Rolling eye, and lip of ruby, Ever rob me of my rest: Thy beauty's ray To some more-soon-enamour'd swain: Those forced wiles Of sights and smiles, Are all bestow'd on me in vain. I have elsewhere vow'd a duty; Where gaudy cloaths, And feigned oaths, may love obtain: I love her so, Whose look swears no; That all thy labour will be vain. Can he prize the tainted posies Which on others breast are worn, That may pluck the virgin roses From the never-touched thorn? On her sweet breast, That is the pride of Cynthia's train: Thy mermaid song Is all bestow'd on me in vain. He's a fool that basely dallies Where each peasant mates with him. Shall I haunt the thronged vallies, Whilst there's noble hills to climb ? No, no; though clowns Are scar'd with frowns, I know the best can but disdain: So will thy love Be all bestow'd on me in vain. I do scorn to vow a duty, Where each lustful lad may woo: Affords that bliss For which I would refuse no pain: But such as you, Fond fools, adieu! You seek to captive me in vain. Leave me then, thou Syren, leave me, Seek no more to work my harms: Crafty wiles cannot deceive me; I am proof against your charms: You labour may To lead astray The heart that constant shall remain; And I the while Will sit and smile To see you spend your time in vain. The following Rhomboidal Dirge, is inserted on account of its singularity. Ah me! Am I the swain, That late, from sorrow free, Did all the cares on earth disdain ? And still untouch'd, as at some safer games, Play'd with the burning coals of love and beauty's flames? Was't I, could dive, and sound each passion's secret depth at will, And from those huge o'erwhelmings rise by help of reason still? And am I now, O heavens! for trying this in vain, So sunk, that I shall never rise again? Then, let despair set sorrow's string For strains that doleful'st be, And I will sing Ah me! But why, O fatal time, Dost thou constrain, that I Should perish in my youth's sweet prime? I, but a while ago, you cruel powers! In spite of fortune cropt contentment's sweetest flowers; And yet, unscorned, serve a gentle nymph, the fairest she That ever was belov'd of man, or eyes did ever see. Yea, one whose tender heart would rue for my distress, Yet I, poor I, must perish ne'ertheless; And, which much more augments my care, Unmoaned I must die, And no man e'er Know why! Thy leave, My dying song, Yet take, ere grief bereave The breath which I enjoy too long. Tell thou that fair one this; my soul prefers Her love above my life: and that I died hers. And let him be for evermore to her remembrance dear, Since me my wonted joys forsake, And all my trust deceive, My leave. Farewell, Sweet groves, to you! You hills that highest dwell, And all you humble vales adieu! You wanton brooks, and solitary rocks; My dear companions all, and you my tender flocks! Farewel, my pipe! and all those pleasing songs, whose moving strains Delighted once the fairest nymphs that dance upon the plains. You discontents, whose deep and over-deadly smart Have, without pity, broke the truest heart, Sighs, tears, and every sad annoy, That erst did with me dwell, And others joy, Farewell! |