Lessons for lovers; with some tender and pathetic anecdotes, taken from real life. / By Ovid Americanus. ; [Six lines from Swift] ; To which is added, the Thunder-storm. A poem. Supposed to be written by the late celebrated Miss A***, now Mrs. L****.

Lessons for lovers; with some tender and pathetic anecdotes, taken from real life. / By Ovid Americanus. ; [Six lines from Swift] ; To which is added, the Thunder-storm. A poem. Supposed to be written by the late celebrated Miss A***, now Mrs. L****.

Table of contents

Title page

TO THE HONORABLE ROBERT MORRIS, Esq FINANCIER GENERAL, OF THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA.

LESSONS FOR LOVERS.

Title page

THE THUNDER-STORM, A POEM.

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§

[Page]

[Page]

LESSONS FOR LOVERS; WITH SOME TENDER AND PATHETIC ANECDOTES, TAKEN FROM REAL LIFE.

BY OVID AMERICANUS.

TERRESTRIAL NYMPHS, by formal Arts.

Display their various Nets for Hearts;

Their Looks are all by Method set,

When to be Prude, and when Coquet,

Yet, wanting Skill and Pow'r to choose;

Their only Pride is to Refuse.

SWIFT.

To which is Added, THE THUNDER-STORM, A POEM. Supposed to be written by the late celebrated Miss A***, now Mrs. L****.

PHILADELPHIA: PRINTED and SOLD BY ROBERT BELL, IN Third Street. M, DCC, LXXXIV.

TO THE HONORABLE ROBERT MORRIS, Esq FINANCIER GENERAL, OF THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA.

[Page]

SIR,

MEN of Letters who flatter the Muses, or think the Muses flatter them, and Men of pretended as well as approved Genius have always claimed the Privilege of inscribing their Flights of Fancy and their amusive Productions to the Great—not withstanding all their pretended Modesty, the Cause of which is soon guessed or sagaciously mistaken by every Reader.

With this precedent and a different Presumption; I the very Junior of all the Muses Children, have ventured to add Consequence to this Trifle, by introducing it to the World under your Name.—Those who may bestow so much Time as to peruse it will naturally wonder why I did so! I Will candidly confess that was any one to ask me the Question, I could not give them a satisfactory Answer; Perhaps it is of that delicate combination of Ideas that will not bear definition.

There is a Turn in the Ingenious and Studious different from the conceptions of the vulgar, that inspire them with a laudable Ambition of acquiring Fame; while the latter, the bulk of Society, are rather Prone to despise and ridicule, than to palliate or forgive, the Attempts of those who aim to instruct or to please; if not sanctioned by something conspicuous.—This, perhaps, is one Reason why your Name appears here.

Those who write for their own Amusement or Emolument are convinced from Experience, that their Advancement (at first) arises more from some happy Turn or Circumstance than real Merit; and tho' Merit will carry them through at the long Run, the Assistance brought by it alone seldom or never comes Time enough for the Object [Page]that deserves it.—There is some living Examples, and abundance of dead ones—Some will suggest to themselves after reading this Paragraph that I am afraid of dying unnoticed—Indeed I own I am; but it is not every Reader that will have Candour enough to believe from what Reason.

For the Work I will say nothing: I am but too conscious of its Defects and Deficiencies and too well acquainted with your Merits to speak in favour of such a Bagatelle, to so judicious a Patron: It was the Employment of some leisure Hours, and the fattering Encomiums of a few Intimates, who seldom see the Faults of those they respect, made me a little vain to see it published; but while I ingenuously own this, I tremble, for I am well aware that Vanity often ends in Humility.

The Words of a Dedication are generally the Language of Panegyrick, either so servily low, or disgustingly Flattering, that they mostly offend Modesty; but I hope I have not merited this Imputation.

Little acquainted with the Great, I have not much to Hope from their Influence, and being above the Censures of the malignant, I have little to fear from their Malevolence. But by this Address to you, I have more than one Consolation, — your admiring the Attempt, and forgiving the Execution.

I am, SIR, With Respect, Your most humble Servant, THE AUTHOR.

PHILADELPHIA, JUNE 10th, 1784.

LESSONS FOR LOVERS.

[Page]

‘SCRIBERI JUSSET AMOR. Love bade me Write.OVID.’

GOOD gentle reader, when you choose

To hear of love, these lines peruse;

But if you ne'er have felt its force

Your pleasures here will have no source;

Then shut the book, and take another,

The tedious lines will only bother;

But should some serious hour obtrude,

With pleasing melancholy mood,

When every sense devoid of pride,

Thro' fancy's airy regions ride,

To mark each feeling of the heart,

Their changes know, their cares impart,

And, gathering home the various views,

Their merits note and worth peruse,

Then kindly read a line or two,

The author meant it but for you.

And ah! forgive a young beginner,

A harmless, youthful, scribling sinner:

I seldom speak with muse or graces,

And seldomer have seen their faces;

The gods I never do invoke,

The writers say 'tis all a joke,

For men are grown so wond'rous wife

They'll scarcely credit their own eyes;

[Page] And was a god to come one earth,

He'd only be a tool for mirth;

He'd find such treatment from the rabble,

Such undeserving worthless gabble,

For so descending from his station,

That he'd condemn this nether nation.

