The Test Of Love Poem by Nicholas Amhurst

Oft hast thou told me, Dick, in friendly Part.
That the Usurper Love has seiz'd thy Heart;
But thou art young, and, like our sanguine Race
In their full Vigour, may'st mistake thy Case;
For, trust me, Love (that Inmate of the Mind)
Is very much mistaken by Mankind,
For which too often is misunderstood
The sudden Rage and Madness of the Blood:
Thus every common Rake his Flame approves,
And when he's leud and rampant, thinks he loves.

But I, who in that Study am grown old,
Will to my Friend such certain Marks unfold,
By which a real Passion he may prove,
And without which he cannot truely love.

How does this Tyrant lord it in thy Mind?
What Symptoms of his Empire do'st thou find?
Do'st thou within perceive the growing Wound?
Does thy Soul sicken, while thy Body's sound?
Does in thy Thought some blooming Beauty reign,
Whose strong Idea mingles Joy with Pain?
When she appears before thee, does she spread
O'er thy pale, fading Cheeks a sudden Red?
Press her soft Lips, or touch her lillied Hand,
Does thy Heart flutter, does thy Breast expand?
If but her Name is mention'd, does it fire
Thy Pulses with a quick and fierce Desire?
Does every Glance, like Jove's vindictive Flame,
Shoot through thy Veins, and kindle all thy Frame?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For he, who wants these Symptoms, does not love.

Is to One Woman all your Heart inclin'd?
And can She only charm your constant Mind?
For Her do all your morning Wishes rise?
Does she at Night of Slumber rob your Eyes?
Musing on Her, does she alone excite
Your Thoughts by Day, and all your Dreams by Night?
Or does your Heart for every Nymph you meet
Own a new Passion, and as strongly beat?
Do in your Eyes all Women seem the same,
And each new Face expel the former Flame?
From hence a real Passion you may prove;
If you love more than One, you do not love.

Does Love, and only Love, invade your Heart?
Or is it stricken with a Golden Dart?
Does the keen Arrow from her Beauty fly?
Or does her Fortune glitter in your Eye?
For, in this Age, how seldom is it found,
That Love alone inflicts the secret Wound?
Silver and Gold are Cupid's surest Arms,
One thousand Pounds out--weighs Ten thousand Charms.
But art thou sure that in thy tender Heart
These worldly Baubles bear no sordid Part?
And can'st thou say, sincerely can'st thou say,
Should adverse Fortune on thy Charmer prey,
That still unchang'd, thy Passion would remain?
That still thou would'st abide a faithful Swain?
If in the curst South--Sea her All were lost,
Still would her Eyes their former Conquests boast?
And would she, do'st thou think, in every State,
The same Emotions in thy Soul create?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you sigh for Wealth, you do not love.

Again, my Friend, incline thy patient Ear,
(For thou hast many Questions still to hear)
This chosen Damsel, this triumphant She,
Can'st thou no Blemish in her Person see?
Her Temper, Shape, her Features and her Air,
(Though never yet was born a faultless Fair)
Do they all please? In Body or in Mind
Can'st thou no Blot nor Imperfection find?
Does o'er her Skin no Mole nor Pimple rise?
Or do ev'n these seem Beauties in thy Eyes?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you spy one Fault, you do not love.

Do you within a sudden Impulse feel,
To dress, look florid, and appear genteel?
Do you affect to strike the gazing Maid
With glittering Gems, with Velvet and Brocade
Your snowy Wrists do Mecklin Pendants grace,
And do the smartest Wigs adorn thy Face?
Do you correct your Gait, adjust your Air,
And bid your Taylor take uncommon Care?
Before your Glass each Morning do you stand,
And tye your Neck--cloth with a Critick's Hand?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For Dressing ever was a Mark of Love.

