For a song, or a dance, over all the gay plain,
Young Damon was justly esteem'd the best swain;
Yet a great imperfection his mind had impress'd,
He thought beauty a trifle and love but a jest.

As often young Collin to him wou'd repair,
And sighing relate all his anguish and care;
He laugh'd at his folly, and said from his breast,
He thought beauty a trifle, and love but a jest.

Sly Cupid determin'd to take down his pride,
Who impiously dar'd sacred love to deride;
An arrow well aim'd sent twang at his breast,

Recitative .

As on a flowry bank young Thirsis lay;
Thirsis the young, the airy, and the gay,
Who lov'd fair Phaebe with a constant heart,
Devoid of flattery, and devoid of art;
By love inspir'd, he thus unloos'd his tongue,
And to the Cyprian deity he sung.

AIR

Goddess of the Cyprian grove,
Queen of beauty, queen of love;
To thy shrine behold I bend,

What might be done if men were wise —
What glorious deeds, my suffering brother,
Would they unite,
In love and right,
And cease their scorn of one another?

Oppression's heart might be imbued
With kindling drops of loving-kindness,
And knowledge pour,
From shore to shore,
Light on the eyes of mental blindness.

All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs,
All vice and crime might die together;

Death is my doom, awarded by Disdain,
A ling'ring death that will not let me die:
This length of life is length'ning of my pain,
And length of pain gets strength of pain thereby:
And strength of pain makes pain of longer last;
Ah, who hath tied my life to pain so fast?

And yet I seem as if I did but feign,
Or make my grief much greater than I need,
Whenas the care to hide my burning pain,
With secret sighs, constrains my heart to bleed:

Mine eyes have spent their tears, and now are dry:
My weary hand will guide my pen no more:
My voice is hoarse, and can no longer cry:
My head hath left no new complaints in store:
My heart is overburdened so with pain,
That sense of grief doth none therein remain.

The tears you see distilling from mine eyes,
My gentle Muse doth shed for this my grief;
The plaints you hear are her incessant cries,
By which she calls in vain for some relief.
She never parted since my grief begun;
In her I live; she dead, my life were done.

All is not gold that shineth bright in show,
Nor every flower so good, as fair to sight;
The deepest streams, above do calmest flow
And strongest poisons oft the taste delight;
The pleasant bait doth hide the harmful hook,
And false deceit can lend a friendly look.

Love is the gold, whose outward hue doth pass,
Whose first beginnings goodly promise make
Of pleasures fair, and fresh as summer's grass,
Which neither sun can parch, nor wind can shake:
But when the mould should in the fire be tried,

Close your lids, unhappy eyes,
From the sight of such a change:
Love hath learned to despise;
Self-conceit hath made him strange:
Inward now his sight he turneth
With himself in love he burneth.

If abroad he beauty spy,
As by chance he looks abroad;
Or it is wrought by his eye,
Or forced out by painter's fraud:
Save himself, none fair he deemeth,
That himself too much esteemeth.

Coy disdain hath kindness' place,
Kindness forced to hide his head:
True desire is counted base;
Hope with hope is hardly fed:

AN EXAMINATION .

Were I so mad as I have been of yore
I would be happy: mad with Beauty's eyes;
Mad with the voice of one I could adore,
And the sweet music of her soft replies:
Mad with the charms of a serene bright face;
Possessed, and inly haunted by the grace
Of some fair creature, in her form and mind
The star and paragon of all her kind.

For, if I were so happy-mad again,
I'd live anew. I'd feed upon delights;
I'd find enraptured frenzy in a pain;

VERBAL LOVE .

If love be made of words, as woods of trees,
Who more beloved than I?
If love be hot where true desire doth freeze,
Who more than she doth fry?
Are drones that make no honey counted bees?
Is running water dry?
Is that a gainful trade that has no fees?
He live, that dead doth lie?
What else but blind is he that nothing sees?
But deaf that hears no cry?
Such is her vowed love to me,
Yet must I think it true to be.

Bethink thee, love, what joy it is
When gales of passion blow,
If that fierce ecstasy of bliss
Two souls united know.

No noise of war, no thought of fear,
No shame shall make us part,
If once I take my dearest dear
And clasp her to my heart.

May Vulcan's chains be on us laid
When that glad hour has come,
Such as he erst in Lemnos made
Within his smithy home.

Together bound may it be mine
To press thee in my arms,
To feel thy hands about me twine
And know thy loving charms.