Classic Poem

I.

Chloris.

What hast thou done? O how I hate thee now,
Who cou'dst so Cruel out of Kindness grow;
Thief of my Honour, thou hast both undone,
I've lost my Credit, thou hast lost thy Love;
Thy Pleasure now is thy Repentance grown,
Thy Theft thy Loss, as well as mine, does prove;

II.

Thyrsis.

What we have done (my Dear!) I cannot tell,
I'm out of Breath, the joy's unspeakable;
But this I'm sure of, I have done no Hurt,
For all the Pleasant Pain for me you bore,
Tho' 'twas so piercing, 'twas but for a spurt,
Which (for your Comfort) you will feel no more;

III.

Chlo.

Not for my Body's Hurt, I cry out so,
'Tis for my Honour, you have Butcher'd now;
For which, thou ne'er canst make me sure, amends,
With all thy Soothing, Fawning Flattery;
The Loss I ne'er can Answer to my Friends,
Who must, with me too, share this Infamy;

IV.

Thyr.

What have you Lost? You have Lost only Pain
For Joy, which Pain no more you will sustain;
Love will no more a Terror to thee be,
And you will cry no more out, (as you did)
From Pain in Mind, Heart, elsewhere, wou't be free,
Deliver'd of thy Burth'nous Maidenhead;

V.

Chlo.

'Tis my Lost Honour I complain of, more,
No Gift, or Art, can that to me restore;
Wretch! I for ever am undone by thee,
And never more shall be my self again;
Nor can there any Reparation be
For me, or ought, to take out Honour's Stain,

VI.

Thyr.

Honour (my silly Dear!) was never lost,
By Private Act, but Public Plaint, or Boast;
Women are Modest thought, till what they do,
Their own Tongues, Tears, or Blushes, may betray;
How shou'd Men your Loss (as you call it) know?
Since I'll be Dumb, if you your Tongue can lay;

VII.

Chlo.

My Crime will, thro' my Guilty Cheeks, appear,
My Sad Eyes, Mourning for my Loss, will wear;
Altho' I 'scape the Censure of the Croud,
My Heavy Punishment will be within;
My Pains will, Nine Months hence, confess aloud,
My Shame, and Bloody Author of my Sin;

VIII.

Thyr.

If so, be thou then not in Pain a jot,
To keep that Secret which must needs come out;
The Cause of thy Shame, will thy Shame requite;
If you think, you, by me, have lost your Fame,
Make not your Loss more, losing your Delight,
Shame, for one Fault, as many proves the same;

IX.

Chlo.

Well, then I see, I can but Ruin'd be,
All Harm thou canst do, thou hast done to me;
You Cruel, Filthy, Naughty, Rude Dear Man!
I'm Guilty now, and hate the Tell-tale Light,
Your worst y'ave done, then do all that you can,
You'd do worse, not, to do't again, to Night;

X.

Thyr.

If I shou'd to you, come to Night again,
Again, you'd cry out, to put me in Pain,
And make both's Pleasure, both's Displeasure grow;
Make of our Secret Love, Discovery,
Proclaim your self, what you'd have none to know,
Own my Guilt, your Shame, by your Modesty;

XI.

Chlo.

No, you must (if you Love me) come again,
Since, if you did not, you'd give me more Pain,
For, tho' you so did Hurt me, (Cruel Dear!)
If that again, to hurt me, you deny,
I, crying out for Love, shou'd less forbear,
Be less in Pain for Love, than Jealousie.