Ah! me! how can I hope to find

Reception tender, just or kind,

For any trifle that I write,

When men to gods would shew such spite?

—Besides, I never deal in rhyme,

I only write to cheat the time,

Or please the fair, or look for fame,

In simple paths unknown to blame;

For youth is ardent for a wreath,

Altho' the bauble's but a breath.—

But hear the subject of my Song

Before my proem grow to long.

True love when rightly understood

Is surely mans divinest good;

Dear kind retreat from public strife

Blest sweet'ner to the gall of life;

When lull'd upon thy downy breast

No fears the tranquil mind molest;

Friend to misfortune, ever kind,

The first best cordial to the mind.

And thou above the rest divine

Sweet wedded love! thy joys be mine;

With happy partner through this life,

Endear'd by the fond name of wife,

Soft let me glide my moments past,

Nor flatter fortune to the last;

Unknown to pride, unknown to state,

And all the pomp that please the great:

Then when my glass is out, resign

This being to my god divine.

[Page]

Marriage when unendear'd by love

Will only endless anguish prove;

For like the plant that feels the touch,

Love is as sensitive as such,

And shrinks beneath the sordid hands,

And falls, and dies, and wide expands:

Ah! then 'tis vain to join the pairs,

Or tie their heads to wordly cares,

Or with a foolish aim design

To force affection in the mind,

Or closer think their hearts to draw,

For what is love to forms or law?

This MIRA and LOTHARIO prov'd,

For few so tenderly have lov'd;

Their hearts were only bound, their hands

Were never chain'd by wedlock's bands;

She pledg'd her honor and her life

To be LOTHARIO'S faithful wife,

And he her husband swore to be

To all intents and each degree;

Convinc'd that laws could never bind

The wanton free unshack'ld mind,

Nor force affection in a heart

Where only interest had a part,

They deem'd their promises as good

As if inforc'd by parson Wood:

They scorn'd to break their sacred oath,

And mutual concord held them both,

A happy husband and a wife,

A pattern of domestic life;

In love and unity they past

Their pleasing moments to the last,

Admir'd by all the neighbours round,

The happiest couple to be found.

The fairest of the virgin throng

Was tender ANNA bright and young,

[Page] Whom many a youth had strove to gain,

Tho' all their efforts prov'd but vain;

And tho' obdurate still the maid,

Her tender soul for love was made:

She sigh'd in secret for a swain,

But ne'er disclos'd what gave her pain;

Still brooding o'er her tender smart,

Love prey'd upon her bleeding heart,

Her charms through all the country round

Was thought the sweetest to be found;

A toast at every table given,

The prettiest creature under heaven.

A careful mother ANNA lost,

Which all her future prospects crost,

For she but young and tender yet,

To judge, or reason, was not fit;

And youth is ever prone to stray,

To wander from fair virtues way.

Besides the harsh unwinning mode

Of misers, who make gold their god,

And deify the glitt'ring store,

As calves were done in days of yore:

For ANNA'S father was a man

Of this degen'rate fordid clan;

And all his fears about his child

Was least she should, by love beguil'd,

Forgetful of a wealthy life,

Be made some honest poor mans wife.

O sad distortion of the sense!

Whence thy prerogative? thy pow'r from whence?

To trammel thus the free-born mind

With mental misery unkind!

Say, has not God with wond'rous skill

Left free as air the human will?

[Page] And shall a father's earth-born aim

To bind the feelings wish, or claim?

'Tis true that children should obey

Their parents seldom erring way;

But oh! ye parents be but wise,

Your childrens comforts to devise;

Their fond affections never cross

For wordly store or worldly dross;

Industry may secure them ease,

But gold can never purchase peace,

Ah! how unkind it is to scorn

The youth of equal parents born,

If not possess'd of large estate,

Though natures treasures make him great!

A second mother ANNA got,

As bad as e'er was childrens lot,

And she to 'scape her jarring tongue

Her next relations went among.

Ah! where's the aunt, or uncle dear,

Can watch with true parental care,

The sliding foot-steps of a ward,

And warn or chide, advise or guard?

A youth betray'd by passions sway,

With ANNA met by chance at tea,

He saw, was conquer'd, sigh'd and lov'd,

For charms like her's each feeling mov'd.

He told his passion with such skill,

That ANNA list'ned with good will:

But he [...] from honor's road,

His duty to the laws and God,

With cruel disposition stole

The brightest jewel of her soul;

Her virtue robb'd, her honour lost,

The female treasure pride and boast.

[Page]

Ah! where's the art her griefs can tell,

Or muse the moving numbers swell

With woes like her's? such tortures speak?

Enough the feeling heart to break.

The constant tear bedew'd her eye

Her ceaseless bosom heav'd the sigh,

Her bursting heart could scarce sustain

Its load of never-dying pain.

Ill fated maid! what could relieve

Thy tortur'd soul? What comfort give?

