The Dispairing Shepherds Advice to Rash Lovers:
OR,
A Caution against Flattery.
Being a most pleasant and delightful New Play-Song.
Kind Strephons love makes scornful Phillis flye,
And look on him with a Disadainful Eye;
'Tis so with all young Virgins, when they prove
Their youthful Suitors both admire and love;
Then Youths beware that when you love most dear,
Let then the least love outwardly appear.
Tune of, Hail to the Mirtle Shades.
|
IN a Grove where fair Nymphs dwell,
|
young Strephon the pride of the Plain;
|
His love-sick Story did tell,
|
how the Nymph did his suit disdain:
|
Ah cruel! he cry[']d away,
|
fond Cupid now torture no more;
|
You see I your Laws obey,
|
though I all in vain do adore.
|
Ah! Phillis is now unkind,
|
and my love does requite with scorn,
|
Ah! Phillis no more I find,
|
thy cruel frowns must be born;
|
For the more I court, you flye,
|
and crueller still you do grow;
|
And though poor Strephon shou'd dye,
|
yet to him no kindness you'd show.
|
Bear witness you Woods and Springs,
|
you Rocks and you neighbouring Hills,
|
And each pritty Bird that sings,
|
that Phillis has Eyes which kill:
|
When first I beheld her face,
|
her charms did so powerful prove,
|
That all my Manhood gave place,
|
and I was constrain'd for to love.
|
WHich has caus'd my grief and woe,
|
and many a showre of Tears;
|
To think how my Love did flow,
|
and yet did get nothing but cares:
|
For had I not prov'd so kind,
|
and flatter'd her still with such praise;
|
I far more favour might find,
|
and Venus had Crown'd me with Bays.
|
Then Shepherds a warning take,
|
beware how you flatter the proud;
|
Least that their conceits do make
|
them vanish your hopes to a Cloud:
|
For Women of their own motion,
|
can boast and swell with ambition,
|
And think that our Devotion
|
for them is not half sufficient.
|
For if we praise their features,
|
and say that they'r vertuous and fair;
|
Excelling Mortal Creatures,
|
and beautious beyond all compare:
|
Then they will look with disdain,
|
and think us unworthy to view;
|
Nor pitty, though we complain,
|
though all that we said was untrue.
|
But if we prove coy, they'l be
|
soon ready our favour to wooe;
|
And unto our wish will agree,
|
and what e're we'd have'um do:
|
Had I not shew'd her such love,
|
I ne'r had been serv'd at this rate;
|
But Cupid does cruel prove,
|
pushing on the rash Lovers fate.
|
But I, poor I must pine,
|
because I can never redeem
|
Those Moments that once were mine,
|
in which I might gain her esteem:
|
For women like wind do change,
|
and when that their quarter they shift;
|
They through the whole compass range,
|
and ship-wrack our passions adrift.
|
Then by sad Strephons complaint,
|
beware how too far you do wade;
|
Least you do find a restraint,
|
and then all your hopes will soon fade:
|
Love is much like a Quick-sand,
|
on which if you stay but to pause,
|
It will soon sink where you stand,
|
and you to stick fast in will cause.
|
The which by experience I tell,
|
and eccho to Woods my sad moan;
|
And here resolve for to dwell,
|
because unkind Phillis is gone:
|
For I'm past Cure now I find,
|
and Death he must ease me of grief;
|
Unless my Phillis prove kind,
|
and bring me a speedy relief.
|
|
FINIS.
|
|
|
|