‘Tis thus we over Mortals reign, And thus we Adoration gain From the proud Monarch to the humble Swain. _Verses design’d by Mrs._ A. Behn _to be sent to a fair Lady, that desir’d she would absent herself to cure her Love. Left unfinish’d._ In vain to Woods and Deserts I retire, } To shun the lovely Charmer I admire, } Where the soft Breezes do but fann my Fire! } In vain in Grotto’s dark unseen I lie, Love pierces where the Sun could never spy. No place, no Art his _God-head_ can exclude, The _Dear_ Distemper reigns in Solitude: Distance, alas, contributes to my Grief; No more, of what fond Lovers call, Relief Than to the wounded Hind does sudden Flight From the chast Goddesses pursuing Sight: When in the Heart the fatal Shaft remains, And darts the Venom through our bleeding Veins. If I resolve no longer to submit My self a wretched Conquest to your Wit, More swift than fleeting Shades, ten thousand Charms From your bright Eyes that Rebel Thought disarms: The more I strugl’d, to my Grief I found My self in _Cupid’s_ Chains more surely bound: Like Birds in Nets, the more I strive, I find My self the faster in the Snare confin’d. _Verses by Madam_ Behn, _never before printed_. _On a Conventicle_. Behold that Race, whence _England’s_ Woes proceed, The Viper’s Nest, where all our Mischiefs breed, There, guided, by _Inspiration_, Treason speaks, And through the Holy Bag-pipe _Legion_ squeaks. The Nation’s Curse, Religion’s ridicule, The Rabble’s _God_, the Politicians _Tool_, _Scorn_ of the Wise, and _Scandal_ of the Just, The Villain’s _Refuge_, and the Women’s Lust. GILDON’S CHORUS POETARUM, 1694. _By Madam_ Behn. 1. The Gods are not more blest than he, Who fixing his glad eyes on thee, With thy bright Rays his senses chears, And drinks with ever thirsty Ears, The charming Musick of thy Tongue Does ever hear and ever long, That sees with more than humane Grace Sweet smiles adorn thy Angel Face. 2. So when with kinder Beams you shine, And so appear much more Divine, My feebled Sense and dazzled Sight } No more support the glorious Light, } And the fierce torrent of Delight. } O then I feel my Life decay, My ravish’d Soul then flies away; Then Faintness does my Limbs surprize, And Darkness swims before my Eyes. 3. Then my Tongue fails, and from my Brow The Liquid Drops in Silence flow; Then wand’ring Fires run thro my Blood, Then Cold binds up the languid Flood; All Pale and Breathless then I lie, I sigh, I tremble, and I die.