd the Night, and curs'd the coming Day.

Lee Sophon.
There's

There's no Satiety of Love in thee! Enjoy'd thou ftill art new: Perpetual Spring Is in thy Arms; the ripen'd Fruit but falls, And Bloffoms rife to fill its empry Place; And I grow rich by giving.

Dryd. All for Love.

Your Fruits of Love are like eternal Spring
In happy Climes; where fome are in the Bud,

Some green, and rip'ning fome, while others fall. Dryd. Amphit
In thy Poffeffion Years roul round on Years,
And Joys in Circles meet new Joys again.
Kiffes, Embraces, Languifhings, and Deaths,
Still from each other to each other move,
To crown the various Seasons of our Love.

Our Life fhall be but one long nuptial Day,
And like chaf'd Odours melt in Sweets away:
Soft as the Night our Minutes fhall be worn,
And chearful as the Birds that wake the Morn.
Immortal Pleasures fhall our Senfes drown,
Thought fhall be loft, and ev'ry Pow'r diffolv'd.
Let me not live, but thou art all Enjoyment;
So charming and fo fweet, that not a Night,
But whole Eternity, were well employ'd
To love thy each Perfection as it ought.

They took their full Delight,

Dryd. Spáń. Fry:

Dryd. Sec. Love.
Otw. Orph.

[Spoken by Jupiter.] Dryd. Amphit.

'Twas reftlefs Råge and Tempeft all the Night;
For greedy Love each Moment would employ,
And grudg'd the shortest Paufes of their joy.
Love rioted fecure, and long enjoy'd,
Was ever eager, and was never cloy'd :
The Stealth it felf did Appetite restore,
And look'd fo like a Sin, it pleas'd the more.

How dear, how fweet his firft Embraces were!
With what a Zeal he joyn'd his Lips to mine!
I thought! oh no! 'tis falfe, I could not think :
'Twas neither Life nor Death, but both in one.
And fure his Tranfports were not lefs than mine
For by the high-hung Taper's Light,

I could difcern his Cheeks were glowing red;
His very Eye-balls trembled with his Love,
And fparkled thro' their Cafements humid Fires:

(Guist: Dryd. Sig. &

Dryd. Span, Fr.

He figh'd and kifs'd, breath'd fhort, and would have fpoke,
But was too fierce to throw away the Time;
All he could fay was, Love and Leonora.
What faid he not, when in the bridal Bed
He clafp'd my yielding Body in his Arms?
When with his fiery Lips devouring mine,

And moulding with his Hands my throbbing Breafts,
He fwore the Globes of Heav'n and Earth were vile

L 2

To

To thofe rich Worlds; and talk'd, and kifs'd, and lov'd,
And made me fhame the Morning with my Blushes. Lee Alex.
A doubtful Trembling fiez'd me first all o'er,
Then Wishes, and a Warmth unknown before;
What follow'd was all Ecftacy and Trance!

Immortal Pleasures round my fwimming Eyes did dance,
And fpeechlefs Joys, in whofe fweet Tumult toft,

I thought my Breath and Being both were loft. Dryd. State of Ins.
Oh how I flew into your Arms,

And melted in your warm Embrace.

Did not my Soul ev'n fparkle at my Eyes,
And shoot it felf into your much lov'd Bofom?
Did I not tremble with Excefs of Joy,
Nay, agonize with Pleasure at your Sight,
With fuch inimitable Proofs of Paffion
As no falfe Love could feign?

Her Hand he feiz'd, and to a fhady Bank,
Thick over Head, with verdant Roof embow'r'd,

Dryd. Amphit.

He led her nothing loath: Flow'rs were the Couch,
Panfies, and Violers, and Afphodel,

And Hyacinth; Earth's fresheft fofteft Lap:

There they their Fill of Love and Love's Disport

Took largely;

Till dewy Sleep

Oppress'd them, wearied with their am'rous Play.
Unhappy Mortals! whofe fublimeft Joy

Preys on it felf, and does it felf deftroy.

I hate Fruition now 'tis past,

'Tis all but Naftiness at beft;

The homelieft thing that we can do:
Belides 'tis fhort and fleeting too.

A Squirt of flippery Delight,

That with a Moment takes its Flight;
A fulfom Blifs that foon does cloy,
And makes us loath what we enjoy.
Then let us not too eager run,
By Paffion blindly hurry'd on,

Milt.

Rock.

Like Beafts, who nothing better know,
Than what meer Luft incites them too;

For when in Floods of Love we're drench'd,
The Flames are by Enjoyment quench'd.

