Here thou wilt grow impatient to be gone, And thrô my willing Eyes will silent pass, Into the stream that gently glides along, But stay thy hasty flight, (my Soul,) alas, A thought more cruel will thy flight secure, Thought, that can no admittance give to cure. Think, how the prostrate Infidel now lys, An humble suppliant at anothers feet, Think, while he begs for pity from her Eyes. He sacrifices thee without regreet. Think, how the faithless treated thee last night, And then, my tortur’d soul, assume thy flight. _To the fair_ Clarinda, _who made Love to me, imagin’d more than Woman. By Mrs._ B. Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee, Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth: And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth. This last will justifie my soft complaint, While that may serve to lessen my constraint; And without Blushes I the Youth persue, When so much beauteous Woman is in view. Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain } With thy deluding Form thou giv’st us pain, } While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain. } In pity to our Sex sure thou wer’t sent, That we might Love, and yet be Innocent: For sure no Crime with thee we can commit; Or if we shou’d--thy Form excuses it. For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believes A Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves. Thou beauteous Wonder of a different kind, Soft _Cloris_ with the dear _Alexis_ join’d; When e’r the Manly part of thee, wou’d plead Thou tempts us with the Image of the Maid, While we the noblest Passions do extend The Love to _Hermes_, _Aphrodite_ the Friend. FINIS. WESTMINSTER DROLLERY, 1671. A SONG. That Beauty I ador’d before, I now as much despise: ‘Tis Money only makes the Whore: She that for love with her Crony lies, _Is chaste: But that’s the Whore that kisses for prize._ Let _Jove_ with Gold his _Danae_ woo, It shall be no rule for me: Nay, ‘t may be I may do so too, When I’me as old as he. _Till then I’le never hire the thing that’s free._ If Coin must your affection Imp, Pray get some other Friend: My Pocket ne’re shall be my Pimp, I never that intend, _Yet can be noble too, if I see they mend._ Since Loving was a Liberal Art, How canst thou trade for gain? The pleasure is on your part, ‘Tis we Men take the pain: _And being so, must Women have the gain?_ No, no, I’le never farm your Bed, Nor your Smock-Tenant be: I hate to rent your white and red, You shall not let your Love to me: _I court a Mistris, not a Landlady._