Page [unnumbered]
A Pastoral Dialogue BETWEEN ALEXIS and STREPHON, Written by the Right Honourable, The Late Earl of Rochester. At the BATH, 1674.
Alex.
I.
THere sighs not on the Plain
So lost a Swain as I;
Scorcht't up with Love, frozen with Disdain.
Of killing Sweetness I complain.
Streph.
If 'tis Corinna, die.
II.
Since first my dazled Eyes were thrown
On that bewitching Face,
Like ruin'd Birds, rob'd of their Young,
Lamenting, frighted, and alone,
I fly from place to place.
III.
Fram'd by some Cruel Powers above,
So nice she is, and fair;
None from undoing can remove,
Since all, who are not Blind, must Love;
Who are not vain, Despair.
Alex.
IV.
The Gods no sooner give a Grace,
But fond of their own Art,
Severely jealous, ever place
To guard the Glories of a Face,
A Dragon in the Heart.
V.
Proud and ill-natur'd Powers they are,
Who peevish to Mankind,
For their own Honour's sake, with Care,
Make a sweet Form divinely Fair,
And adds a Cruel Mind.
Streph.
VI.
Since she's insensible of Love,
By Honour taught to hate,
If we, forc'd by Decrees above,
Must sensible to Beauty prove,
How Tyrannous is Fate?
Alex.
VII.
I to the Nymph have never nam'd
The Cause of all my pain.
Streph.
Such Bashfulness may well be blam'd;
For since to serve we're not asham'd,
Why should she blush to Reign?
Alex.
VIII.
But if her haughty Heart despise
My humble proffer'd One,
The just Compassion she denies,
I may obtain from other's Eyes;
Hers are not Fair alone.
IX.
Devouring Flames require new Food;
My Heart's consum'd almost:
New Fires must kindle in her Blood,
Or Mine go out, and that's as good.
Streph.
Would'st live, when Love is lost?
X.
Be dead before thy Passion dies;
For if thou should'st survive,
What Anguish would the Heart surprize,
To see her Flames begin to rise,
And Thine no more Alive.
Alex.
XI.
Rather what Pleasure shou'd I meet
In my Tryumphant scorn,
To see my Tyrant at my Feet;
Whil'st taught by her, unmov'd I sit
A Tyrant in my Turn.
Streph.
XII.
Ungentle Shepherd, cease for shame;
Which way can you pretend
To merit so Divine a Flame,
Who to dull Life makes a mean Claim,
When Love is at an End?
XIII.
As Trees are by their Bark embrac'd,
Love to my Soul doth cling;
When torn by th' Herd's greedy Taste,
The injur'd Plants feel they're defac't,
They wither in the Spring.
XIV.
My rifled Love would soon retire,
Dissolving into Aire,
Shou'd I that Nymph cease to admire,
Blest in whose Arms I will expire,
Or at her Feet despair.