Here, sing me this new Song, Pipe.
SONG.
I.
Fly, fly, you happy Shepherds, fly;
Avoid Philira's Charms;
The Rigour of her Heart denies
The Heaven that's in her Arms.
Ne'er hope to gaze, and then retire,
Nor yielding, to be blest;
Nature, who form'd her Eyes of Fire,
Of Ice compos'd her Breast.
II.
Yet, lovely Maid, this once believe
A Slave whose Zeal you move;
The Gods, alas! your Youth deceive,
Their Heav'n consists in Love.
In spite of all the Thanks you owe,
You may reproach 'em this;
That where they did their Form bestow,
They have deny'd their Bliss.
Lady Fan. Well, there may be Faults, Madamoiselle, but the Design is so very obliging, 'twou'd be a matchless Ingratitude in me to discover 'em.
Madam. Ma foy, Madame, I tink de Gentleman's Song tell you de Trute. If you never love, you never be happy—Ah—que l'aime l'amour moy!
Enter Servant with another Letter.
Ser. Madam, here's another Letter for your Ladyship.