Not all the art that man can boast

Can comfort give when virtue's lost;

The tender phrenzy glows anew,

As endless rise the guilt to view,

And quick involves the mind again

In sharpest heart-corroding pain,

'Till grown superior to the soul,

It sinks or greatly bears the whole.

The first retreat of guilty love,

Which sure as try'd does fatal prove,

To ease her anguish and her pain,

Dejected ANNA prov'd in vain.

Misfortune, not affection, ty'd

Her heart to him, her soul deny'd,

And aggravating more the deed

For which her tender heart did bleed,

By Repetition strove to cure

What tenderness could scarce endure.

Oh! dissipation! dire relief,

Retreat of woe, of pain, of grief;

To thee we run, for ease to thee

The mental mourners mostly flee!

[Page] When ah! they find the wound grow worse,

A first transgression grows a curse:

The very best may orr for once,

But second faults is not by chance.

Tho' frequent repetitions may

Innure the mind in errors way,

And idly, transitory, give

The wretch some worthless hours to live;

Yet still encreasing with her days;

The piercing anguish ceasless preys,

'Till nature quite inverted lies,

The slave of error sinks and dies.

Some months of guilty pleasure o'er,

She sigh'd for what she was before:

Alas! It never can return,

Tho' angels wept at pity's urn,

And pleading saints from heaven descend,

To sue for sad misfortunes friend.

Ah! how unlike what ANNA was!

The prettiest, lovely, happy lass

That ever grac'd thy sportive banks,

Where Nymphs and Naiads play their pranks

Sweet SUSQUEHANNA! — gentle stream,

Whose murmurs flow for ANNA'S fame:

Thy soft meanders as they stray,

And bear the mourners sighs away,

Shall tell the musing virgins there

Of Man, and love, to still beware:

And as the whistling peasant [...]

From their or kindred virtues home,

Along thy banks to look their sheep,

Or find the silent shade to weep,

With heavy hearts they'll pensive say,

"Here lovely ANNA us'd to stray!

[Page] "Then nature all around look'd gay,

"Then Autumn wore the bloom of may;

"In summers suns, the spreading trees,

"Contracted, led the fanning breeze,

"Or form'd the kind refreshing shade

"To guard so fair, so sweet a maid!

"But now 'tis done—the blossoms die,

"The bending branches seem to sigh,

"And melancholy droops the spray,

"Nor groves, nor fields, nor streams look gay;

"Nor ever shall thy limped face

"Reflect a maid with so much grace;

"But sadly heedless of the throng,

"Shall mournful glide the glades along."

The peaceful cottagers around,

Deplore, her lose in plaintive found;

Her hand was ready to relieve,

For none with freer candour gave;

The aged beggars knew her well,

Her look the helpless train could tell;

She saw with tender pity's eye,

And others suff'rings had her sigh.

More known, her shame still wider grew,

As 'rose the pledge of love to view;

'Twas then her feeling heart did prove

The double pangs of guilty love.

The news soon to her parents came,

Who pierc'd with rage, with grief and shame,

Amaz'd they heard the tale of woe,

But yet could scarcely think it so.

Ah! see her to her father brought,

All pierc'd with anx'ous killing thought,

And Shame, and soul depressing grief,

To which but death could give relief! —

[Page] Then see the wounded parent sigh,

The glistning tear stand in his eye,—

The trembling lip—the faultring tongue—

The heart with sharpest tortures wrong;

The wordless torrent of distress,

That more than language can express—

A parent's duty pleading still,

While honor prompts—conducts the will,

Then grief to broken speech gave place,

While hasty tears, each other trace;

And then, (ah! cutting to unfold)

The father sinking ANNA told,

With rage remorsless, that he ne'er

Should think her worthy of his care,

Nor own her more, nor call her child,

For having thus his hopes beguil'd—

—

—

"To think how tenderly I rear'd

"Your infant years!—this the reward! —

"Oh! ANNA, ANNA! did you know

"But half my feelings and my woe—"

He ceas'd, nor more his swelling heart

Could to his trembling child impart,

She silent heard, nor did defend

The error which she could not mend,

For tho' misfortune gave her smart

She foster'd virtue in her heart.

Like weeping Niobe in grief,

She pray'd the Gods to give relief,

And cast a pitying eye on heav'n

In hopes her fault would be forgiv'n.

Stung with remorse the villain he

Who first design'd her infamy,

By sleepless conscience was distrest,

And staring guilt ne'er let him rest;

[Page] His self-convicting soul then knew

Transgression in its horrid view,

Nor peace nor comfort could he find,

But phrenzy fir'd his tortur'd mind,

'Till life grew burthensome to bear,

And Suicide reliv'd his care.

His offspring ANNA yet rever'd,

By sad misfortune more endear'd,

And with a mothers fondness prest,

The little baby to her breast;

Wept o'er its features to the last,

And sigh'd her pleasing moments past;

But death the infant call'd away,

When fittest that great debt to pay.

Now Anna friendless and distrest

With sore reflection in her breast,

Convicted saw her error plain,

'Its anguish knew, and felt its pain,

When virtue kindling fresh and new,

She liv'd belov'd, despis'd by few,

A pattern to the erring fair,

That virtue stain'd is still worth care,

And better to reform, tho' late,

Than live in error, scorn and hate.

