"... faith, Sir, we are here to Day, and gone to Morrow."
-- Aphra Behn, The Lucky Chance

OPERE

THE DISAPPOINTMENT

by: Aphra Behn

I.

One day the amorous Lysander,

By an impatient passion swayed,

Surprised fair Cloris, that loved maid,

Who could defend herself no longer.

All things did with his love conspire;

The gilded planet of the day,

In his gay chariot drawn by fire,

Was now descending to the sea,

And left no light to guide the world,

But what from Cloris' brighter eyes was hurled.

II.

In a lone thicket made for love,

Silent as a yielding maid's consent,

She with a charming languishment,

Permits his force, yet gently strove;

Her hands his bosom softly meet,

But not to put him back designed,

Rather to draw him on inclined;

Whilst he lay trembling at her feet,

Resistance 'tis in vain to show;

She wants the power to say -- 'Ah! What d'ye do?'

III.

Her bright eyes sweet, and yet severe,

Where love and shame confusedly strive,

Fresh vigour to Lysander give;

And breathing faintly in his ear,

She cried -- 'Cease, cease -- your vain desire,

Or I'll call out -- what would you do?

My dearer honour even to you

I cannot, must not give -- retire,

Or take this life, whose chiefest part

I gave you with the conquest of my heart.'

IV.

But he as much unused to fear,

As he was capable of love,

The blessed minutes to improve,

Kisses her mouth, her neck, her hair;

Each touch her new desire alarms,

His burning trembling hand he pressed

Upon her swelling snowy breast,

While she lay panting in his arms.

All her unguarded beauties lie

The spoils and trophies of the enemy.

V.

And now without respect or fear,

He seeks the object of his vows,

(His love no modesty allows)

By swift degrees advancing where

His daring hand that altar siezed,

Where gods of love do sacrifice:

That awful throne, that paradise

Where rage is calmed, and anger pleased,

That fountain where delight still flows,

And gives the universal world repose.

VI.

Her balmy lips encountering his,

Their bodies, as their souls, are joined;

Where both in transports unconfined

Extend themselves upon the moss.

Cloris half dead and breathless lay;

Her soft eyes cast a humid light,

Such as divides the day and night;

Or falling stars, whose fires decay:

And now no signs of life she shows,

But what in short-breathed sighs returns and goes.

VII.

He saw how at her length she lay;

He saw her rising bosom bare;

Her loose thin robes, through which appear

A shape designed for love and play;

Abandoned by her pride and shame

She does her softest joys dispense,

Offering her virgin innocence

A victim to love's sacred flame;

While the o'er-ravished shepherd lies

Unable to perform the sacrifice.

VIII.

Ready to taste a thousand joys,

The too transported hapless swain

Found the vast pleasure turned to pain;

Pleasure which too much love destroys.

The willing garments by he laid,

And Heaven all opened to his view,

Mad to possess, himself he threw

On the defenceless lovely maid.

But oh what envious gods conspire

To snatch his power, yet leave him the desire!

IX.

Nature's support (without whose aid

She can no human being give)

Itself now wants the art to live;

Faintness its slackened nerves invade;

In vain th'enraged youth essayed

To call its fleeting vigour back,

No motion 'twill from motion take;

Excess of love his love betrayed.

In vain he toils, in vain commands;

The insensible fell weeping in his hand.

X.

In this so amorous cruel strife,

Where love and fate were too severe,

The poor Lysander in despair

Renounced his reason with his life.

Now all the brisk and active fire

That should the nobler part inflame,

Served to increase his rage and shame,

And left no spark of new desire:

Not all her naked charms could move

Or calm that rage that had debauched his love.

XI.

Cloris returning from the trance

Which love and soft desire had bred,

Her timorous hand she gently laid

(Or guided by design or chance)

Upon that fabulous Priapas,

That potent god, as poets feign;

But never did young shepherdess,

Gathering of fern upon the plain,

More nimbly draw her fingers back,

Finding beneath the verdant leaves, a snake.

XII.

Then Cloris her fair hand withdrew,

Finding that god of her desires

Disarmed of all his awful fires,

And cold as flowers bathed in morning dew.

Who can the nymph's confusion guess?

The blood forsook the hinder place,

And strewed with blushes all her face,

Which both disdain and shame expressed:

And from Lysander's arms she fled,

Leaving him fainting on the gloomy bed.

XIII.

Like lightning through the grove she hies,

Or Daphne from the Delphic god,

No print upon the grassy road

She leaves, t'instruct pursuing eyes.

The wind that wantoned in her hair,

And with her ruffled garments played,

Discovered in the flying maid

All that the gods e'er made, of fair.

So Venus, when her love was slain,

With fear and haste flew o'er the fatal plain.

XIV.

The nymph's resentments none but I

Can well imagine or condole:

But none can guess Lysander's soul,

But those who swayed his destiny.

His silent griefs swell up to storms,

And not one god his fury spares;

He cursed his birth, his fate, his stars

But more the shepherdess's charms,

Whose soft bewitching influence

Had damned him to the hell of impotence.

