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ALMERIA then, feeling the Deftinies

About to fhut her Lips and close her Eyes;
Weeping, in mine fix'd her fair trembling Hand,
And with these Words I fcarce could understand,
Her Paffion in a dying Voice exprefs'd;

Half, and her Sighs alas! made out the reft.

'Tis paft; this Pang-Nature gives o'er the Strife;
Thou must thy Mistress lofe, and I my Life.
I die; but dying thine, the Fates may prove
Their Conqueft over me, but not my Love:
Thy Memory, my Glory, and my Pain,
In fpight of Death itself shall still remain.
Deareft ORONTES, my hard Fate denies

That Hope is the last thing which in us dies:
From my griev'd Breaft all thofe foft Thoughts are fled,
And Love furvives it, tho' my Hope is dead;
Iyield my Life, but keep my Paffion yet,
And can all Thoughts but of ORONTES quit ;

My Flame increases as my Strength decays ;
Death, which puts out the Light, the Heat will raise :

That

That still remains, tho' I from hence remove;

I lose my Lover, but I keep my Love.

The Sigh which sent forth that laft tender Word, Up tow'rds the Heav'ns like a bright Metcor foar'd; And the kind Nymph, not yet bereft of Charms, Fell cold and breathlefs in her Lover's Arms.

Goddess, who now my Fate haft understood,
Sparc but my Tears, and freely take my Blood:
Here let me end the Story of my Cares,
My difmal Grief enough the reft declares.
Judge thou by all this Mifery display'd,
Whether I ought not to implore thy Aid:
Thus to furvive, Reproaches on me draws,
Never fad Wishes had so just a Cause.

Come then, my only Hope; in ev'ry place
Thou vifiteft, Men tremble at thy Face,

And fear thy Name: Once let thy fatal Hand
Fall on a Swain that does the Blow demand.
Vouchsafe thy Dart; I need not one of those,
With which thou do'ft unwilling Kings depose:

A welcome Death the flightest Wound can bring,

And free a Soul already on her Wing,

Without thy Aid, moft miferable I

Muft ever wish, yet not obtain to die.

VOL. I.

C

ODE

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That gentle, yet refiftless Heat,

Which raises Man to all things good and great:

While other Paffions of the Mind

To low Brutality debafe Mankind,

By Love we are above our felves refin'd.

Oh Love, thou Trance Divine! in which the Soul,

Unclogg'd with worldly Cares, may range without Controul;

And foaring to her Heav'n, from thence infpir'd can

teach

High Myfterics, above poor Reafon's feeble Reach,

II.

To weak old Age Prudence fomeAid may prove, And curb thofe Appetites that faintly move;

But wild, impetuous Youth is tam'd by nothing lefs than Love.

Of Men too rough for Peace, too rude for Arts,
Love's Power can penetrate the hardest Hearts;

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