A youth beyond the scorn of fools,

Above the prude and coquet's rules

Who knew each secret of her breast,

His candid flame with truth confest;

He knew her worth and follies past,

Admir'd the first, forgot the last;

And found her fitting for a bride,

Their hearts agreed, their hands were ty'd.

They both each others failings knew,

And having comfort still in view,

[Page] They scorn'd to speak of follies past,

And liv'd contented to the last;

The husband tender to his wife,

She kind and faithful all her life;

This lesson leaving to the wife,

That virtue is the richest prize.

And yet tho' vice may bloom a while,

The inward canker to beguile,

'Tis only virtue can impart

True pleasure to the feeling heart;

Tho' sad misfortune should oppress,

'Tis left for virtue to redress,

To comfort and reclaim the heart,

Where vagrant follies once had part,

And will by perseverance, yield

Through rise a safeguard and a shield.

Quick through the bosom runs the fire.

When youthful passion wakes desire:

The tender heart but feels to sigh,

And own the object of the eye,

Without the beauties of the mind,

Those ties that love and friendship bind.

Warm the extatic transport flies

To the lov'd-fair-one where it lies,

Then raptures soft on raptures flow,

(But only lovers this can know,)

When fancy pouring to his view

Her mimic beauties, or her true,

His yielding soul their force obey,

Or falls a victim to their sway.

But keep him from the distant fair,

His hope, his fear, his love his care;

Then see him tortur'd with distress,

Griefs that the muse cannot express:

[Page] The tender anguish kindling strong,

With absent fear, for ever wrong;

Her every charm with new delight,

Fresh rising to abstracted sight;

And, killing thought! a rivals art

To win or strive to win the heart,

For which he lives, for which he sighs,

And pain and poverty defies;

These id'ly plague his tortur'd breast,

And kill repose and banish rest.

Here genius tries her feeble aid,

To write a letter to the maid,

But still the lover finds his art

Unequal to express his heart:

He reads what reason bade him write,

Then throws the nonsense down with spite,

And seeking for some model meet,

With moving numbers kindly sweet,

He harmless steals the pleading lines,

Through which unbounded passion shines.

Then ah! the happy meeting see,

How kind, how perfect, and how free!

The eager close and fond embrace,

With rapture glowing in each face,

The kiss repeated o'er and o'er,

The last the sweetest of a score,

The broken accent, ardent gaze,

With trifles numberless that please,

With quick enquiries, fond surprise,

And rapture beaming from their eyes:

These are the changes lovers know,

Their sweetest joy, or keenest woe.

[Page]

Thou jealousy with tenfold ire,

Awake the muse, and strike the lyre,

And kindle passions wildly great,

With thoughts that wander, sighs of fate,

And anger smoth'ring in the mind,

With gloomy visage, looks unkind;

With all the soul in envy lost,

And ev'ry joy by folly croft;

And ev'ry sign of inward peace,

Quite banish'd from the dark'ned face.

Dear social sweetness then farewel,

For wedlock's now a perfect bell;

All the past delights of love

But only sad incitements prove,

The more to aid the keen reply

Or swell the mind distressing sigh.

Varying wild the passions play,

When by folly led astray;

The jealous heart, with idle care,

Jumps at "trifles light as air,"

For all appears in horrid view,

And ev'ry circumstance seems true,

Still augmenting, never ceasing,

Phautoms rise with truths increasing;

Ev'ry friend appears a traitor,

Working flyly on good nature;

And those who look him in the face,

Seem to born him with disgrace:

While endless error with her train

Still aids to aggravate the pain,

Then reason wanders, judgment dies,

And wisdom sadly prostrate lies,

And sense inverted seems no more

To yield its kind conducting lore.

Sad inward feelings wring the heart,

And nothing can a charm impart;

[Page] For grief absorbs the pliant mind,

And anguish with her stings unkind;

Dire brooding troubles fill the breast,

And robs the wedded slave of rest.

These are the cares that fill the mind,

When once to jealousy inclin'd.

Now see the dark suspicion lie,

Quaint suffur'd, in Zanga's eye,

If his sweet wife but only smile,

Her time or troubles to beguile;

Then should the talk of sops or beaus,

It quite destroys his best repose;

Or if some neighbours lord she names,

Then the maniac's up in flames,

While rage and hate poss is his brain,

With passions wild and fancies vain.

'Tis then ah! Zanga thou art poor,

Unkind to deem thy wife a whore.

Say, what can cure the tortur'd mind,

Or who the wish'd for peace can find,

Or who the balmy essence give,

Upon whose sweets the Lovers live?

How vain is all the stores of life,

If held with an unhappy wife:

Or if, misled, you think her so,

And wanton make yourself a foe?

For passions varying oft is seen,

From giddy gayness to the spleen,

Awak'ning whimsies, oft thro' fun.

Thick as meteors in the sun,

And these condens'd by fancies aid,

Soon gathers body light and shade.

