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Since you, Amyntas, have your Eies withdrawn,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.