FLY Damon fly, ’tis Death to stay,
Nor listen to the Syren’s Song;
Nor hear her warbling Fingers play,
That kills in Consort with her Tongue:
Oft to despairing Shepherds Verse,
Unmov’d she tunes the trembling Strings;
Oft does some pitying Words rehearse,
But little means the thing she Sings.
Cease on her lovely Looks to gaze,
Nor court your Ruin in her Eyes;
Her Looks too ’s dangerous as her Face,
At once engages and Destroys:
Speak not if you’d avoid your Fate,
For then she darts Resentment home;
But fly, fly Damon e’er too late,
Or else be Deaf, be Blind, be Dumb.
Mercury to Paris, in the Prize Musick,
Compos’d by Mr. John Eccles.
[[Listen]]
FEAR not Mortal, none shall harm thee,
With this Sacred Rod I’ll Charm thee;
Freely gaze, and view all over,
Thou mayst every Grace discover:
Though a thousand Darts fly round thee,
Fear not Mortal, none can Wound thee;
Though a thousand Darts fly round thee,
Fear not Mortal, none can Wound thee.