Carlo Dolci. Magdalene, c1660.
To Lysander, on some Verses he writ, and asking
more for his Heart then 'twas worth.
Take back that Heart, you with such Caution give,
Take the fond valu'd Trifle back;
I hate Love-Merchants that a Trade wou'd drive;
And meanly cunning Bargains make.
I care not how the busy Market goes,
And scorn to Chaffer for a price:
Love does one Staple Rate on all impose,
Nor leaves it to the Traders Choice.
A Heart requires a Heart Unfeign'd and True,
Though Subt'ly you advance the Price,
And ask a Rate that Simple Love ne'er knew:
And the free Trade Monopolize.
An Humble Slave the Buyer must become,
She must not bate a Look or Glance,
You will have all, or you'll have none;
See how Loves Market you inhaunce.
Is't not enough, I gave you Heart for Heart,
But I must add my Lips and Eies;
I must no friendly Smile or Kiss impart;
But you must Dun me with Advice.
And every Hour still more unjust you grow,
Those Freedoms you my life deny,
You to Adraste are oblig'd to show,
And give her all my Rifled Joy.
Without Controul she gazes on that Face,
And all the happy Envyed Night,
In the pleas'd Circle of your fond imbrace:
She takes away the Lovers Right.
From me she Ravishes those silent hours,
That are by Sacred Love my due;
Whilst I in vain accuse the angry Powers,
That make me hopeless Love pursue.
Adrastes Ears with that dear Voice are blest,
That Charms my Soul at every Sound,
And with those Love-Inchanting Touches prest:
Which I ne'er felt without a Wound.
She has thee all: whilst I with silent Greif,
The Fragments of thy Softness feel,
Yet dare not blame the happy licenc'd Thief:
That does my Dear-bought Pleasures steal.
Whilst like a Glimering Taper still I burn,
And waste my self in my own flame,
Adraste takes the welcome rich Return:
And leaves me all the hopeless Pain.
Be just, my lovely Swain, and do not take
Freedoms you'll not to me allow;
Or give Amynta so much Freedom back:
That she may Rove as well as you.
Let us then love upon the honest Square,
Since Interest neither have design'd,
For the sly Gamester, who ne'er plays me fair,
Must Trick for Trick expect to find.
The Works of Aphra Behn. Vol. VI. Montague Summers, Ed.
London: William Heinemann, 1915. 202-204.
|| to Works of Aphra Behn|
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