 | Lycidus |  |
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On the first discovery of falseness in Amintas. By Mrs. B.
Make hast! make hast! my miserable soul,
To some unknown and solitary Grove,
Where nothing may thy Languishment controle
Where thou maist never hear the name of Love.
Where unconfin'd, and free, as whispering Air,
Thou maist caress and welcome thy despair:
To some unknown and solitary Grove,
Where nothing may thy Languishment controle
Where thou maist never hear the name of Love.
Where unconfin'd, and free, as whispering Air,
Thou maist caress and welcome thy despair:
Where no dissembl'd complisance may veil
The griefes with which, my soul, thou art opprest.
But dying, breath thyself out in a tale
That may declare the cause of thy unrest:
The toyles of Death 'twill render far more light
And soon convey thee to the shades of night.
The griefes with which, my soul, thou art opprest.
But dying, breath thyself out in a tale
That may declare the cause of thy unrest:
The toyles of Death 'twill render far more light
And soon convey thee to the shades of night.
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Search then, my soul, some unfrequented place,
Some place that nature meant her own repose:
When she her-self with-drew from human race,
Displeas'd with wanton Lovers vows and oaths.
Where Sol cou'd never dart a busy Ray,
And where the softer winds ne're met to play.
Some place that nature meant her own repose:
When she her-self with-drew from human race,
Displeas'd with wanton Lovers vows and oaths.
Where Sol cou'd never dart a busy Ray,
And where the softer winds ne're met to play.
By the sad purling of some Rivulet
O're which the bending Yew and Willow grow,
That scarce the glimmerings of the day permit,
To view the melancholy Banks below,
Where dwells no noyse but what the murmurs make,
When the unwilling stream the shade forsakes.
O're which the bending Yew and Willow grow,
That scarce the glimmerings of the day permit,
To view the melancholy Banks below,
Where dwells no noyse but what the murmurs make,
When the unwilling stream the shade forsakes.
There on a Bed of Moss and new-faln leaves,
Which the Triumphant Trees once proudly bore,
Thô now thrown off by every wind that breaths,
Despis'd by what they did adorn before,
And who, like useless me, regardless lye
While springing beautys do the boughs supply.
Which the Triumphant Trees once proudly bore,
Thô now thrown off by every wind that breaths,
Despis'd by what they did adorn before,
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While springing beautys do the boughs supply.
There lay thee down, my soul, and breath thy last,
And calmly to the unknown regions fly;
But e're thou do'st thy stock of life exhaust,
Let the ungrateful know, why tis you dye.
Perhaps the gentle winds may chance to bear
Thy dying accents to Amintas ear.
And calmly to the unknown regions fly;
But e're thou do'st thy stock of life exhaust,
Let the ungrateful know, why tis you dye.
Perhaps the gentle winds may chance to bear
Thy dying accents to Amintas ear.
Breath out thy Passion; tell him of his power
And how thy flame was once by him approv'd.
How soon as wisht he was thy conqueror,
No sooner spoke of Love, but was belov'd.
His wonderous Eyes, what weak resistance sound,
While every charming word begat a wound?
And how thy flame was once by him approv'd.
How soon as wisht he was thy conqueror,
No sooner spoke of Love, but was belov'd.
His wonderous Eyes, what weak resistance sound,
While every charming word begat a wound?
Here thou wilt grow impatient to be gone,
And thrô my willing Eyes will silent pass,
Into the stream that gently glides along,
But stay thy hasty flight, (my Soul,) alas,
A thought more cruel will thy flight secure,
Thought, that can no admittance give to cure.
And thrô my willing Eyes will silent pass,
Into the stream that gently glides along,
But stay thy hasty flight, (my Soul,) alas,
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Thought, that can no admittance give to cure.
Think, how the prostrate Infidel now lys,
An humble suppliant at anothers feet,
Think, while he begs for pity from her Eyes.
He sacrifices thee with-out regreet.
Think, how the faithless treated thee last night,
And then, my tortur'd soul, assume thy flight.
An humble suppliant at anothers feet,
Think, while he begs for pity from her Eyes.
He sacrifices thee with-out regreet.
Think, how the faithless treated thee last night,
And then, my tortur'd soul, assume thy flight.
| Lycidus | |