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WHEN here Lucinda first we came
Where Arno rolls his silver stream, How blithe the nymphs, the fwains how gay, Content infpir'd each rural lay. The birds in livelier concert sung, The grapes in thicker clusters hung, All look”d as joy could never fail Among the sweets of Arno's vale.
But now since good PALÆmon died,
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray, What charm can footh her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is to die.
STREPHON that I die ; Let echoes to each other tell, Till the mournful accents ily
TO STREPHON's ear, and all is well.
But gently breathe the fatal truth,
And soften every harsher sound,
The softest words too deep will wound.
Now fountains, echoes, all be dumb;
For should I cost my swain a tear, I should repent it in my tomb,
And grieve I bought my reft so dear.
ROM place to place, forlorn, I go,
With downcast eyes, a filent shade ; Forbidden to declare my woe ;
To speak, till spoken to, afraid.
My inward pangs, my secret grief,
My soft confenting looks betray; He loves, but gives me no relief;
Why speaks not he who may ?
Which fate detrees our lives should know, Else we should fight th’ Almighty power,
Wrapt in the joys we find below : 'Tis paft, dear CYNTHIA, now let frowns begone,
A long, long pennance I have done
In each soft hour of filent night
Your image in my dream appears ; I grasp the foul of my delight,
Slumber in joys, but wake in tears :
Let me not think I am by you
AIR, and soft, and gay, and young,
There was no way to 'scape the dart,
But growing bolder, in her ear
But long I had not been in view,