[Page]

Trifle not ye wedded pairs

With the tender nuptial cares,

Joke not, taunt not, be but wife,

Comfort still in wisdom lies,

And oh! ye maids that bind the hand

To the lover, with him stand;

Scorn the base seducting art;

Think, O think! the mental smart

That transgression gives the youth,

Who believ'd you liv'd in truth!

All the pleasures that ye find

Changing lovers with your mind,

Never could such joys impart

As a faithful wedded heart:

Transitory is the joy,

As its pleasures certain cloy,

And the sting it leaves behind

Grows incorp'rate with the mind;

Still encreasing with your days,

Still destroying mental ease.

Whene'er the tie of wedlock's broke

Marriage proves a galling yoke,

For separate ends pursu'd by both

Soon violates their sacred oath;

Then infidelity succeeds,

And mutual malice prompt their deeds;

Now be ungrateful, she unkind,

And both to peace and comfort blind,

And all their tender moments lost,

And hope by disappointment croft;

Far, far by wayward passions led,

From the soft connubial bed.

Then home, a place of discord grown,

Is scarcely by the husband known.

[Page]

Now if the wife a strumpet proves,

And subtly says she only loves

Him the laws have ty'd her to,

What but hate her can he do?

Then if the husband fickle be,

And some prettier nymph should see,

Ah! never let his fancy roam

From his just wife or from his home.

And if he says he saw a maid

At whose bright birth the graces play'd,

Then let his wife with gentle skill,

Sooth all his wishes, gain his will,

'Till with a tender pleasing art

She wins his soul, his love and heart.

But ah! leave off that foolish way,

Which only weakness does display,

To strive to blast or idly blame,

Or undermine the tender fame;

Of any maid with comely face,

Or those adorn'd with ev'ry grace,

For nothing but her charms divine,

And only that they rival thine.

Hear how a husband pass'd his life

With a gay pretty harmless wife,

And if suspicion taints thy heart,

Learn to act a liberal part,

And be but reasonably wise

Nor act with cunning or disguise.

Bright Damon was both young and gay,

And oft among the nymphs did stray

To find him out an handsome wife,

To be the comfort of his life.

[Page]

Young Damon too had read [...]

From oyster wenches to a Queen;

Knew all the arts that women use

From palaces so low as stews. —

Besides a [...] estate in land,

With ready money at command,

But yet with all he was but poor,

For in his heart he wanted more.

At length he happen'd on a maid,

Her beauty struck, her wit did aid,

Her sense was good, her taste refin'd,

With other beauties in her mind —

They both agreed—the noose was ty'd—

Then Fanny first was made a bride.

The usual pleasures pass'd away

Like snow before the summer ray;

Celestial transport fill'd each heart,

While wanton dalliance play'd its part,

And each invok'd the gods above

To witness their superior love.

'Tis even so with every joy,

'Till sad satiety does cloy;

Our pleasures how to estimate

We know not till it is too late

Then foll'd by the reverse we know,

But know alas! to be our woe.

But ah! the joys which they had pass'd

Were too immoderate to last,

And passion fail'd on Damon's side, —

'Twas then his angel grew a bride. —

A perfect wife—a thing for use,

To make his tea, or slaves abuse.

[Page] 'Twas now, "you must, or faith you shan't;"

Before 'twas "ah my dear I cant,"

"My love, your pleasure is my will,"

"My life! I wish to please you still,"

Thus ev'ry stage of life we pass

Shews some new trait in fortunes glass,

Yet still the semblance is our own,

Altho' the features be not known:

And still as nature works her part,

Or sinks or elevates the heart,

As age or youth their stations fill,

As hope or fear possess the will;

Our erring wishes leads the man

To combat reasons steady plan;

Then wond'ring that a change is seen,

We fall a victim to the spleen;

Poor Fanny foster'd up in pleasure,

And ever in the lap of treasure,

An only child, and petted much,

As only babys still are such,

Would wonder how her swain could fit

Beside her in a surly fit,

And only answer no or yes,

But never flatter for a kiss.

"Ah! Damon tell me are you sick?

Or is it but a foolish trick.

To vex your Fanny?—" No! he said,

And hastily withdrew to bed.

There Fanny thought to mend the matter,

But things grew worse instead of better,

For Damon had not wherewithall

To answer to her every call;

Besides for sleep he went to bed,

And sleep was most in Damon's head;

[Page] But ah! poor Fanny thought it hard

To be from something sweet debar'd.

Now Damon in the morning's rise

As Phoebus first illumes the skies.

For health, he said, was never got

By any drowsy slothful sot.

In vain would Fanny bid him stay

To hug or kiss, or talk or play;

For pleasures now was grown a trouble,

Fruitiou proves it but a bubble.

To mend the case, and to improve

The pleasures of domestic love,

A few companions Fanny chose;

Her school acquaintance most of those;

Then she could joke and prate and smile,

And each anxiety beguile:

Sometimes a party too made up

To cards and Tea, to dine or sup;

While Damon like a cypher sat,

And wondered at their ceaseless chat.

But mark the end—Now Fanny grows

Imprudent, and gallants with beaus,

And leaves her aunt for Damon's arm

To link along, not thinking harm.

