A Dialogue.
Strephon—Amaryllis.
Streph.
Come come Amaryllis, I am ty'd by oath, which now I must fulfill;
let Fate my Soul from Earth divide, if Damon be not constant still: and the poor Swain,
sits under yonder tree, with sighs bewailing your severitie.
Amar.
There let him sit sighing his fill,
and take his labour for his hire; or piping go from hill to hill, till Sunbeams his false pipe do fire:
It moves not me, this this I onely grieve, I e're did him, and cannot you believe.
Streph.
Are apples gather'd from a tree, and put into fair Chloris hand, symptomes of his Inconstancie? Is this a
breaking of Loves band? No, no, he ne'r lov'd Chloris; heark, heark he cryes, Come Amaryllis, come Amaryllis,
or your Damon dyes.
Amar.
Ah Strephon, could I but be sure, that this unfeignedly were
true, and that the tears he sheds were pure, I then could pity, I could pity more than you, and entertain
the Eccho of his cryes, Come Damon come, Come Damon come, or Amaryllis dyes.
Chorus.
Thus Amaryllis to her Damon turn'd, whose Life was almost into Cinders burn'd:
the gods will Lovers crown, though sooner we can kindle love, can kindle love, than quench loves jealousie.
