Chapter VI

Since then, _Lysander_, you desire,
_Amynta_ only to adore;
Take in no Partners to your Fire,
For who well Loves, that Loves one more?
And if such Rivals in your Heart I find,
Tis in My Power to die, but not be kind.

_A Dialogue for an Entertainment at Court, between_ Damon _and_ Sylvia.

_Damon._

Ah, _Sylvia_! if I still pursue,
Whilst you in vain your Scorn improve;
What wonders might your Eies not do:
If they would dress themselves in _Love_.

_Sylvia._

_Shepherd_, you urge my Love in vain,
For I can ne’er Reward your pain;
_A Slave_ each Smile of mine can win,
And all my softning Darts,
When e’er I please, can bring me in
A Thousand Yeilding Hearts.

_Damon._

Yet if those _Slaves_ you treat with Cruelty,
‘Tis an Inglorious Victory;
And those unhappy _Swaines_ you so subdue,
May Learn at last to scorn, as well as you;
Your Beauty though the Gods design’d
Shou’d be Ador’d by all below;
Yet if you want a God-like Pittying Mind,
Our Adoration soon will colder grow:
‘Tis Pitty makes a Deity,
Ah, _Sylvia_! daine to pitty me,
And I will worship none but thee.

_Sylvia._

Perhaps I may your Councel take,
And Pitty, tho’ not Love, for _Damons_ sake;
Love is a Flame my Heart ne’er knew,
Nor knows how to begin to burn for you.

_Damon._

Ah, _Sylvia_, who’s the happy _Swain_,
For whom that Glory you ordain!
Has _Strephon_, _Pithius_, _Hilus_, more
Of Youth, of Love, or Flocks a greater store?
My flame pursues you too, with that Address,
Which they want Passion to Profess:
Ah then make some Returns my Charming _Shepherdess_.

_Sylvia._

Too Faithful _Shepherd_, I will try my Heart,
And if I can will give you part.

_Damon._

Oh that was like your self exprest,
Give me but part, and I will steal the rest.

_Sylvia._

Take care, _Young Swain_, you treat it well,
If you wou’d have it in your Bosom dwell;
Now let us to the Shades Retreat,
Where all the _Nymphs_ and _Shepherds_ meet.

_Damon._

And give me there your leave my Pride to show,
For having but the hopes of Conquering you;
Where all the _Swaines_ shall Passion learn of me:
And all the _Nymphs_ to bless like thee.

_Sylvia._

Where every Grace I will bestow,
And every Look and Smile, shall show
How much above the rest I vallue you.

_Damon._

And I those Blessings will improve;
By constant Faith, and tender Love.

[_A Chorus of Satyrs and Nymphs
made by another hand._]

_On Mr._ J. H. _In a Fit of Sickness._

I.

If when the God of Day retires,
The Pride of all the Spring decays and dies:
Wanting those Life-begetting Fires
From whence they draw their Excellencies;
Each little Flower hangs down its Gawdy Head,
Losing the Luster which it did Retain;
No longer will its fragrant face be spread,
But Languishes into a Bud again:
So with the Sighing Crowd it fares
Since you, _Amyntas_, have your Eies withdrawn,
Ours Lose themselves in Silent Tears,
Our days are Melancholy Dawn;
The _Groves_ are Unfrequented now,
The Shady Walks are all Forlorn;
Who still were throng to gaze on you:
With Nymphs, whom your Retirement has undone.

II.

Our Bag-pipes now away are flung,
Our Flocks a Wandering go;
Garlands neglected on the Boughs are hung,
That us’d to adorn each Chearful Brow,
Forsaken looks the enameld _May_:
And all its wealth Uncourted dies;
Each little Bird forgets its wonted Lay,
That Sung Good Morrow to the welcome Day.
Or rather to thy Lovely Eies.
The Cooling Streams do backward glide:
Since on their Banks they saw not thee,
Losing the Order of their Tide,
And Murmuring chide thy Cruelty;
Then hast to lose themselves i’th’ Angry Sea.

III.

Thus every thing in its Degree,
Thy sad Retreat Deplore;
Hast then _Amyntas_, and Restore;
The whole Worlds Loss in thee.
For like an Eastern Monarch, when you go,
(If such a Fate the World must know)
A Beautious and a Numerous Host
Of Love-sick Maids, will wait upon thy Ghost;
And Death that Secret will Reveal,
Which Pride and Shame did here Conceal;
Live then thou Lovelyest of the Plaines,
Thou Beauty of the Envying _Swaines_;
Whose Charms even Death it self wou’d court,
And of his Solemn Business make a Sport.

IV.

In Pitty to each Sighing Maid,
Revive, come forth, be Gay and Glad;
Let the Young God of Love implore,
In Pity lend him Darts,
For when thy Charming Eies shall shoot no more;
He’ll lose his Title of the God of Hearts.
In Pity to _Astrea_ live,
_Astrea_, whom from all the Sighing Throng,
You did your oft-won Garlands give:
For which she paid you back in Grateful Song:
_Astrea_ who did still the Glory boast,
To be ador’d by thee, and to adore thee most.

V.

With Pride she saw her Rivals Sigh and Pine,
And vainly cry’d, The lovely Youth is mine!
By all thy Charms _I_ do Conjure thee, live;
By all the Joys thou canst receive, and give:
By each Recess and Shade where thou and I,
Loves Secrets did Unfold;
And did the dull Unloving World defy:
Whilst each the Hearts fond Story told.
If all these Conjurations nought Prevail,
Not Prayers or Sighs, or Tears avail,
But Heaven has Destin’d we Depriv’d must be,
Of so much _Youth_, _Wit_, _Beauty_, and of Thee;
I will the Deaf and Angry Powers defie,
Curse thy Decease, Bless thee, and with thee die.

_To_ Lysander, _on some Verses he writ, and asking more for his Heart then ‘twas worth._

I.

Take back that Heart, you with such Caution give,
Take the fond valu’d Trifle back;
I hate Love-Merchants that a Trade wou’d drive;
And meanly cunning Bargains make.

II.

I care not how the busy Market goes,
And scorn to Chaffer for a price:
Love does one Staple Rate on all impose,
Nor leaves it to the Traders Choice.

III.

A Heart requires a Heart Unfeign’d and True,
Though Subt’ly you advance the Price,
And ask a Rate that Simple Love ne’er knew:
And the free Trade Monopolize.

IV.

An Humble _Slave_ the Buyer must become,
She must not bate a Look or Glance,
You will have all, or you’ll have none;
See how Loves Market you inhaunce.

V.

Is’t not enough, I gave you Heart for Heart,
But I must add my Lips and Eies;
I must no friendly Smile or Kiss impart;
But you must _Dun_ me with Advice.

VI.

And every Hour still more unjust you grow,
Those Freedoms you my life deny,
You to _Adraste_ are oblig’d to show,
And give her all my Rifled Joy.

VII.

Without Controul she gazes on that Face,
And all the happy Envyed Night,
In the pleas’d Circle of your fond imbrace:
She takes away the Lovers Right.