Elyzium, or, the Kingdom of Love. A Poem Address'd to Amasia

You Wilds, and Plains, you Groves, and grateful Woods,
You pleasing Streams, and you delightful Floods
To your blest shades a Love-Sick Swain retires,
Be you the Scenes of my neglected Fires.
A gen'rous Friend till now possest my Soul,
But now Amasia has usurpt it whole.
A real Friendship our desires can move,
Yet still there's something more Divine in Love.
Driv'n by her Scorn, and by my own despair,
I seek your shades, yet she pursues me there.
Her Beauteous Image in my Thoughts appears,
And every Form, I think of, borrows her's.
Wildly I run thro' all the Thickest Groves,
And in despairing Accents tell my Loves.
To Fair Amasia I am doom'd to pray,
Though Deaf as Winds, and Raging as the Sea.
Proud as the Heav'ns, and Brighter than the Sun,
Like that, for Men to fix their wonder on.
To Sing of War once Sylvius try'd in vain,
His Numbers fail'd him, and his lofty strain.
To peaceful Reeds his Martial Launces turn,
It is the business of his Muse to Mourn.
From Nassaw's Camps She Sings Amasia's Charms,
Her Eyes, are Conqu'ring as the Hero's Arms.
I with Amasia only wage my War,
And only wish that I may Triumph there,
The World be his, let me but Conquer her.
She Wounds my Soul, yet can't my Flames approve,
She wont be bought with Poetry or Love.
Here, Mourning here, then will I sadly Sing,
And bless those Eyes from which my sorrows Spring.
Here, all consum'd, all languishing I'll lie,
And speak of her in the sad honour I die.
My latest Breath shall beg the Gods by pray'r,
To make my Mistress their peculiar care.
Not Delia shall, Amasia, vie with thee,
You excel her, as Sacharissa, she.
O that I now could write in moving strains,
Soft as her Daphnis does, when he complains,
His Charming Courtship so her Soul could fill,
That she was pleas'd to hear him wooe her still.
In after times your Praise shall Lovers move,
With Fonder Passion than their present Love.
Thro' eating Ages safe your Fame shall fly,
Ne'er shall Amasia, nor her Sylvius dye.
Both by my Poem shall immortal grow,
I for my Love, as for your Beauty you.
Whilst Wit and War give some a lasting Name,
I from my Flames shall draw a brighter Fame.
In glorious Arms the Thund'rer shines above,
Caesar, and greater Nassaw come the next to Jove,
I am the Caesar here —
I am the Nassaw in the Field of Love.
Tho' not my Verse, all shall my Passion praise,
It is […].
[…]
[…]
[…] that kill me, make me ever live.
Mine shall be […] dies, have Eyes.
While Swains have hearts, and Charming Maids
In all my Lines they shall such softness see,
That the whole World shall Learn to Love of me.