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But let on him, th' unhappy Cause of all
The Ills that from Diana's Anger fall,
No greater Torments light, than those I feel,
When you my deareft, tend'reft Part are ill.
For oh! with what dire Tortures am I rackt,
Whom diff'rent Griefs fucceffively distract!
Sometimes my Grief from this does higher grow,
To think that I have caus'd fo much to you:
Then great Diana's Witness, how I pray,
That all our Crimes on me alone she'd lay.
Sometimes to your lov'd Doors difguis'd I come,
And all around 'em up and down I roam :
'Till I your Woman coming from you spy,
With Looks dejected, and a weeping Eye.
With filent Steps, like fome fad Ghoft, I steal
Close up to her, and urge her to reveal
More than new Questions suffer her to tell :
How you had flept, what Diet you had us'd?
And oft the vain Physician's Art accus'd.
He ev'ry Hour (Oh, were I bleft as he!)
Does all the turns of your Distemper fee;
Why fit not I by your Bed-fide all Day,
My Mournful Head in your warm Bofom lay,
'Till with my Tears the inward Fires decay?
Why prefs not I your melting Hand in mine,
And from your Pulfe of my own Health divine?
But oh! thefe Wishes all are vain; and he
Whom most I fear, may now fit close by thee,
Forgetful as thou art of Heav'n and me.
He that lov'd Hand does prefs, and oft does feign
Some new Excufe to feel thy beating Vein.

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Then

Then his bold Hand up to your Arm does slide,
And in your panting Breast it felf does hide;
Kiffes fometimes he fnatches too from thee,
For his officious Care too great a Fee.
Robber, who gave thee Leave to taste that Lip,
And the ripe Harvest of my Kiffes reap?
For they are mine, fo is that Bofom too,
Which, falfe as 'tis, shall never harbour you.
Take, take away those thy adult'rous Hands,
For know, another Lord that Breast commands.
'Tis true, her Father promis'd her to thee,
But Heav'n and fhe first gave her self to me;
And you in Justice therefore should decline
Your Claim to that which is already mine.
This is the Man, Cydippe, that excites
Diana's Rage to vindicate her Rites.
Command him then not to approach thy Door,
This done, the Danger of your Death is o'er.
For fear not, beauteous Maid, but keep thy Vow
Which great Diana heard, and did allow,
And the who took it, will thy Health restore,
And be propitious as he was before. ?

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" 'Tis not the Steam of a flain Heifer's Blood, "That can allay the Anger of a God.

""Tis Truth, and Justice to your Vows, appeafe "Their angry Deities, and without these

"No flaughter'd Beast their Fury can divert, "For that's a Sacrifice without a Heart...

Some, bitter Potions patiently endure,

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And kifs the wounding Launce that works their Cure.

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You

You have no need thefe cruel Cures to feel,
Shun being perjur'd'only, and be well.
Why let you still your pious Parents weep,
Whom you in Ign'rance of your Promise keep?
Oh! to your Mother all our Story tell,.
And the whole Progress of our Love reveal;
Tell her how first at great Diana's Shrine
I fixt my Eyes, my wond'ring Eyes, on thine';
How like the Statues there I stood amaz'd,
Whilft on thy Face intemp'rately Ilgaz'd.
She will her felf, when you my Tale repeat,
Smile, and approve the amorous Deceit.
Marry, she'll fay, whom Heav'n commends to thee;
He who has pleas'd Diana, pleafes me.

But should she ask from what Defcent I came,

My Country, and my Parents, and my Name,
Tell her that none of these deserve my Shame.
Had you not fworn, you fuch an one might chufe;
But were he worse, now fworn, you can't refufe.
This in my Dreams Diana bid me write,
And when I wak'd fent Cupid to indite:
Obey 'em both, for one has wounded me,
Which Wound if you with Eyes of Pity fee,
She too will foon relent that wounded thee.
Then to our Joys with eager Hafte we'll move,
As full of Beauty you, as I of Love.
To the great Temple we'll in Triumph go,
And with our Off'rings at the Altar bow.
A Golden Image: there I'll confecrate;
Of the false Apple's innocent Deceit ;

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And

And write below the happy Verfe, that came
The Meffenger of my fuccessful Flame.

"Let all the World this from Acontius know,

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Cydippe has been faithful to her Vow.

More I would Write, but fince thy Illness reigns,
And wracks thy tender Limbs with fharpeft Pains,
My Pen falls down for fear, left this might be,
Altho' for me too little, yet too much for thee.

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CY DI P. P

Ε

E,

I

HER ANSWER TO

A CONTIU S.

By Mr. BUTLER.

N filent Fear I read your Letter o'er;

Left I fhou'd Swear, as I had done before!
Nor had I read, but that I fear t'engage
By my Neglect the peevish Goddefs' Rage:
In vain I deck her Shrine, her Rites attend,
The partial Goddess still remains your Friend.
A Virgin rather shou'd a Virgin aid;
But where I feek Relief I am betray'd!
I languish, and the Caufe of my Disease
As yet lies hid, no Med'cine gives me Eafe.
In how much Pain do I this Letter write!
To my weak Hand my ficklier Thoughts indite :
What anxious Fear alas afflicts me too,

Left any but my trufty Nurse shou'd know!
To gain me Time to write, the Door fhe keeps,
And whifp'ring tells the Vifitants, She Sleeps.

Warfe

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