Do Books and worldly Cares no longer please?
Can no Diversions give your Heart--pains Ease?
Have Wealth and Honours lost their wonted Charms?
And does Ambition yield to Cupid's Arms?
Is your whole Frame dissolv'd, by Love ingrost,
To Study, Interest, and Preferment lost?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if aught else prevails, you do not love,

Do all your Thoughts, your Wishes, and Desires,
Comply with her, and burn with mutual Fires?
If she loves Balls, Assemblies, Opera's, Plays,
Do they in you the same Amusement raise?
If she at Ombre loves to waste the Night,
Do you in Ombre take the same Delight?
If to the Ring her graceful Horses praunce,
Does your new Chariot to the Ring advance?
If in the Mall she chooses to appear,
Or if at Court, do you attend her there?
What she commends, does your officious Tongue
Approve, and censure what she judges wrong?
Are all her Loves and her Aversions thine?
In all her Joys and Sorrows dost thou join?
Art thou, my Friend, united to her Frame,
Thy Heart, thy Passions, and thy Soul the same?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For without Sympathy you cannot love,

Did'st thou e'er strive (once more sincerely say)
With Friends and Wine to drive thy Cares away?
And have e'en these Endeavours prov'd in Vain?
Will neither Friends nor Wine remove thy Pain?
Dost thou sit pensive, full of Thought, repine,--
And in thy Turn forget the circling Wine?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if Wine drowns your Flame, you do not Love.

Art thou a tame, resign'd, submissive Swain?
Can'st thou bear Scorn, Repulses and Disdain?
Can no ill Treatment nor unkind Returns
Quench the strong Flame, which in thy Marrow burns?
But do they rather aggravate thy Smart,
And give a quicker Edge to every Dart?
Does not each scornful Look, or angry Jest
Drive the keen Passion deeper in thy Breast?
Do not her poignant Questions and Replies,
Thy partial Ears agreeably Surprize?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For if you can Resent, you do not Love.

Whole live--long Days you have enjoy'd her Sight;
Say, were your Eyes e'er sated with Delight?
Did not you wish next Moment to return?
Did not your Breast with stronger Ardours burn?
Did not each View another View provoke?
And every Meeting give a deeper Stroke?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For there is no Satiety in Love.

Perhaps you judge it an imprudent Flame,
And therefore live at Distance from the Dame;
But what is the Effect? does Absence heal
Those Wounds, which smarting in her Sight you feel?
Does not to her your Mind unbidden Stray?
Does not your Heart confess her distant Sway?
Does not each rising Thought inhance your Pain?
And do'nt you long to see her once again?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For that which Absence cancels is not Love.

Suppose (once more) your Parents or your Friends,
Either for pievish or prudential Ends,
Should thwart thy Choice, thy promiss'd Bliss oppose,
Would'st thou for her engage all these thy Foes?
Would'st thou despise an angry Father's Frown?
And scorn the noisy Censures of the Town?
Could'st thou, possess'd of her, with Patience see
The Coxcomb's Finger pointed forth at thee?
Would it not vex you, as you pass along,
To hear the little Spleen of every Tongue?
``There goes the fond young Fool, who t'other Day
``In heedless Wedlock threw himself away,
``And, to indulge the rash ungoverned Heat
``Of a vain Passion, lost a good Estate?--
Would not such Insults grate thy tender Ear?
Could'st thou besides, without Compunction, bear
The scornful Smile and the disdainful Sneer?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For he who loves with Reason does not love

Still must I touch thee in a tenderer Part:
Would not a happy Rival stab thy Heart?
Could'st thou behold the Darling of thy Breast
With Freedom by another Youth carest?
Say, could'st thou to thy dearest Friend afford
A Kiss, a Smile, or one obliging Word?
Say, at the publick Ball or private Dance,
When the brisk Couples artfully advance,
Could'st thou unmov'd with Indignation stand,
If to another she resign'd her Hand?
Would your Heart rest at Ease? or would it swell
With all the Pains, the sharpest Pains of Hell?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For without Jealousy you cannot love.

To the last Question of thy trusty Friend
(Though many more might still be ask'd) attend.
To purge her Virtue, or revenge her Wrongs,
(For Beauty is the Theme of busy Tongues)
Should Blood be call'd for in the doubtful Strife,
Would'st thou with Pleasure part with Blood--or Life?
Would'st thou all Dangers in her Cause despise,
And meet unequal Foes, for such a Prize?
Would it not plant new Courage in thy Heart,
And double Vigour to thy Arm impart?
To screen thy Mistress from the slightest Harms,
Would'st thou not purchase Death and would not Death have Charms?
From hence a real Passion you may prove.
For never yet was Coward known to Love.

By these Prescriptions judge your inward Part,
Put all these Questions closely to your Heart,
And if by them your Flame you can approve,
Then will I own that you sincerely Love.