Thus to my Arms _Love_ brought the trembling Maid; _Who on my Bosom sighing, softly, said:_ _Take, charming Victor--what you must--subdue--_ _’.is_ Love_--and not Aminta gives it you,_ Love _that o’re all, and every part does reign,_ _And I shou’d plead-and struggle--but in vain;_ _Take what a yielding Virgin--can bestow,_ _I am--dis-arm’d--of all resistance now_.-- _Then down her Cheeks a tender shower did glide,_ _The Trophies of my Victory, Joy, and Pride:_ _She yields, ye Gods_ (I cry’d) _and in my Arms,_ _Gives up the wonderous Treasure of her Charms._ --Transported to the Bower of Bliss we high, But once more met _Respect_ upon the way, But not as heretofore with Meen and Grace All formal, but a gay and smiling Face; A different sort of Air his looks now wears, Galljard and Joyful every part appears. And thus he said-- _Go, happy Lovers, perfect the desires,_ _That fill two Hearts that burn with equal Fires;_ _Receive the mighty Recompence at last,_ _Of all the Anxious hours you’ve past,_ _Enter the Bower where endless Pleasures flow,_ _Young Joys, new Raptures all the year:_ _Respect has nothing now to do,_ _He always leaves the Lover here._ _Young_ Loves _attend and here supply all want,_ _In secret Pleasures I’m no confident._ _Respect_ here left me: and He scarce was gone, But I perceiv’d a Woman hasting on, Naked she came; all lovely, and her Hair Was loosely flying in the wanton Air: _Love_ told me ‘twas _Occasion_, and if I The swift pac’d Maid shou’d pass neglected by, My Love, my Hopes, and Industry were vain, For she but rarely e’re returned again. I stopt her speed, and did implore her Aid, Which granted, she _Aminta_ did perswade Into the _Palace of true Joys_ to hast, And thither ‘twas, we both arriv’d at last. Oh _Lysidas_, no Mortal Sense affords, No Wit, no Eloquence can furnish Words Fit for the soft Discription of the _Bower_; Some _Love-blest God in the Triumphing hour_, Can only guess, can only say what ‘tis; } Yet even that God but faintly wou’d express, } Th’ unbounded pleasures of the _Bower of Bliss_. } A slight, a poor Idea may be given, Like that we fancy when we paint a Heav’n, As solid Christal, Diamonds, shining Gold, May fancy Light, that is not to be told. To vulgar Senses, Love like Heaven shou’d be (To make it more Ador’d) a Mystery: Eternal Powers! when ere I sing of Love, And the unworthy Song immortal prove; To please my wandering Ghost when I am Dead, Let none but Lovers the soft stories read; Praise from the Wits and Braves I’le not implore; Listen, ye Lovers all, I ask no more; That where Words fail, you may with thought supply,