And why this Nicenefs to that Pleasure shown,
Where Nature fams up all her Joys in one?
Gives all the can, and lab'ring ftill to give,
Makes it fo great we can but caffe and live;
So fills the Senfes that the Soul feems fled,

And Thought it felf does for the Time lie dead:

Till, like a String fcru'd up with eager Hafte,
It breaks, and is too exquifite to laft.

Dryd. Auren.

Den.

And full Fruition will but raife Defire ;
As Heav'n poffefs'd exalts the Zealot's Fire.
For Love, and Love alone of all our Joys,
By full Poffeffion does but fan the Fire;
The more we still enjoy, the more we ftill defire. Dryd. Lucr.
ENTHUSIASM. See Sybil.

He comes! Behold the God! Thus while fhe said,
Her Colour chang'd, her Face was not the fame,
And hollow Groans from her deep Spirit came:
Her Hair ftood up; convulfive Rage poffefs'd
Her trembling Limbs, and heav'd her lab'ring Breaft:
Greater than Human-kind fhe feem'd to look,
And with an Accent more than mortal spoke :
Her ftaring Eyes with fparkling Fury roul,
When all the God came rufhing on her Soul.
Thus full of Fate fhe grew, and of the God;
Strugling in vain, impatient of her Load
And lab'ring underneath the pond'rous God.
The more the ftrove to shake him from her Breast,
With more and far fuperior Force he prefs'd;
Commands his Entrance, and without Controul
Ufurps her Organs and infpires her Soul.
At length her Fury fell, her Foaming ceas'd,
And, ebbing in her Soul, the God decreas'd.
Something I'd unfold,

Dryd. Virg.

If that the God would wake; for fomething ftill there lies
In Heav'n's dark Volume, which I read thro' Mifts:

'Tis great, prodigious! 'tis a dreadful Birth

Of wond'rous Fate! and now juft now disclosing!

I fee, I fee! how terrible it dawns,

And my Soul fickens with it!

Now the God fhakes me! He comes, he comes! Dryd. Oedip.

I feel him now,

Like a ftrong Spirit, charm'd into a Tree,

That leaps, and moves the Wood without a Wind.
The rowzed God, as all this while he lay
Intomb'd alive, ftarts and dilates himself:
He struggles, and he tears my aged Trunk
With holy Fury; my old Arteries burst;
My rivell'd Skin,

Like Parchment, crackles at the hallow'd Fire:
I fhall be young agen! Manto, my Daughter,
Thou haft a Voice that might have fav'd the Bard
Of Thrace, and forc'd the raging Bacchanals,
With lifted Prongs, to liften to thy Airs:
O charm this God, this Fury in my Bofom;

L 3

Lull

Lull him with tuneful Notes and artful Strings,
With pow'rful Strains: Manto, my lovely Child,
Sooth the unruly Godhead to be mild.

Lee.

[Spoken by Tirefias, in Oedipus.]

The God of Battle rages in my Breaft;
And as at Delphos, when the glorious Fury
Kindles the Blood of the prophetick Maid,
The bounded Deity does fhoot her out,
Draws ev'ry Nerve thin as a Spider's Thread,
And beats the Skin out like expanded Gold:
So with the Meditation of the Work

Which my Soul bears, I fwell almost to burfting.
PUBLICK ENTRIES.

Great Bullingbrook.

Mounted upon a hot and fiery Steed,

Which his afpiring Rider feem'd to know,
With flow, but ftately Pace, kept on his Courfe.
You would have thought the very Windows fpoke,
So many greedy Looks of young and old
Thro' Cafements darted their defiring Eyes
Upon his Vifage; and that all the Walls,
With painted Imag'ry, had faid at once,
God fave thee, Bullingbrook.

But, as in a Theatre, the Eyes of Men,
After a well-grac'd Actor leaves the Stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his Prattle to be tedious;

Ev'n fo, or with much more Contempt, Mens Eyes

Lee Mithr

Did fcowle on Richard: No Man cry'd, God fave him

No joyful Tongue gave him his Welcom home:
But Duft was thrown upon his facred Head,
Which with fuch gentle Sorrow he fhook off,
His Face ftill combating with Tears and Smiles,
(The Badges of his Grief and Patience,)
That had not God, for fome ftrong Purpose, fteel'd
The Hearts of Men, they muft perforce have melted,
And Barbarifm it felf have pity'd him.

9

Shak. Rich. II.

Your glorious Father, my victorious Lord,
Loaden with Spoils and ever-living Lawrel,
Is entring now in martial Pomp the Palace:
Five hundred Mules precede his folemn March,
Which groan beneath the Weight of Moorish Wealth;
Chariots of War, adorn'd with glitt'ring Gems,
Succeed; and next a hundred neighing Steeds,
White as the fleecy Rain on Alpine Hills,
That bound, and foam, and champ the golden Bit,
As they difdain'd the Victory they grace:

Pris'ners