Dear CŒLIA! be kind then! and since your own eyes Give mine leave to talk too, and do not despise We'll look, and we'll love! and though neither should speak, The pleasure we'll still be pursuing! And so, without words, I don't doubt we may make A very good end of this wooing! THE PETITION. 'GRANT me, gentle Love,' said I, Thus to almighty Love I cried; A HUE AND CRY AFTER FAIR AMORET. FAIR AMORET is gone astray! Pursue and seek her, ev'ry Lover! I'll tell the signs, by which you may The wand'ring Shepherdess discover! Coquet and coy at once her Air, Both studied; though both seem neglected! Careless she is, with artful care; Affecting to seem unaffected! With skill, her eyes dart ev'ry glance; Yet change so soon, you'd ne'er suspect them! For she'd persuade, they wound by chance; Though certain aim and art direct them! She likes herself; yet others hates LOVE'S ORIGINAL. LOVE is a scion cropped from Virtue's tree, And grafted in the stock of Purity; Planted at first in Nature's choicest soil, Before the Fiend did Nature's beauty spoil: But thence transplanted to a richer ground Than can in all Dame Nature's realm be found; Where, being well manured, it takes deep root Downward, and branches upward forth doth shoot. The sap, which doth this stately tree maintain, Is Sympathy which runs, as in a vein, Through every branch; causing it first to sprout, And ere awhile, young tender buds spring out! Nor is it barren; but much fruit doth bear, To taste most pleasing, and to sight most fair: A sound substantial fruit that can endure The sharpest frost, and yet continue pure. And that ye may this fruit the more admire, Take notice, that I call it Chaste Desire! WHY, lovely Charmer! tell me, Why So very kind; and yet so shy? Why does that cold forbidding Air Give damps of sorrow and despair? Or why that smile, my soul subdue; And kindle up my flames anew? In vain, you strive, with all your art, By turns, to freeze, and fire, my heart! When I behold a face so fair, So sweet a look, so soft an Air; LET not Love on me bestow I know not what the Lovers feign WHILE gentle PARTHENISSA walks, If then, she labours to be seen THE DISTRESS OF A LOVE-SICK MAID. FROM place to place forlorn I go, My inward pangs, my secret grief, ME CUPID made a happy slave; I slight the Nymphs I cannot have! This constant maxim still I hold, To baffle all despair, The absent, ugly are and old; The present, young and fair. |