Oh! how charming ‘tis, to meet Soft resistance from the fair; When her pride and wishes meet And by turns increase her care, Oh! how charming ‘tis to know, She wou’d yield but can’t tell how. Oh! how pretty is her scorn When confus’d ‘twixt Love and shame, Still refusing (though she burn,) The soft pressures of my Flame. Her Pride in her denyal lies, And mine is in my Victories. I feigned nevertheless abundance of Grief to find her still persist in her rigorous Cruelty; and I made her believe that all my absent hours I abandoned myself to sorrows and despairs; though _Love_ knows I parted with all those things in _Silvia’s_ Arms. But whatever I pretended, to appear at _Cruelty_ and before _Bellimante_; at _Intelligence_ I was all Galliard and never in better Humour in my Life than when I went to visit _Bellinda_: I put on the Gravity of a Lover, and beheld her with a Solemn Languishing Look: In fine, I accustomed myself to counterfeit my Humour, whenever I found it convenient for my Advantage: Tears, Vows, and Sighs cost me nothing, and I knew all the Arts to jilt for Love, and could act the dying Lover, whenever it made for my Satisfaction. He that wou’d precious time improve. And husband well his hours, Let him complain and dye for Love, And spare no Sighs or Showers. To second which, let Vows and Oaths Be ready at your will, And fittest times and seasons chuse, To shew your cozening skill. In fine, after I had sufficiently acted the Languishing Lover, for the accomplishment of all my Wishes, I thought it time to change the Scene, and without having recourse to Pity, I followed all the Counsels of my _Cupid_; who told me, that in stead of dying and whining at her Feet, and damning myself to obtain her Grace, I should affect a Coldness, and an Unconcern; for, _Lycidus_, assure yourself, said he, there is nothing a Woman will not do, rather than lose her Lover either from Vanity or Inclination. I thanked _Love_ for his kind Advice; and to persue it, the next day I drest myself in all the Gayety imaginable: My Eyes, my Air, my Language, were all changed; and thus fortified with all the put-on indifference in the World, I made _Bellimante_ a Visit; and after a thousand things all cold and unconcerned, far from Love or my former Softness, I cried laughing to her; Cease, cease, that vain and useless scorn, Or save it for the Slaves that dye; I in your Flames no longer burn, No more the whining Fool you fly; But all your Cruelty defie. My Heart your Empire now disdains, And Frown, or Smile, all’s one to me: The Slave has broke his Servial Chains, And spight of all your Pride is free From the Tyrannick Slavery.