The 'Squire at length perceiving this,

From Fanny snatch'd a hasty kiss;

This Damon saw — ran to the 'Squire,

And satisfaction did desire —

Then at his wife he gave a look

Of sad contemptible rebuke.

The 'Squire his passion did not smoke,

Concluded Damon was in joke,

And laugh'd to see him look so odd;

"This moment, Sir, you shall, by G—d,

[Page] Give satisfaction," Damon cries,

With sury flashing from his eyes.

Against the 'Squire his passion rose

So high at length they come to blows;

But Damon, worsted in the fray,

For quarter eagerly did pray.

Then home he went in woeful plight,

And scolded Fanny all the night,

Talk'd incoherent and in sits,

And seem'd to be beyond his wits —

That horrid word divorce he said;

And separation fill'd his head.

His tender partner vex'd to death,

Unconscious of his angers birth,

At least of any mal-transgression,

Requested he might curb his passion,

O sad hypocrisy! said he,

To use me thus! — To cuckold me!

Thus each disquietude we know

We make ourselves, or deem it so,

For all the ills which heaven ordain,

Are little to our artful pain.

Ingenious still the mind must roam,

And ransack'd miseries bring home;

To load a weary groaning life,

With pain, anxiety, and strife.

Young Fanny, simple as a saint,

Was ignorant of what he meant,

And flatter'd, gently chided, sooth'd,

In hopes his anger would be smooth'd —

But all in vain — The jealous fiend,

Had quite engross'd his fickle mind;

[Page] And ev'n the assurance of his grief,

To what he feels, would be relief;

For fear awakens in the brain

A horrid still disturbing train,

Which in the place of common evil,

Puts inmate in the mind a devil.

Three months of petty strife they led,

And often wish'd each other dead,

For Damon still was on the watch,

His wife's unlawful loves to catch;

But she, poor creature, never had

So base a notion in her head.

At last convinc'd beyond a fear,

Of her fidelity sincere,

He dropt suspicion, and began

To act upon a gen'rous plan:

And like a man of lib'ral mind,

He own'd his error and grew kind,

Forgetting discord fear and strife,

The jarring acids of this life;

He candidly this truth confest,

That love's a stranger in the breast,

Where base suspicions have a part;

Love claims an undivided heart;

And very seldom too is found

Where other virtues don't abound.

Now scorning all his follies past,

He lov'd his Fanny to the last;

A little offspring smiling round,

In which the parents looks were found,

Endear'd their moments with fresh joy,

Domestic raptures that ne'er cloy;

Conjugal sympathy of soul,

In happy concord held the whole,

[Page] Still kinder sweeter to the last,

They priz'd the present by the past.

Now here the case is very plain,

Had Fanny, eager to restrain,

Prov'd Termagant to vex him worse,

Their union must have been a curse;

But gentle methods seldom fails,

And always over rage prevails,

Whereas the harsher ways are seen

To foster error, vice, and spleen.

Hence learn the way, you wedded fair,

To sooth your husband's ev'ry care;

For woman first to man was giv'n,

The bounty of indulgent heav'n,

To be his partner and his friend,

To ease his griefs, and woes amend,

To smooth the current of his life,

To shield him from domestic strife,

To sweeten ev'ry human pain,

Each rising passion to restrain,

And by submissive modest skill,

Secure his comfort and his will;

Till sublimated sweet the joy,

The raptures please but never cloy,

A perfect round of blissful case,

Content felicity and peace.

* But happy they! of all their kind,

Whom mutual faith and honor bind,

Where sacred love illumes each soul,

And harmony conducts the whole;

[Page] Happy in what'er chance doth give,

For each alone they both do live:

O where's the joy that can compare

With love when hearts are but sincere!

The softest refuge from distress,

To comfort life or cares redress.

Its purchase is unknown to gold,

And never was for riches sold;

O ye whose hearts have felt the touch,

And lov'd or thought you lov'd, too much,

Reveal the extacies you felt,

At whose warm glow the soul does melt,

The look ineffable, the kiss,

Fraught with superior human bliss,

Beyond the force of words to praise,

And much above my feeble lays.

Where thy Potowmac endless strays,

In bounty to thy merits plays,

Great Cincinnatus! good and wise,

The father of these western skies,

Liv'd charming Elen, fair and gay,

Whom vice had never led astray;

Her merit mark'd her rising worth,

And graces frolick'd at her birth.

The swains around with wond'rous art

All wish'd and try'd to win her heart;

But useless still, till Edward came,

And artless told his tender flame;

His eyes his passion too confest,

While love did faulter in his breast.

The quaint reserve of maiden pride,

That prompts them still their love to hide,

Made Elen keep within her breast

A secret that she wish'd confest,

[Page] And when young Edward spoke his heart,

She seem'd to play a heedless part.—

" Ah! hear me, Elen, turn, my love!

" And kindly now my flame approve:

" Ah! give my troubled bosom rest,

" Make me a tennant in you [...] breast!

" Nor drive me hapless to despair,

"But, Elen, think me worth your care!"

Thus oft he spoke, in passion strong,

While love made eloquent his tongue;

But Elen still increas'd his smart,

Nor let him know who had her heart.

