SONG III.

SYLVIA. LEAVE me, simple shepherd, leave me ;
Drag no more a hopeless chain :

I cannot like, nor would deceive thee ;-
Love the maid that loves again.

CORIN.

Though more gentle nymphs surround me,

Kindly pitying what I feel;

Only you have power to wound me:

Sylvia, only you can heal.

SYLVIA. Corin, cease this idle teasing;

Love that's forced is harsh and sour:

If the lover be displeasing,

To persist disgusts the more.

CORIN.

"Tis in vain, in vain to fly me,

Sylvia, I will still pursue ;
Twenty thousand times deny me,

I will kneel and weep anew.

SYLVIA. Cupid ne'er shall make me languish, was born averse to love;

Lovers' sighs, and tears, and anguish,
Mirth and pastime to me prove.

CORIN. Still I vow with patient duty

Thus to meet your proudest scorn;

You for unrelenting beauty,

I for constant love was born.

But the Fates had not consented,
Since they both did fickle prove ;

Of her scorn the maid repented,

And the shepherd-of his love.

SONG IV.

WHEN gentle Celia first I knew,
A breast so good, so kind, so true,
Reason and taste approved;

Pleased to indulge so pure a flame,

I called it by too soft a name,

And fondly thought I loved.

Till Chloris came :--with sad surprise. I felt the lightning of her eyes

Through all my senses run;

All glowing with resistless charms,

She filled

my

I saw,

breast with new alarms,

and was undone.

O Celia! dear unhappy maid,

Forbear the weakness to upbraid

Which ought your scorn to move ;

I know this beauty false and vain,

I know she triumphs in my pain,

Yet still I feel I love.

Thy gentle smiles no more can please,

Nor can thy softest friendship ease

The torments I endure:

Think what that wounded breast must feel,

Which truth and kindness cannot heal,

Nor e'en thy pity cure.

Oft shall I curse my iron chain,
And wish again thy milder reign

With long and vain regret :

All that I can, to thee I give;

And could I still to reason live,

But Passion's wild impetuous sea

Hurries me far from peace and thee;

"Twere vain to struggle more.

Thus the poor sailor slumbering lies,

While swelling tides around him rise, And push his bark from shore :

In vain he spreads his helpless arms, His pitying friends with fond alarms

In vain deplore his state;

Still far and farther from the coast, On the high surge his bark is tost,

And foundering yields to fate.