Deidamia to Achilles. Epist. I

Read this Achilles, and be griev'd to see
How Deidamia Mourns, and Mourns for thee,
Read, and then think who must the Author be.
Who, but fond I, would the weak Passion tell?
Fond, foolish I, who Love you, too, too well.
You seem to doubt, and in amaze you stand,
Having my Heart, you needs must know my Hand.
What here you find, my dear desires indite,
Ah! kindly read, what I too kindly write.
Nought but her tender wishes thus could move
Thy Deidamia to confess her Love.
Nor need I blush the noblest Flame to own,
I boast I yielded, since to thee alone.
To thee, whose Charms, wound tender Virgins far;
O may you so be prosp'rous in the War.
May you Victorious, and Triumphant be,
And Conquer all, as you have Conquer'd me;
But let no Laurel shades about you rise,
To bar the glances of my longing Eyes,
Their sacred wreaths can free from thunder live,
But not from flashes Beauty's light'nings give.
I'll think you not a Lover, while I sue,
But call you Warriour, the Name's dear to you.
Ah! then, be gen'rous to the yielding Foe,
I have surrender'd to your Arms, you know.
Proud of submitting to Achilles, more
Than all the Conquests I had gain'd before.
When I was gaz'd at by a Noble Crowd,
And other Princes with Submission bow'd.
When, all around, far as my Eyes could see,
There was no Youth but would my Captive be,
Then, then it was, I gave my Heart to thee.
I gave thee that, I gave thee all my Soul,
Gave Deidamia, you possess'd her whole.
My Virgin spoils I offer'd to thy Arms,
The Thought alas! My tender Bosom warms,
You rifled all my Beauties, all my Charms.
My dearest Treasures, and my Richest stores
Were all your own, and I was wholly yours.
To my lov'd Bed, full of a Vig'rous flame,
Dress'd like a Woman, oft Achilles came.
Your publick Gestures still did Female show,
But, when in private, sure they were not so.
My Maids of thee were in no sort afraid,
For they believe thee, like themselves, a Maid.
Think, in what sweet, what soft, and wanton play,
Lock'd in my Arms, you past the Hours away!
Alas! My Love, writing these tender Words,
The very Thought some Extasies assords.
Some faint Emotions of my Soul it frames,
All our past Pleasures now appear but Dreams.
Ah! Lovely Youth, oft in my Widow'd Bed,
I think of you, and wonder why you fled;
Admire, that War should so delightful be,
To make it's Horrours be prefer'd to me.
I thought my Voice Breath'd far more pleasing Ayres,
Than the shrill Trumpets could Proclaim in theirs.
Why should you rashly Combat in the Field?
And slight such spoils as I would gladly yield.
There you must hazard, and buy Conquest dear,
When all your business was to triumph here.
Ah! Come again, once more, my Life, return,
To comfort me, who now extreamly Mourn.
How should I Joy to hear what you have done,
To hear of Battles by your Valour won!
To hear your self, in my Embraces, tell,
How such a Hero in the onset fell.
Then would I clasp thee closely to my Breast,
And Sigh, and Kiss thee, more securely prest,
And, still endearing, lull you so to rest.
Hast then, Achilles, from the Battle flee,
And join in Combat with no Foe, but me.