Loves Tyranny:
OR,
Death more welcome then Disdain.
Being the Tragedy of Leander for the Love of Roxane.
Lovers beware, for in Loves Smiles the fates,
To Ruine two Adventurous Mortals waits;
Women like Syrens, first with Charms allure,
Untill they Wound, then leave us without Cure:
Such fate Leander found, and for disdain,
Took Deaths kind portion, which expelld his pain.
To the Tune of, Let the Critticks Adore, etc.
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AH! how drousies the Skies,
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Now black Night does arise
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From the Ocean;
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And all the bright Fires,
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Seem void of desires,
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And of motion:
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While my flames I do discover,
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love charges my Breast,
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Oh the Nymph there does hover,
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thats my portion of Rest:
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Theyr creating a Desire,
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and such hopes of a Bliss,
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As my thoughts do inspire,
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[while in vain I do wish.]
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She does leave me confind,
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And as swift as the Wind,
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she does flie me;
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Whilst here all alone,
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I do breath my sad moan,
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she does try me:
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Melted in feavors of Passion,
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like a Phoenix Im fryd,
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So beyond alteration,
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my fierce Torments abide:
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And I straight am made Fuel,
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to the Beams of her eyes,
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Till each moment she grows cruel,
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and my Flame does despise.
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The second Part, to the same Tune.
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WHile the beautious fair,
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Does wound with dispair,
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I must perish,
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Unless her bright face,
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Will yield my Love place,
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for to Cherish:
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Oh! her Angel-bright beauty,
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does so Charm with Delight,
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That I think it my Duty,
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through the shaddows of night:
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For to follow her flying,
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I, and sadly complain,
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And implore her, still sighing,
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for to ease my great pain.
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And when Purple morning,
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The skies is adorning,
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each Meander,
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Of the wide Grove,
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I importune for Love,
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and do wander:
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While as Eccho replies,
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with a doleful harsh sound,
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Thy Roxane she now flies,
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which like deaths shafts wound:
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So that still shes Creating
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a Composier of Fate,
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Which surpasses the relating
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the wonders so great.
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Oh I fear some one sips,
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From her fair Coral Lips,
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the sweet Necture,
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Whilst I sigh here in vain,
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And to Woods do complain,
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I neglect her:
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Once more ile arise,
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from my mournful cold Bed,
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Though with Charms that surprize,
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she does strike me for dead:
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Ile press on to those pleasures,
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though I perish in Love,
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Oh! those sacred Treasures,
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do so powerful prove.
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Ile no longer dispair,
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Thus tormented with care,
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and sad Fancies,
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But claspd in her Arms,
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There ile perish with Charms,
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and with Glances:
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Oh tis better to be Dying,
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then continually grieve,
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Or at least for to be trying,
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she perhaps may relieve
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This so woful disaster,
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that Love hath now wrought,
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Or to drive on fate faster,
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while to moan I am taught.
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Or before tis too late,
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Ile revive my sad state,
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ere I slumber,
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And in Deaths cold shade,
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For Ages am laid,
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without number:
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But O what now appears,
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from yon Cypress Grove,
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How revived are my fears,
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tis the Queen of my Love:
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Ah! where fleets thou my joy,
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what a Vision was this,
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So soon gone, to destroy
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my short fancy of Bli[s]s.
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Oh! make room in the shades,
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Lovers Ghosts for life fades,
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and is flying;
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Oh! ile not always bear,
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This Eternal dispair,
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to be dying:
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Then he drew his keen sword,
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and cryd thus with a wound,
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Ile a Cure now afford,
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that Appollo ner found:
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Oh! then into that Breast,
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which Death could ner fright,
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The fatal steel prest,
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and his soul it took flight.
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