Expedients often win in love,

When truth and candour will not move;

As fish by shining baits are caught,

When of the hook they least had thought.

To know the bottom of her mind,

Her heart to prove and soul to find,

He caus'd a sad report to spread,

That he himself in love was dead.

The news to Elen soon was told—

Her face turn'd pale, her blood ran cold,—

Congeal'd her spirits languid grew. —

With terror bold, she ran to view,

Her dear lost Edward.—Ev'ry gale

[...] glaring ghost seem'd to reveal;

At ev'ry step she heard him moan,

In ev'ry bush she heard his groan.

Twas then she blam'd the foolish art

That wanton, gave to Edward smart.

Not less impatient Edward stay'd

To hear the part that Elen play'd.

[Page] At length the frantic mourner came,

Distracted calling Edward's name —

She saw him—stream'd—and thought his ghost

Was come from the Elysium coast.

But soon recov'ring, quick she flew

And round her Edward's neck she threw

Her arm—"From hence we'll never part!

" My life, my love, my soul, my heart!

" And can you, Edward, now forgive,

" And only for your Elen live!"

She said: Thus Edward did reply,

With gladness sparkling in his eye—

" Long, Elen, had I strove to gain

" Your heart and not to give it pain;

" But hope at length drove on by doubt,

" This last expedient found out,

" The success equals what I thought,

" And wins the prize for which I fought —

" No, never shall we part, my dear,

"We'll live and love, and be sincere."

There's no disguise can long conceal

Love where it is, or force a real

Passion in the heart.—Guided still

By fancy, pliant to the will,

We choose external by the eye,

For reason's aid we seldom try.

When wanton Cupid throws a dart

At some unguarded virgin heart,

How oddly all her pulses beat,

How glows her cheeks with fervent heat;

She sighs unknown in secret shame,

Afraid to tell her youthful flame:

At length grown bolder by distress

Her love she coyly will confess

[Page] To some companion, laying strong

Injunctions on her silent tongue.

How many ways the youth will try

To catch the passing virgins eye:

Now with an ignorant assurance,

The flutt'ring fop, beyond endurance,

Will drop his cane, to beg her pardon,

When she regards him not a farthing.—

Or help to hand her o'er a gutter,

And put the creature in a flutter. —

Then home he'll go to comrades vaunt,

And joke, and brag, and laugh, and taunt,

And swear he saw an angel bright —

And that he'll meet her such a night —

Her own appointment — coming down,

I spark'd her over half the town. —

Ah! villain cease to hurt or blame,

The modest virgins tender fame;

Because impertinent you play'd

Your impudence upon the maid.

The surest way the ladies can

With success please the fickle men,

Is ever to be in good nature,

And smooth'd with smiles their ev'ry feature;

This is the way the men to win —

'Twould charm a prodigal from sin.

The men should, when a lady's near,

In true politeness still appear,

For want of that insures neglect,

Possessing it demands respect.

A wife should ever modest be;

A husband constant kind and free;

[Page] She tender, careful and discreet,

In housewife offices complete;

And he both learn'd in books, and men,

With modest sense to use the pen;

A good oeconomist, and wife,

Enough to see a knave's disguise;

More knowing than by others known;

With candour all his faults to own:

Both join'd in mutual concord sweet,

Their rising wishes to complete;

To pass a short probation here,

Respecting God, unknown to fear;

Then with reflection pleasing still,

Resign to his superior will;

And for a life thus spent, so ev'n,

They find eternal bliss in heav'n,

Content, Felicity and ease,

Where prompting seraphs ever please.

THE END OF LESSONS FOR LOVERS.

Notes

*

The reader will perceive that there is some thoughts here borrowed from Thomson.

↵

§

§

[Page]

THE THUNDER STORM, A POEM.

Supposed to be written by the late celebrated Miss A—. now Mrs. L—.

Note. Several lines in the following Poem, are a parody, on a passage inThomson's Seasons.

THE THUNDER-STORM, A POEM.

[Page]

THE rolling vapours drawn in volumes great,

Charg'd with the hursting ministers of fate,

With gloomy visage o'er the western sky,

Onward they move to tell the danger nigh;

While in his carr the sun's meridian beam

With touch aetherial 'wakes the pointed flame,

In dire commotion through the pugnant cloud,

Faintly afar, but nearer then more loud.

Calmly at first the brooding storm is seen

To spread a low'ring darkness o'er the green;

The cattle gaze, the birds desert the air,

And to the shade the hen and chicks repair;

Fast to the cot the reapers hie away,

And waits the sun-beam to renew the day.

Low walks the gloom, the loaded terrors roll,

While inward torture strikes the troubled soul;

Guilt stands appall'd within the felon breast,

And in each look his crime is self-confest;

The murderer sees the ghost of him he slew

Rise up in judgment, horrid to his view,

While all his mind, to phrenzy wrought by fear,

Aims to repent as danger seems more near;

Sad expectation fills the heart of man,

And half afraid the virgins cheeks grow wan;

[Page] The youth from school, with visionary fright,

Beholds the gloom and runs with all his might.