'The Disappointment' era stato pubblicato nei Poems on Several Occasions (1680) del Conte di Rochester e all'inizio si pensava che l'autore fosse Rochester stesso. Il poema è stato ristampato nei Poems on Several Occasions (1684) di Behn.

 

LOVE ARMED

by: Aphra Behn

Love in fantastic triumph sat,

Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed,

For whom fresh pains he did create,

And strange tyrannic power he showed,

From thy bright eyes he took his fire,

Which round about, in sport he hurled;

But 'twas from mine, he took desire,

Enough to undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears,

From thee his pride and cruelty;

From me his languishments and fears,

And every killing dart from thee;

Thus thou and I, the god have armed,

And set him up a deity;

But my poor heart alone is harmed,

Whilst thine the victor is, and free.

ON DESIRE

by: Aphra Behn

What art thou, oh! thou new-found pain?

From what infection dost thou spring?

Tell me -- oh! tell me, thou enchanting thing,

Thy nature, and thy name;

Inform me by what subtle art,

What powerful influence,

You got such vast dominion in a part

Of my unheeded, and unguarded, heart,

That fame and honour cannot drive ye thence.

Oh! mischievous usurper of my peace;

Oh! soft intruder on my solitude,

Charming disturber of my ease,

That hast my nobler fate pursued,

And all the glories of my life subdued.

Thou haunt'st my inconvenient hours;

The business of the day, nor silence of the night,

That should to cares and sleep invite,

Can bid defiance to thy conquering powers.

Where hast thou been this live-long age

That from my birth till now,

Thou never cloudst one thought engage,

Or charm my soul with the uneasy rage

That made it all its humble feebles know?

Where wert thou, oh, malicious sprite,

When shining honour did invite?

When interest called, then thou wert shy,

Nor to my aid one kind propension brought,

Nor wouldst inspire one tender thought,

When Princes at my feet did lie.

When thou couldst mix ambition with my joy,

Thou peevish phantom thou wert nice and coy,

Not beauty could invite thee then

Nor all the hearts of lavish men!

Not all the powerful rhetoric of the tongue

Not sacred wit could charm thee on;

Not the soft play that lovers make,

Nor sigh could fan thee to a fire,

Not pleading tears, nor vows could thee awake,

Or warm the unformed something -- to desire.

Oft I've conjured thee to appear

By youth, by love, by all their powers,

Have searched and sought thee everywhere,

In silent groves, in lonely bowers:

On flowery beds where lovers wishing lie,

In sheltering woods where sighing maids

To their assigning shepherds hie,

And hide their bushes in the gloom of shades.

Yet there, even there, though youth assailed,

Where beauty prostrate lay and fortune wooed,

My heart insensible to neither bowed:

Thy lucky aid was wanting to prevail.

In courts I sought thee then, thy proper sphere

But thou in crowds were stifled there,

Interest did all the loving business do,

Invites the youths and wins the virgins too.

Or if by chance some heart the empire own

(Ah power ingrate!) the slave must be undone.

Tell me, thou nimble fire, that dost dilate

Thy mighty force through every part,

What god, or human power did thee create

In me, till now, unfacile heart?

Art thou some welcome plague sent from above

In this dear form, this kind disguise?

Or the false offspring of mistaken love,

Begot by some soft thought that faintly strove,

With the bright piercing beauties of Lysander's eyes?

Yes, yes, tormenter, I have found thee now;

And found to whom thou dost thy being owe,

'Tis thou the blushes dost impart,

For thee this languishment I wear,

'Tis thou that tremblest in my heart

When the dear shepherd does appear,

I faint, I die with pleasing pain,

My words intruding sighing break

When e'er I touch the charming swain

When e'er I gaze, when e'er I speak.

Thy conscious fire is mingled with my love,

As in the sanctified abodes

Misguided worshippers approve

The mixing idol with their gods.

In vain, alas! in vain I strive

With errors, which my soul do please and vex,

For superstitions will survive,

Purer religion to perplex.

Oh! tell me you, philosophers, in love,

That can its burning feverish fits control,

By what strange arts you cure the soul,

And the fierce calenture remove?

Tell me, ye fair ones, that exchange desire,

How 'tis you hid the kindling fire.

Oh! would you but confess the truth,

It is not real virtue makes you nice:

But when you do resist the pressing youth,

'Tis want of dear desire, to thaw the virgin ice.

And while your young adorers lie

All languishing and hopeless at your feet,

Raising new trophies to your chastity,

Oh tell me, how you do remain discreet?

How you suppress the rising sighs,

And the soft yielding soul that wishes in your eyes?

While to th' admiring crowd you nice are found;

Some dear, some secret, youth that gives the wound

Informs you, all your virtue's but a cheat

And honour but a false disguise,

Your modesty a necessary bait

To gain the dull repute of being wise.

Deceive the foolish world -- deceive it on,

And veil your passions in your pride;

But now I've found your feebles on my own,

From me the needful fraud you cannot hide.

Though 'tis a mighty power must move

The soul to this degree of love,

And though with virtue I the world perplex,

Lysander finds the weakness of my sex,

So Helen while from Theseus' arms she fled,

To charming Paris yields her heart and bed.

LINKS UTILI:

Feminism and Women's studies

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