Seeft how the dancing lambs on flow'ry banks Forget their food, to mind their fweeter play? Seeft how they fkip, and, in their wanton pranks, Bound o'er the hillocks fet in fportful ranks?

They skip, they vault, full little caren they To make their milky mothers bleating stay. Seeft how the falmons (water's colder nation) Lately arriv'd from their fea-navigation, How joy leaps in their heart, fhew by their leaping fashion.

IV.

What witch enchants thy mind with fudden mad

nefs

(plaining, When all things fmile, thou only fitt' come Agon

Damon, I, only I, have caufe of fadness:
The more my woe, to weep in common gladnefs!
When all eyes fhine, mine only must be raining;
No winter now, but in my breast, remaining:
Yet feels this breaft a fummer's burning fever:
And yet (alas) my winter thaweth never:
And yet (alas ;) this fire eats and confumes me

ever.

V.

Damon.

Within our Darwin, in her rocky cell,

A nymph there lives, which thousand boys hath harm'd;

All as fhe gliding rides in boats of thell,
Darting her eyes, (where (pite and beauty dwell:
Ay me that fpite with beauty fhould be arm'd!)
Her witching eye the boy and boat hath charm'd.
No fooner drinks he down that pois'nous eye,
But mourns and pines: (ah piteous cruelty)
With her he longs to live; for her he longs to

die.

Ah, fhe it is, an earthly heav'n and hell, Who thus hath charm'd my heart with fug'rd spell.

[eafe Eafe thou my wound: but, ah! what hand can Or give a med'cine that such wound may please; When the, my fole physician, is my foul's disease?

VII.

Damon.

Poor boy! the wounds which spite and love impart,

There is no ward to fence, no herb to ease. Heaven's circling folds lie open to his dart: Hell's Lethe's felf cools not his burning fmart: The fifhes cold flame with this strong disease, And want their water in the midst of feas: All are his flaves, hell, earth, and heaven above. Strive not i' th' net, in vain thy force to prove. Give, woo, figh, weep, and pray: Love's only cur'd by love.

VIII.

Algon.

If for thy love no other cure there be,

Love, thou art curelefs: gifts, pray'rs, vows,

and art, [thee: She fcorns both you and me: nay, Love, even Thou figh'ft her prisoner, while the laughs as free. Whatever charms might move a gentle heart, 1 oft have tried, and fhew'd the earnful fmart Which eats my breast: she laughs at all my pain: Art, pray'rs, vows, gifts, love, grief, the does difdain: Grief, love, gifts, vows, pray're, art, ye all are spent in vain.

XII. Damon.

No gem fo coftly but with coft is bought:

The hardest ftone is cut and fram'd by art; A diamond hid in rocks is found, if fought : Be fhe a diamond, a diamond's wrought. Thy fear congeals, thy fainting fteels her heart. I'll be thy captain, boy, and take thy part: Alcides' felf would never combat two. Take courage, Algon; I will teach thee woo. Cold beggars freeze our gifts: thy faint fuit breeds

her no.

Thence love and death I find. Damon.

Her fmiles fpeak peace.

Who filent loves?

Algen.

Storms breed in smiling skies.

Damen.

Algon.

Whom speeth all hope denies.

Damon.

Why should't thou fear?

Algon.

To Love, Fear's near a-kin.
Damon.

Well, if my cunning fail not, by a gin,
Spite of her fcorn, thy fear, I'll make thee woo
and win.

XIV.

What, ho! thou fairest maid, turn back thine oar, And gently deign to help a fisher's fmart. Nicea.

Are thy lines broke? or are thy trammels tore? If thou defir'ft my help, unhide the fore.

Damon.

Ah, gentlest nymph oft have I heard, thy art Can fov'reign herbs to ev'ry grief impart : So may'ft thou live the fisher's fong and joy, As thou wilt deign to cure this fickly boy. Unworthy they of art, who of their art are coy!

XV.

His inward grief in outward change appears;
His cheeks with fudden fires bright-flaming

glow;

XVI.

Algon.

Hard maid! 'tis worse to mock than make a wound: [fee Why should't thou then (fair-cruel!) fcorn to What thou by seeing maďst ? my sorrow's ground Was in thy eye, may by thine eye be found:

How can thine eye most sharp in wounding be, In feeing dull? these two are one in thee, To fee and wound by fight: thine eye the dart. Fair-cruel maid, thou well haft learnt the art, With the fame eye to fee, to wound, to cure my heart.

Algen.

XVIII. Damon.

What lives alone Nicea? stars most chafte
Have their conjunctions, spheres their mix'd
embraces,

And mutual folds. Nothing can fingle last:
But die in living, in increasing waste.

Nicea.

Their joining perfects them, but us defaces.
Algon.

That's perfect which obtains his end: your graces

Receive their end in love. She that's alone
Dies as fhe lives; no number is in one :
Thus while she's but herself, she's not herself, she'

Come, Algon, cheerly home; the thievish night Steals on the world, and robs our eyes of fight.

There of love's conqueft may we fafely boast: Sooneft in love he wins, that oft in love hath

loft.

of iij.

Thomalin, I fee thy Thi fil thou neglecteft,
Some greater love holds down thy heart in fear
Thy Thirfil's love and counfel thou rejectest;

Thy foul was wont to lodge within my ear: But now that port no longer thou respecteft;

Yet hath it till been fafely harbour'd there, My ear is not acquainted with my tongue, That either tongue or ear fhould do thee wrong: Why then should't thou conceal thy hidden grief fo long?

V.

How oft hath Thomalin to Thirfil vow'd,
That as his heart fo he his love esteemed?
Where are those oaths? where is that heart be-
ftow'd

[deem'd, Which hides it from that breast which dear it And to that heart room in his heart allow'd?

That love was never love, but only feem'd. Tell me, my Thomalin, what envious thief Thus robs thy joy; tell me, my liefest lief: Thou little lov'ft me, friend, if more thou lov't thy grief.

VI.

Thomalin.

Thirfil, my joyous spring is blafted quite,

And winter ftorm prevent the fummer's ray; All as this vine, whofe green the eastern spite Hath dy'd to black, his catching arms decay, And letting go their hold for want of might, Mar'l winter comes so foon, in first of May. Thirfil.

Yet fee, the leaves do freshly bud again; Thou drooping still dy't in this heavy ftrain; Nor can I fee or end or caufe of all thy pain.

VII.

Thomalin.

No marvel, Thirfil, if thou doft not know

This grief which in my heart lies deeply drown'd: My heart itself, though well it feels this wo, Knows not the wo it feels: the worfe my wound, Which, though I rankling find, I cannot fhew.

Thousand tond paflions in my breaft abound; Fear leagu'd to joy, hope, and despair, together, Sighs bound to fmiles, my heart, though prone to either, [neither. While both it would obey, 'twixt both, obeyeth