An Epistle to Delia. As those, who hope hereafter Heaven to share, A rig'rous Exile here, can calmly bear; And with collected Spirits undergo The sad variety of Pain below: Yet with intense Reflections antedate, The mighty Raptures of a future State: While the bright Prospect of approaching Joy, Creates a Bliss no Trouble can destroy. So, tho' I'm toss'd by giddy Fortunes Hand, Ev'n to the Confines of my native Land; Where I can hear the stormy Ocean roar, And break its Waves upon the foaming Shore: Tho' from my Delia banish'd, all that's dear, That's good, or beautiful, or charming here; Yet flatt'ring Hopes encourage me to live, And tell me Fate will kinder Minutes give. That the dark Treasury of Time contains A glorious Day, will finish all my Pains; And while I contemplate on Joys to come, My Griefs are silent, and my Sorrows dumb. Believe me, Nymph, believe me charming Fair, (When Truth's conspicuous, we need not swear; Oaths would suppose a diffidence in you, That I am false, my Flame fictitious too,) Were I condemn'd by Fate's imperial Pow'r, Ne'er to return to your Embraces more, I'd scorn whate'er the busy World could give, 'Twould be the worst of Miseries to live: For all my Wishes, and Desires pursue, All I admire, or covet here, is you. Were I possess'd of your surprizing Charms, And lodg'd again within my Delia's Arms, Then would my Joys ascend to that degree, Could Angels envy, they would envy me. Oft as I wander in a silent Shade, When bold Vexation would my Soul invade, I banish the rough Thought, and none pursue, But what inclines my willing Mind to you. The soft Reflections on your sacred Love, Like Sov'reign Antidotes, all Cares remove; Composing ev'ry Faculty to rest, They leave a grateful Flavour in my Breast. Retir'd sometimes into a lonely Grove, I think o'er all the Stories of our Love. What mighty Pleasure have I oft possess'd, When in a Masculine Embrace I prest, The lovely Delia to my heaving Breast? Then I remember, and with vast delight, The kind Expressions of the parting Night: Methought, the Sun too quick return'd again, And Day was ne'er impertinent till then. Strong and contracted was our eager Bliss, An Age's Pleasure in each generous Kiss; Years of delight, in moments we compriz'd, And Heaven it self was there epitomiz'd. But when the Glories of the eastern Light, O'erflow'd the twinkling Tapers of the Night, Farewel my Delia, O farewel, said I, The utmost Period of my time is nigh: Too cruel Fate forbids my longer stay, And wretched Strephon is compell'd away. But tho' I must my native Plains forego, Forsake these Fields, forsake my Delia too, No change of Fortune shall for ever move, The settled Base of my immortal Love. And must my Strephon, must my faithful Swain, Be forc'd, you cry'd, to a remoter Plain! The Darling of my Soul so soon remov'd? The only valu'd, and the best belov'd. Tho' other Swains to me themselves address'd, Strephon was still distinguish'd from the rest: Flat and insipid all their Courtship seem'd, Little themselves, their Passions less esteem'd. For my aversion with their Flames increas'd, And none but Strephon partial Delia pleas'd. Tho' I'm depriv'd of my kind Shepherd's sight, Joy of the Day, and Blessing of the Night; Yet will you Strephon, will you love me still? However flatter me, and say you will. For should you entertain a Rival Love, Should you unkind to me, or faithless prove, No Mortal e'er could half so wretched be, For sure no Mortal ever lov'd like me. Your Beauty, Nymph, said I, my Faith secures; Those you once conquer, must be always yours: For Hearts subdu'd by your victorious Eyes, No Force can storm, no Stratagem surprize, Nor can I of Captivity complain, While lovely Delia holds the glorious Chain. The Cyprian Queen in young Adonis' Arms, Might fear, at last he would despise her Charms. But I can never such a Monster prove, To slight the Blessings of my Delia's Love. Would those, who at Celestial Tables sit, Blest with immortal Wine, immortal Wit: Chuse to descend to some inferior Board, Which nought but Stum, and Nonsense, can afford? Nor can I e'er to those gay Nymphs address, Whose Pride is greater, and whose Charms are less. Their Tinsel Beauty may perhaps subdue A gaudy Coxcomb, or a fulsom Beau; But seem at best indifferent to me, Who none but you with admiration see. Now would the rowling Orbs obey my Will, I'd make the Sun a second time stand still; And to the lower World their Light repay, When conqu'ring Joshua robb'd 'em of a Day, Tho' our two Souls would diff'rent Passions prove, His was a Thirst of Glory, mine is Love. It will not be; the Sun makes haste to rise, And takes Possession of the Eastern Skies: Yet one Kiss more, tho' Millions are too few, And Delia since we must, must part, Adieu. As Adam by an injur'd Maker driven From Eden's Groves, the Visinage of Heaven; Compell'd to wander, and oblig'd to bear The harsh Impressions of a ruder Air, With mighty Sorrow, and with weeping Eyes, Look'd back, and mourn'd the loss of Paradise. With a concern like his, did I review My native Plains, my charming Delia too; For I left Paradise in leaving you. If, as I walk, a pleasant Shade I find, It brings your fair Idea to my Mind. Such was the happy place, I sighing say; Where I, and Delia, lovely Delia lay; When first I did my tender Thoughts impart. And made a grateful Present of my Heart. Or if my Friend in his Apartment, shows Some Piece of Vandyke's, or of Angelo's; In which the Artist has with wond'rous Care, Describ'd the Face of one exceeding fair; Tho', at first sight, it may my Passion raise, And ev'ry Feature I admire, and praise; Yet still, methinks, upon a second View, 'Tis not so beautiful, so fair as you, If I converse with those, whom most admit, To have a ready, gay, vivacious Wit, They want some amiable, moving Grace, Some Turn of Fancy that my Delia has. For ten good Thoughts, amongst the Crowd they vent, Methinks ten Thousand are impertinant. Let other Shepherds, that are prone to range, With each Caprice, their giddy Humours change. They from variety less Joys receive, Than you alone are capable to give. Nor will I envy those ill-judging Swains, What they enjoy's the refuse of the Plains; If for my share of Happiness below, Kind Heaven upon me, Delia would bestow: Whatever Blessings it can give beside, Let all Mankind among themselves divide.