Chapter III

_Oh happy Brooks, oh happy Rivulets,_
_And Springs that in a thousand Windings move;_
_Upon your Banks how oft_ Aminta _sits,_
_And prattles to you all her Tale of Love:_
_Whilst your smooth surface little Circles bears,_
_From the Impressions of her falling Tears,_
_And as you wantonly reflecting pass,_
_Glide o’re the lovely Image of her Face;_
_And sanctifies your stream, which as you run,_
_You Boast in Murmurs to the Banks along._
_Dear Streams! to whom she gives her softest hours,_
_How vainly do I wish my happiness like yours._

Sometimes I rail’d again, and wou’d upbraid,
Reproachfully, the charming fickle Maid:
Sometimes I vow’d to do’t no more,
But one, vain, short-liv’d hour,
Wou’d Perjure all I’d Sworn before,
And Damn my fancy’d Pow’r.
Sometimes the sullen fit wou’d last,
A teadious live-long day:
But when the wrecking hours were past,
With what Impatience wou’d I hast,
And let her Feet weep my neglect away.
Quarrels are the Reserves Love keeps in store,
To aid his Flames and make ‘em burn the more.

The PENITENT.

I.

_With Rigor Arm your self, (I cry’d)_
_It is but just and fit;_
_I merit all this Treatment from your Pride,_
_All the reproaches of your Wit;_
_Put on the cruel Tyrant as you will,_
_But know, my tender Heart adores you still._

II.

_And yet that Heart has Murmur’d too,_ }
_And been so insolent to let you know,_ }
_It did complain, and rave, and rail’d at you;_ }
_Yet all the while by every God I swear,_
_By every pitying Pow’r the wretched hear;_
_By all those Charms that dis-ingage,_
_My Soul from the extreams of Rage;_
_By all the Arts you have to save and kill,_
_My faithful tender Heart adores you still._