What means this Knot, in Mystick Order Ty’d, And which no Humane Knowledge can divide? Not the Great Conqu’rours Sword can this undo Whose very Beauty would divert the Blow. Bright Relique! Shrouded in a Shrine of Gold! Less Myst’ry made a Deity of Old. Fair Charmer! Tell me by what pow’rful Spell You into this Confused Order fell? If Magick could be wrought on things Divine, Some _Amorous Sybil_ did thy Form design In some soft hour, which the Prophetick Maid In Nobler Mysteries of Love employ’d. Wrought thee a Hieroglyphick, to express The wanton God in all his Tenderness; Thus shaded, and thus all adorn’d with Charms, Harmless, Unfletch’d, without Offensive Arms, He us’d of Old in shady Groves to Play, } E’er _Swains_ broke Vows, or _Nymphs_ were vain and coy, } Or Love himself had Wings to fly away. } Or was it (his Almighty Pow’r to prove) Design’d a Quiver for the God of Love? And all these shining Hairs which th’inspir’d Maid Has with such strange Mysterious Fancy laid, Are meant his Shafts; the subt’lest surest Darts That ever Conqu’red or Secur’d his Hearts; Darts that such tender Passions do convey, Not the young Wounder is more soft than they. ‘Tis so; the Riddle I at last have learn’d: But found it when I was too far concern’d. _The Dream._ A Song. I. The Grove was gloomy all around, Murm’ring the Streams did pass, Where fond _Astrae_ laid her down Upon a Bed of Grass. I slept and saw a piteous sight, _Cupid_ a weeping lay, Till both his little Stars of Light Had wept themselves away. II. Methought I ask’d him why he cry’d, My Pity led me on: All sighing the sad Boy reply’d, Alas I am undone! As I beneath yon Myrtles lay, Down by _Diana’s_ Springs, _Amyntas_ stole my Bow away, And Pinion’d both my Wings. III. Alas! cry’d I, ‘twas then thy Darts Wherewith he wounded me: Thou Mighty _Deity_ of Hearts, He stole his Pow’r from thee. Revenge thee, if a God thou be, Upon the _Amorous Swain_; I’ll set thy Wings at Liberty, And thou shalt fly again. IV. And for this Service on my Part, All I implore of thee, Is, That thou’t wound _Amyntas_ Heart, And make him die for me. His Silken Fetters I Unty’d, And the gay Wings display’d; Which gently fann’d, he mounts and cry’d, Farewel fond easy Maid. V. At this I blush’d, and angry grew I should a God believe; And waking found my Dream too true, Alas I was a Slave. _A letter to a Brother of the Pen in_ Tribulation.