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I, unawares, my freedom gave,
And to thofe tyrants grew a flave;
Would you have kept what you had won,
You should have more compaffion shewn.

Love is a burthen, which two hearts,
When equally they bear their parts,
With pleasure carry; but no one,
Alas! can bear it long alone.

I'm not of those who court their pain,
And make an idol of disdain;

My hope in love does ne'er expire,

But it extinguishes defire.

Nor yet of those, who ill received,
Would have it otherwise believed;

And, where their love could not prevail,
Take the vain liberty to rail.

Whoe'er would make his victor less Must his own weak defence confefs; And, while her power he does defame, He poorly doubles his own shame.

Even that malice does betray,
And speak concern another way;
And all fuch scorn in men, is but
'The smoke of fires but ill

put out.

He's ftill in torment, whom the rage
To detraction doth engage :

In love, indiff'rence is the fure
And only figa of perfect cure.

SONG.

HEARS not my Phillis, how the birds
Their feather'd mates falute?
They tell their paffion in their words,
Muft I alone be mute?

Phillis, without frown or fmile,

Sat and knotted all the while.

The god of love, in thy bright eyes,

Doth like a tyrant reign;

But in thy heart, a child he lies,

Without his dart or flame.

Phillis, &c.

So many months in filence past,

And yet in raging love;

Might well deferve one word at last,

My paffion fhould approve.

Phillis, &c.

Muft then your faithful swain expire,

And not one look obtain ;
Which he, to footh his fond defire,
Might pleafingly explain?
Phillis, without frown or fmile,
Sat and knotted all the while.

SONG.

PHILLIS is my only joy,

Faithlefs as the winds or feas;
Sometimes coming, fometimes coy,
Yet fhe never fails to please.
If with a frown

I am caft down,
Phillis fmiling,

And beguiling,

Makes me happier than before.

Though, alas! too late I find
Nothing can her fancy fix;
Yet the moment she is kind,
I forgive her all her tricks;
Which though I see,
I can't get free;

She deceiving,

I believing,

What can lovers wish for more?

SONG.

WHAT fhall become of man fo wife

When he dies?

None can tell

Whether he goes to heaven or hell;

Or, after a few moments here,
He difappear;

And at last

Perish entirely like a beast?

But women, wine, and mirth, we know,
Are all the joys he has below:

Let us then ply those joys we have,
'Tis vain to think beyond the grave;
Out of our reach the gods have laid
Of time to come th' event;
And laugh to fee the fools afraid

Of what the knaves invent.

EDMUND WALLER.

OF SYLVIA.

OUR fighs are heard; juft Heav'n declares

The fenfe it has of lovers' cares.

She that fo far the rest outshin'd,
Sylvia, the fair, while fhe was kind,
As if her frowns impair'd her brow,
Seems only not unhandsome now.
So when the sky makes us endure
A ftorm, itself becomes obfcure.

Hence 'tis that I conceal my flame,
Hiding from Flavia's felf her name;
Left she, provoking Heav'n, should prove
How it rewards neglected love.
Better a thousand fuch as I,

Their grief untold, should pine and die,
Than her bright morning, overcaft

With fullen clouds, should be defac’d.

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