 | Claraphil and Clarinda |  |
Solitude.
Poor Swain, thou must repair,
Where neither Ear nor Eye,
Thy sad Laments can over-hear, or spye;
Into some silent Ayr.
That kindly entertains,
Thy sighes, and with no Eccho mocks thy pains:
Since thy Clarinda scornfully professes,
She cannot chuse but laugh at thy distresses.
Where neither Ear nor Eye,
Thy sad Laments can over-hear, or spye;
Into some silent Ayr.
That kindly entertains,
Thy sighes, and with no Eccho mocks thy pains:
Since thy Clarinda scornfully professes,
She cannot chuse but laugh at thy distresses.
Blest be thou Solitude,
That to thy Cypress Grove,
Invites the Melancholy soul of Love;
No murmur shall intrude,
No flattr'ing Winde invade,
To spoyl the happy quiet of thy shade:
Here will I sit, and Venus Son importune,
To torture her, that laughs at my misfortune.
That to thy Cypress Grove,
Invites the Melancholy soul of Love;
No murmur shall intrude,
No flattr'ing Winde invade,
To spoyl the happy quiet of thy shade:
Here will I sit, and Venus Son importune,
To torture her, that laughs at my misfortune.
Kinde Cupid bend thy Bow,
And with thy keenest shaft,
Transfix her brest, that glories in her craft;
Shoot home, that there may flow,
From her obdurate heart,
A Stream to drench the feathers of thy Dart:
That when (like me) her flame she cannot smother,
We both may love, and laugh, at one another.
And with thy keenest shaft,
Transfix her brest, that glories in her craft;
Shoot home, that there may flow,
From her obdurate heart,
A Stream to drench the feathers of thy Dart:
That when (like me) her flame she cannot smother,
We both may love, and laugh, at one another.
| Claraphil and Clarinda | |