What Tyrant yet, but thee, was ever known Cruel to those that ferv'd to make him one? Valour's a Vice, if not with Honour joyn'd, Beauty a raging Plague, if never kind.

I

SONG

Ask not my Celia wou'd love meagain, In its own pleasure my Love is o'er-paid; I'll find fuch Excufes for all her Difdain, That shortly to Frown I'll make her afraid.

Her Neglect of me, of her felf I'll think Care; Her Cruelty I her ftrict Vertue will name When leaft kind fhe feems, I'll believe her moít near,

And call her Refusal, but a Virgin's Shame.

Thus all that was wont heretofore to cureLove In me fhall increase and ftir up the Fire; I'll make her at last some kind Remedy prove, Since all others but increase my Defire.

SONG.

SONG

Air Aminta art thou mad,
let the World in me

FALTO

Envy Joys I never had,

And cenfure them in thee?

Fill'd with grief, for what is paft,
Let us at length be wife,
And to Love's true Enjoyments haft,
Since we have paid the Price.

Love does eafie Souls defpife,
Who lose themselves for Toys,
And escape for those devise,
Who taft his utmost Joys.

Love should, like the Year, be crown'd
With sweet Variety;

Hope fhould in the Spring abound,
Kind Fears, and Jealoufie.

In the Summer Flowers fhou'd rise,
And in the Autumn Fruit;

His Spring doth elfe but mock our Eyes,
And in a Scoff falute.

SONG

SONG

Walking among thick Shades alone,

I heard a distant Voice,

Which, fighing, faid, now fhe is gone,
I'll make no fecond Choice.

I look'd and faw it was a Swain,
Who to the flying Wind,

Did of fome neigbouring Nymph complain,
Too fair, and too unkind.

He told me how he faw her first,
And with what gracious Eyes,
And gentle Speech, that Flame the nurst,
Which fince fhe did defpife.

His Vows fhe did as faft recieve,
As he could breath them to her ;
Love in her Eyes proclaim'd her leave,
That he alone fhould woo her.

They fed their Flocks ftill near one Place,
And at one inftant met,

He gazing on her lovely Face
Fell deeper in the Net.

She

She feem'd of her new Captive glad ;
Proud of his Bondage he,

No Lover fure a Profpect had
Of more Felicity.

But the falfe Maid, or never lov'd,
Or gave fo quickly o'er;
E're his was to the height improv'd,
Her Kindness was no more.

Even her Diffemblings fhe let fall,
And made him plainly fee,
That though his Heart (he did enthral,
Her own was ever free.

Now, least his Care fhould Pity move,
She fhuns his very Sight?

And leaves him to that hopeless Love,
She did create in Spight.

Her Name I could not make him tell,
Though vowing him my aid;
He faid he never would reveal,
In Life, or Death, the Maid.

C

THE

Feigned Love,

Loris, tho' meaner Beauties might
Perhaps have need of fome fuch Slight,
You may thofe petty Arts defpife,
Secure of what is once your Prize;
Ill us'd and scorn'd, we muft adore,
And question not refiftless Power:
In Rome, no Man was known to fly,
Whom the Emperor condemn'd to dye,
The fatal Stroke themfelves wou'd give,
Rather than banifht from her live.
'So to your Empire harsh or kind,
I ftand by my own choice confin'd.
I daily faw how others far'd,

Whom the falfe Hope you gave enfnar'd ;
Like foolish Boys at Birds, that catch,
Sometimes we thought you in our reach;
And then again, you'd mount and fly
Beyond the compass of our Eye;
Till weary'd with the vain pursuit,
Like Birds that peck at painted Fruit,
The wifer fort their hopes difclaim,
And beat the Wood for eafier Game,

ON