Fair Virtue; or, The Mistress of Phil'arete - Song 2

Hence away, you Syrens, leave me
And unclasp your wanton arms;
Sugared words shall ne'er deceive me
Though thou prove a thousand charms.
Fie, fie, forbear!
No common snare
Could ever my affection chain:
Your painted baits
And poor deceits
Are all bestowed on me in vain.

I'm no slave to such as you be;
Neither shall a snowy breast,
Wanton eye, or lip of ruby
Ever rob me of my rest.
Go, go, display
Your beauty's ray
To some o'er soon enamoured swain;
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vain.

I have elsewhere vowed a duty;
Turn away thy tempting eyes.
Show not me a naked beauty,
Those impostures I despise.
My spirit loathes
Where gaudy clothes
And feigned oaths may love obtain.
I love Her so
Whose look swears No,
That all your labours will be vain.

Can he prize the tainted posies
Which on every breast are worn,
That may pluck the spotless roses
From their never-touched thorn?
I can go rest
On her sweet breast
That is the pride of Cynthia's train:
Then hold your tongues,
Your Mermaid songs
Are all bestowed on me in vain.

He's a fool that basely dallies
Where each peasant mates with him.
Shall I haunt the thronged vallies
Whilst there's noble hills to climb?
No, no; though clowns
Are scared with frowns,
I know the best can but disdain:
And those I'll prove;
So shall your love
Be all bestowed on me in vain.

Yet I would not deign embraces
With the greatest, fairest she,
If another shared those graces
Which had been bestowed on me.
I gave that one
My love, where none
Shall come to rob me of my gain,
Your fickle hearts
Make tears, and arts,
And all bestowed on me in vain.

I do scorn to vow a duty
Where each lustful lad may woo.
Give me her whose sun-like beauty
Buzzards dare not soar unto.
She, she it is
Affords that bliss
For which I would refuse no pain.
But such as you,
Fond fools, adieu,
You seek to captive me in vain.

Proud she seemed in the beginning,
And disdained my looking on:
But that coy one in the winning
Proved a true one being won.
Whate'er betide
Shall ne'er divide
The favour she to me shall deign;
But your fond love
Will fickle prove,
And all that trust in you are vain.

Therefore know, when I enjoy one,
And for love employ my breath,
She I court shall be a coy one,
Though I win her with my death,
A favour there
Few aim at dare.
And if, perhaps, some lover plain
She is not won.
Nor I undone,
By placing of my love in vain.

Leave me then, you Syrens, leave me;
Seek no more to work my harms:
Crafty wiles cannot deceive me,
Who am proof against your charms,
You labour may
To lead astray
The heart that constant shall remain:
And I the while
Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vain.
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