I.
Honour’s a mighty Phantom! which around
The sacred Bower does still appear;
All Day it haunts the hallow’d ground.
And hinders Lovers entering there.
It rarely ever takes its flight,
But in the secret shades of night.
Silence and gloom the charm can soonest end,
And are the luckyest hours to lay the Fiend,
Then ’tis the Vision only will remove,
With Incantations of soft Vows of Love.
II.
But as a God he’s Worshipt here,
By all the lovely, young, and fair,
Who all their kind desires controul,
And plays the Tyrant o’re the Soul:
His chiefest Attributes, are Pride and Spight,
His pow’r, is robbing Lovers of delight,
An Enemy to Humane kind,
But most to Youth severe;
As Age ill-natur’d, and as ignorance Blind,
Boasting, and Baffled too, as Cowards are;
Fond in opinion, obstinately Wise,
Fills the whole World with bus’ness and with noise.
III.
Where wert thou born? from what didst thou begin?
And what strange Witchcraft brought thy Maxims in?
What hardy Fool first taught thee to the Crowd?
Or who the Duller Slaves that first believ’d?
Some Woman sure, ill-natur’d, old, and proud,
Too ugly ever to have been deceiv’d;
Unskill’d in Love; in Virtue, or in Truth,
Preach’d thy false Notions first, aud so debaucht our Youth.
IV.
And as in other Sectuaries you find,
His Votaries most consist of Womankind,
Who Throng t’ adore the necessary Evil,
But most for fear, as Indians do the Devil.
Peevish, uneasy all; for in Revenge,
Love shoots ‘em with a thousand Darts.
They feel, but not confess the change;
Their false Devotion cannot save their Hearts.
Thus while the Idol Honour they obey, }
Swift time comes on, and blooming Charms decay, }
And Ruin’d Beauty does too late the Cheat betray. }
This Goblin here — the lovely Maid Alarms,
And snatch’d her, even from my Trembling Arms,
With all the Pow’r of Non-sence he commands,
Which she for mighty Reason understands.
Aminta, fly, he crys! fly, heedless Maid,
For if thou enter’st this Bewitching shade,
Thy Flame, Content, and Lover, all are lost,
And thou no more of Him, or Fame shall boast,
The charming Pleasure soon the Youth will cloy,
And what thou wouldst preserve, that will destroy.
Oh hardy Maid by too much Love undone,
Where are thy Modesty, and Blushes gone?
Where’s all that Virtue made thee so Ador’d?
For Beauty stript of Virtue, grows abhorr’d:
Dyes like a flower whose scent quick Poyson gives,
Though every gawdy Glory paints its leaves;
Oh fly, fond Maid, fly that false happiness,
That will attend Thee in the Bower of Bliss.
Thus spoke the Phantom, while the listening Maid,
Took in the fatal Councel; and obey’d:
Frighted she flys, even from the Temple door,
And left me fainting on the sacred floor:
LOVE saw my Griefs, and to my rescue came,
Where on his Bosom, thus I did complain.