Lyric Poems Made in Imitation of the Italians. Of which, many are Translations From other Languages ... By Philip Ayres |
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A COMPLAINT.
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 | Lyric Poems |  |
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A COMPLAINT.
When first I here to Cynthia spake my Mind,
Near these sweet Streams, which to our thoughts were kind:
Ah then in perfect Harmony we met,
And to our Concert joyn'd the Rivulet.
Near these sweet Streams, which to our thoughts were kind:
Ah then in perfect Harmony we met,
And to our Concert joyn'd the Rivulet.
The Flowers, Plants, Echo's, Craggy Rocks and Dales,
The pleasant Meads, proud Hills, and humble Vales,
Seem'd then o're-joy'd at my Felicity,
Which now condole with me in Misery.
The pleasant Meads, proud Hills, and humble Vales,
Seem'd then o're-joy'd at my Felicity,
Which now condole with me in Misery.
Yet still the wing'd Inhab'tants of the Wood
Sing, as my Change they had not understood:
Tho sure the Melancholy Tunes they vent,
Me rather Notes of Grief, than Merriment.
Sing, as my Change they had not understood:
Tho sure the Melancholy Tunes they vent,
Me rather Notes of Grief, than Merriment.
Oh Nymphs, that in these Crystal Streams do dwell!
And after Sport rest quiet in your Cell:
Face, clear as yours, a Happy Life I led,
Thô now o'er whelm'd with Grief, and live as dead.
And after Sport rest quiet in your Cell:
Face, clear as yours, a Happy Life I led,
Thô now o'er whelm'd with Grief, and live as dead.
Thus we through various Turns of Fortune run,
And find no certain Rest till Life be done.
And find no certain Rest till Life be done.
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