The Night approach’t, and now with Thoughts opprest, I minded neither where, nor when to Rest, When my Conductor LOVE! whom I pursu’d, Led to a Palace call’d _Inquietude_. INQUIETUDE. _A Neighbouring_ Villa _which derives its name,_ _From the rude sullen Mistress of the same;_ _A Woman of a strange deform’d Aspect;_ _Peevishly pensive, fond of her neglect;_ _She never in one posture does remain,_ _Now leans, lyes down, then on her Feet again;_ _Sometimes with Snails she keeps a lazy pace,_ _And sometimes runs like Furies in a Chase;_ _She seldom shuts her watchful Eyes to sleep,_ _Which pale and languid does her Visage keep;_ _Her loose neglected Hair disorder’d grows;_ _Which undesign’d her Fingers discompose;_ _Still out of Humour, and deprav’d in Sense,_ _And Contradictive as Impertinence;_ _Distrustful as false States-men, and as nice_ _In Plots, Intrigues, Intelligence and Spies._ To her we did our Duty pay, but she Made no returns to our Civility. Thence to my Bed; where rest in vain I sought, } For pratling LOVE still entertain’d my thought, } And to my Mind, a thousand Fancies brought: } _Aminta’s_ Charms and Pow’rful Attractions, From whence I grew to make these soft Reflections. The REFLECTION. I. _What differing Passions from what once I felt,_ _My yielding Heart do melt,_ _And all my Blood as in a Feaver burns,_ _Yet shivering Cold by turns._ _What new variety of hopes and fears?_ _What suddain fits of Smiles and Tears?_ Hope! _Why dost thou sometimes my Soul imploy_ _With Prospects of approaching Joy?_ _Why dost thou make me pleas’d and vain,_ _And quite forget last minutes pain?_ _What Sleep wou’d calm_, Aminta _keeps awake;_ _And I all Night soft Vows and Wishes make._ _When to the Gods I would my Prayers address,_ _And sue to be forgiven,_ Aminta’s _name, I still express,_ _And Love is all that I confess,_ Love _and_ Aminta! _Ever out Rival Heaven!_ II. _Books give me no content at all;_ _Unless soft_ Cowly _entertain my Mind,_ _Then every pair in Love I find;_ Lysander _him_, Aminta _her, I call:_ _Till the bewitching Fewel raise the fire;_ _Which was design’d but to divert,_ _Then to cool Shades I ragingly retire,_ _To ease my hopeless panting Heart,_ _Yet thereto every thing begets desire._ _Each flowry Bed, and every loanly Grove,_ _Inspires new Wishes, new impatient Love._ [Sidenote A: Little Arts to please.]