In whofe no lefs to be adored mind,

With equal light, even diftant Virtues shin'd, Chafte, without pride; though gentle, yet not

foft;

Not always cruel, nor yet kind too oft:

Fair Goddess of these Fields, who for our sports
Though fhe might well become defpifed Courts,
Belov'd of all, and loving one alone,

Is from my fight, I fear, for ever gone;
Now I am fure thou wondreft not, I grieve:

But rather art amazed that I Live.

Thyrfis.

Thy Cafe indeed is pitiful, but yet Thou on thy lofs too great a price doft set ; Women, like Days are, Strephon, fome be far More bright and glorious than others are; Yet none fo wonderful were ever feen,

But by as fair they have fucceeded been.

Strephon

Strephon.

Others as Fair, and may as worthy prove, But fure I never fall another Love; Her bright Idea wanders in my Thought, At once my Poyfon, and my Antidote; The Stag fhall fooner with the Eagle foar: Seas leave their Fishes naked on the fhoar; The Wolf shall fooner by the Lambkin die, And from the Kid the hungry Lyon flie; Than I forget her Face: What once I love, May from my Eyes, but not my Heart remove

ΤΟ

To a Lady, who fled the fight of bim.

By Sir George Etherege.

FI my Celia cou'd perfwade

I'

To fee those Wounds her Eyes have made, And hear, whilft I that Paffion tell,

Which, like her felf, does so excell,

How foon we might be freed from Care!
She need not fear, nor I defpair.

Such Beauty does the Nymph protect,
That all approach her with respect;
And can I offer Violence

Where Love does joyn in her defence?

This

This Guard might all her Fears difperfe,
Did the with Savages Converse.

Then my Celia wou'd furprize

With what's produc'd by her own Eyes;
Those matchlefs Flames which they inspire
In her own Breaft, fhou'd raise a fire:
For Love, but with more fubtil Art,
As well as Beauty charms the Heart.

To a Lady, asking him how long would Love her.

By the fame Author.

T is not, Celia, in our power

I'

It

our

To say how long our Love will laft,

may

be we within this Hour

May lose those Joys we now do tafte:
The Bleffed, that immortal be,

From Change in Love are only free.

Then, fince we Mortal Lovers are,

Ask not how long our Love will last;

But while it does, let us take care Each Minute be with Pleasure paft; Were it not madness to deny

To live, because w'are fure to Die.