Whence all this dread! why thus disturb'd the mind?

Sure God the warring elements can bind?

'Tis fearful sin, with troubles all its own,

By terror summon'd up to reasons throne.

Not so the man of philosophic eye,

He sagely waits each motion to desery,

And views, sublime, the forked lightning play,

And round him shed a moments horrid day.

Not frighted more than when the Zeyphers play'd

In wanton fragrance round his stud'ous head.

Lo! now it comes with horrid grow! along,

Clouds pil'd on clouds the threatning heavens throng;

Forth issuing darts the livid lightning down,

In twinkling streaks it smites the silent ground;

Then following quick the thunder lifts its voice,

Crush'd hoarsly horrible with troubled noise,

Peal dash'd on peal, the loaded murmurs roll,

And bursts resounded seem to shake the pole:

Flash'd brighter still, more sharp the groaning sounds,

While heaven and earth the echoing noise astounds;

Great nature trembles to her inmost womb,

Least threatning fate should chaos make her tomb—

Hark! as it roars! — see where its vengeance fell,

On the proud oak or in the rocky dell;

The castled-clif and cloud-assaulting spire

Sinks to the flash in tumbling atoms dire;

Struck on the cottage, fee the smoke arise

And trembling inmates gaze at troubled skies,

They, helpless children of misfortunes train,

Must feel the sad variety of pain.

[Page]

Wide rent the clouds a watry torrent yield,

That grateful maturate the thirsting field:

At length subsided, all is peace again,

And momentary silence lulls the scene;

'Till in one general chorus all rejoice

To praise the hand that hush'd the thunders voice.

See where destruction marks the lightnings way:

But shall presumptuous man unknowing say

Whither 'twas justice, with unerring hand,

Or mercy dealt the blow at God's command.

LAMINTA form'd with every manly grace,

With ev'ry virtue shining in his face,

Had early sought MELINDA for a wife,

To sweeten all the joys of human life:

Coyly she heard the servent lover plead,

Seem'd to his prayers to give but little heed,

Or else to listen with a careless ear,

Whilst he with melting pleadings was sincere;

But still importunate LAMINTA prest,

'Till the coy maid her bashful flame confest,

Then who can speak the joy LAMINTA knew,

When to his wish he found MELINDA true?

Fondly he play'd in transport o'er her breast,

While silent rapture all his soul confest.

Ill-fated pair! to love each other so,

That death of one should prove the others woe!

If this O Love! be thy reward for truth,

May angels guard my L******'s tender youth.

With hearts elated to the church they went,

And on the road the time in mirth they spent;

Oft fondly picturing in the mimic mind

What future scenes of happiness they'd find.

[Page] Alas! 'tis visionary all, and vain,

The fleeting phantoms of the formful brain.

The nuptial knot with solemn joy was ty'd,

Then home the pair with pleasing prospects hied,

But ah! the storm their hasty steps with held,

While they for shelter sought a neighb'ring field:

There underneath a spreading tree they sat.

Indulging pastime in their simple chat;

And sporting heedless of the storm around,

A moments transitory joy they found:

When oh! the lightning, bursting o'er their head,

Struck in its course the poor LAMINTA dead!

But who can tell the pangs MELINDA felt?

She kiss'd and press'd, and o'er the corpse she knelt,

Wept o'er her dear, and still LAMINTA cried,

And still in aidless agony she sigh'd,

'Till nature, quite too delicate to bear

Such tender pain, such renovating care,

And reason wand'ring, phrenzy fir'd her mind,

Yielded to sorrow for LAMINTA kind.

THE END

Information about this book

Title statement

Lessons for lovers; with some tender and pathetic anecdotes, taken from real life. / By Ovid Americanus. ; [Six lines from Swift] ; To which is added, the Thunder-storm. A poem. Supposed to be written by the late celebrated Miss A***, now Mrs. L****.

Ovid Americanus.

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI :

Date

2007-01.

ID [DLPS]

N14709

ID [TCP]

N14709

ID [STC]

Evans 18671

ID [NOTIS]

APW7250

ID [IMAGE-SET]

18671

ID [EVANS-CITATION]

99013404

Availability

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 18671.

Notes

(Evans-TCP ; no. N14709)

Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 18671)

Images scanned from Readex microprint and microform: (Early American imprints. First series ; no. 18671)

Source

— Lessons for lovers; with some tender and pathetic anecdotes, taken from real life. / By Ovid Americanus. ; [Six lines from Swift] ; To which is added, the Thunder-storm. A poem. Supposed to be written by the late celebrated Miss A***, now Mrs. L****., Ovid Americanus., Morris, Robert, 1734-1806, dedicatee..

Extent

31, [4], 33-35 p. ; 20 cm. (8vo)

Printed and sold by Robert Bell, in Third Street.,. Philadelphia: :: M,DCC,LXXXIV. [1784]. (In verse.) ("Several lines in the following poem [i.e., the Thunder-storm], are a parody, on a passage in Thomson's Seasons."-- 2nd page after p. 31.) (Dedication to Robert Morris dated Philadelphia, June 10th. 1784.)

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