Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in the mine; Age from no face took more away Than youth conceal’d in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection prest, Fond love as unperceived did fly, And in my bosom rest. My passion with your beauty grew, And Cupid at my heart, Still as his mother favour’d you, Threw a new flaming dart: Each gloried in their wanton part; To make a lover, he Employ’d the utmost of his art-- To make a beauty, she. _410._ _To Celia_ Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest! For I would change each hour, like them, Were not my heart at rest. But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have; Thy face I only care to see, Thy heart I only crave. All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find-- For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind. Why then should I seek further store, And still make love anew? When change itself can give no more, ’Tis easy to be true! APHRA BEHN 1640-1689 _411._ _Song_ Love in fantastic triumph sate Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow’d, For whom fresh pains he did create And strange tyrannic power he show’d: From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurl’d; But ’twas from mine he took desires Enough t’ undo the amorous world. From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty; From me his languishments and fears, And every killing dart from thee. Thus thou and I the god have arm’d And set him up a deity; But my poor heart alone is harm’d, Whilst thine the victor is, and free! _412._ _The Libertine_ A thousand martyrs I have made, All sacrificed to my desire, A thousand beauties have betray’d That languish in resistless fire: The untamed heart to hand I brought, And fix’d the wild and wand’ring thought. I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain, But both, tho’ false, were well received; The fair are pleased to give us pain, And what they wish is soon believed: And tho’ I talk’d of wounds and smart, Love’s pleasures only touch’d my heart. Alone the glory and the spoil I always laughing bore away; The triumphs without pain or toil, Without the hell the heaven of joy; And while I thus at random rove Despise the fools that whine for love. JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER 1647-1680 _413._ _Return_ Absent from thee, I languish still; Then ask me not, When I return? The straying fool ’twill plainly kill To wish all day, all night to mourn. Dear, from thine arms then let me fly, That my fantastic mind may prove The torments it deserves to try, That tears my fix’d heart from my love.