Marinda :: :: University of Virginia Library

As the young Hind
Flies thro' the Woods half dead with fear,
If she but chance to hear
The whistling Wind
Among the Branches play,
Or murmuring Current thro' the Valley stray,
At naming Love
So Cloe flies,
In vain I move

To stop the wayward Maid,
She's deaf to all that's said,
And thro' wide pathless Ways she hies,
Slighting her Lover's Moan,
Whose Life will not long stay, now she is gone.

II.

She fled, and with her took my Soul away,
But what I had to say
Of all the grievous diff'ring kinds
Of Torments that I bear,
She left unto the Winds
To scatter in the Air.
And dye I must, unless she back returns
To view the Flames in which her Lover burns,
And like a pitying Judge speaks Comfort whilst she sees
The Tortures I endure by her Decrees:
Not that I hope for Ease or Rest
From those fair guilty Eyes,
But to find Pity in her Breast,

After I have confess'd
All my Love-Thefts, and little Treacheries.

III.

I'll not conceal
How oft my greedy Sight,
When the kind Winds rais'd up her flowing Vail,
Stole under, and with what Delight
Her snowy Neck it wander'd o'er,
Desirous still of viewing more:
What Joy I felt (for all I'll own)
When her pretty Feet appear'd
Beneath her waving Gown:
And now you've my Confession heard,
Oh! will it nought avail?
Can none be found my Plaints to bear
To my rigid Judge's Ear!
And if her Pity she denies, let Right at last prevail.

IV.

Ye Maids that round my Cloe wait,
Who best her kind, or froward Hours know,

Have Pity on my Fate,
And beg she wou'd bestow
Rest on my tortur'd weary Soul,
That does thro' endless Changes rowl:
For Hope and Fear I equal Reason see,
Whilst the Inconstant She,
Of various Passions runs the round,
Does all my Guesses mock, and all my Thoughts confound.
Now a sweet Smile sits lovely on the Fair,
And her bright Eyes void of Disdain appear,
But whilst they promise Peace, they make a cruel War.
And yet I'll not my Plaints repeat,
Since I am kept alive by this her kind Deceit.

V.

Fate, to shew its wanton Force,
Has made my Tigress with her Pity slay;
A Storm, that looks serene and gay,
Varies my dubious Course;

Hence oft I sink into a soft Repose,
Oft my Breast glows
With such fierce Anguish, that I strive in vain
To quiet the tormenting Pain,
'Till angry grown,
I in old Story find
How a Nymph less coy than She
(If we're inform'd aright)
Stopt in the middle of her flight
Became a Tree;
Or stiffen'd to a Stone.
And thus I ease my troubled Mind,

VI.

Cou'd I but once that frozen Breast behold,
(Where Pity ne'er a Footstep did imprint,)
Petrified into a Flint,
That beauteous Face, those Locks of Gold,
Not in a Flow'r, or verdant Bays confin'd,
But in a knotty Bark enclos'd,
Stand on a Mountain's Top expos'd
To every boisterous Wind:

How wou'd the Sight
My weak afflicted Heart delight?
Oh Charming Maid!
How does my hasty Tongue
Hurry on my heedless Song,
And utter what I never said!
But Love's in fault, that shou'd restrain
This Rashness, and lets loose the Rein,
Love keeps my dubious Life 'twixt Hope and Dread,
And well I see,
Whilst I the fickle Nymph upbraid,
I am just as giddy, and as wild as She.