The whole work of Love.
OR:
A NEW POEM,
On a Young Lady; who is violently in Love
with a Gentleman of LINCOLNS-INN;
By a Student in the said ART.
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LOVE is a thing thats not on Reason laid,
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But upon Nature and her Dictates made:
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Fancy I mean; for that prescribes the way,
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For Love at last, to make her Holly-Day.
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Our thoughts like Winds, that vary every Hour,
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When blowing on a Thatcht-house, or a Tower:
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Which is the Case, of this our Lady, then
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Sometimes shes high, and then shes still agen;
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At last, Love is taken by its own Hook,
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Like a Sea-nimph, near, to a purling Brook:
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Changing its Waters, and its Element, Gay;
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Love, it discovers all, to go to Play.
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And then, Circkling about his belovd Arms,
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And that for ever, on Loves Immortal Charms:
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And goes into the Chamber, of th Marriage Bed,
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There to take Pleasure, and lay down its Head.
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Love like a Souldier, coming to the Field,
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At length is Conquerrd, and is forcd to yield;
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Since every thing, does unto a Center tend
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The result of Nature, and of Friendships end.
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Love is a God! and does what it pleases,
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It Cures Wounds, and when it will, us eases:
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The Master Spring, of each humane desire,
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Love is an Angel, of the Angelick Quire.
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But, now it seemeth: and that at the last,
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Love, like a Sea-man, does his Anchor cast:
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Resolving in Port, for to Wash and Tallow,
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Let the Seas be Green, Dark, Blew or Yellow.
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For she it seems; if any means be left,
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Turns Pirate, and so commits a Theft.
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Have him she will, or else this Life depart:
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Love, is a thing beyond the Power of Art.
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It is as strong as Death, we all do know,
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It is a thing, that still doth cure our woe.
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Weret not for this, twould be no joy to Live;
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And in the World: and that for to survive;
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The Powers above! on us this gift does throw,
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That so, all Pleasures, we may fully know:
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Having tasted, that we Epicures, may turn,
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And so for ever, in Loves fire to burn.
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For, of all Annimals, Lovers fire to burn.
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Since thats the Life, of humane happiness;
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Without that, each Persons like to a Rat,
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And has no Pleasure, except that of the Cat.
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For Loves a thing, distinguishes us from Beasts,
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It raises Honour, and our Vitals Feasts:
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Plants us in the form, of Virtuosoes great,
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And so doth Crown, our frail and fickle State.
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Therefore at last, Love now has fixt its Eye,
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Upon a Gentleman, of much Gallantry;
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Like to the Eagle, resolving for a Prey,
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Takes up the Kite, and marches quite away:
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And when that all her wild measures has sown,
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Love is resolvd, to make the Town her own.
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Have him she will, and Marry him; at last,
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Love shuts the Door, and then besure alls fast.
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To summ up all, our Gentleman doth say
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He Loves not Bog-wiggs: and that on any Lay;
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That his Mistris, most fine, such things should wear,
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As the Tree does Fruit, in Summer of the Year.
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He is a Man, for Nature: only so,
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And in her Paths, with her would run and go:
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Would not have her, each thing from Art exchange,
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For all things, but Nature, are to him most strange.
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So, if Love will have it, a Marriage to be,
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Wel all come see the Ivy and Oak Tree:
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Twineing together, by Natures Commands,
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The thing is done, and the World claps Hands.
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