Chapter II

_A thousand Serpents gnaw the Heart;_
_A thousand Visions fill the Eyes,_
_And Deaf to all that can relief impart,_
_We hate the Counsel of the Wise,_
_And Sense like Tales of Lunaticks despise:_
_Faithless, as Couzen’d Maids, by Men undone,_
_And obstinate as new Religion,_
_As full of Error, and false Notion too,_
_As Dangerous, and as Politick;_
_As Humerous as a Beauty without Wit;_
_As Vain and Fancyful in all we do:_
_--Thus Wreck the Soul, as if it did conceal,_
_Love Secrets which by torturing ‘two’d reveal._

Restless and wild, ranging each Field and Grove;
I meet the Author of my painful Love;
But still surrounded with a numerous Train
Of Lovers, whom _Love_ taught to Sigh and Fawn,
At my approach, my Soul all Trembling flies,
And tells its soft Resentment at my Eyes:
My Face all pale, my steps unsteady fall,
And faint Confusion spreads it self o’re all.
I listen to each low breath’d Word she says,
And the returns the happy Answerer pays:
When catching half the Sense, the rest Invent,
And turn it still to what will most Torment;
If any thing by Whispers she impart,
‘Tis Mortal, ‘tis a Dagger at my Heart;
And every Smile, each Motion, Gesture, Sign,
In favour of some Lover I explain:
When I am absent, in some Rivals Arms,
I Fancy she distributes all her Charms,
And if alone I find her; sighing cry,
_Some happier Lover she expects than I._
So that I did not only Jealous grow,
Of all I saw; but all I fancy’d too.

The COMPLAINT.

I.

_Oft in my Jealous Transports I wou’d cry,_
_Ye happy shades, ye happy Bow’rs,_
_Why speaks she tenderer things to you than me?_
_Why does she Smile, carress and praise your Flowers?_
_Why Sighs she (opening Buds) her Secrets all_
_Into your fragrant Leaves?_
_Why does she to her Aid your sweetness call,_
_Yet take less from you than she gives?_
_Why on your Beds must you be happy made,_
_And be together with_ Aminta _laid?_
_You from her Hands and Lips may KISSES take,_
_And never meet Reproaches from her Pride;_
_A thousand Ravishing stealths may make,_
_And even into her softer Bosome glide._
_And there expire! Oh happy Rival flowers,_
_How vainly do I wish my Fate like that of Yours?_

II.

_Tell me, ye silent Groves, whose Gloom invites,_
_The lovely Charmer to your Solitudes?_
_Tell me for whom she languishes and sighs?_
_For whom she feels her soft Inquietudes?_
_Name me the Youth for whom she makes her Vows,_
_For she has breath’d it oft amongst your listening Boughs?_
_Oh happy confidents of her Amours,_
_How vainly do I wish my Fortune blest as Yours._