Triumph at an End,
Or, The Tyranness Defeated.
Behold how rashly Lovers hurry on
Upon the point of sure destruction,
Females are Tyrants; for when they see
They are admird & lovd, theyl cruel be:
When most you shun them, then they most do love,
Then let all mankind in a mean Still move:
Or if your flame burn bright let them not know it,
Your hopes are ruind if you once but show it.
To the pleasant new tune of, How bright art thou etc. Or. Young Jamey.
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HOw bright art thou whose Starry eyes
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two cruel Tyrants prove!
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And though I fall your Sacrifice,
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can no compassion move:
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I dye, I languish in despair,
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and [y]et no pitty find;
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O hear at last, loved Nymph, my Prayer:
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Sweet Phillada be kind.
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How oft beneath the Myrtle shade
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have I adored thy Name,
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And with thy charming beauty playd
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until I catchd this Flame,
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Kindled a Feaver in my Brest,
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inragd by Loves fierce wind;
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Then pitty him who is opprest:
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sweet Phillada be kind,
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Be soft thou wonder of thy sex,
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as Down off silver Swans,
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Such beauty ner was made to vex
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Heavens Earthly darling Sons:
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Pitty my sighs and groans; Oh hear
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poor me express my mind;
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To his melancholly moans give ear:
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sweet Phillada be kind.
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A truer Swain no Nymph can love,
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nor nobler passion gain;
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A chaster flame in none can move,
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Though here it finds disdain,
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Though all in vain I grieve and moan,
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and can no favour find;
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But though disdain despair drives on,
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sweet Phillada be kind.
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Poor Coridon implores thy Love,
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no longer cruel be,
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For if you still disdainful prove,
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and still will torture me,
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Behold unto the shades I go,
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for restless Love assignd,
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To hinder me from shades below,
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sweet Phillada be kind.
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And on the Rock let me not lie
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of doubt and sad despair.
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Tis better far at once to die,
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than wade through Seas of care;
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Where pevish coyness and disdain
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do Tempest-toss the mind:
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To ease me of my wretched pain,
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sweet Phillada be kind.
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By all the Woods, the Hills, and Springs,
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where ere our flocks have been,
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And by the Bird that nightly sings,
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and all the Stars ive seen,
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My passion shall for ever burn
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till I a Grave do find;
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Then let me not thus sigh and mourn,
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sweet Phillada be kind.
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How often have you whisperd Charms
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into my willing ear?
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How oft been panting in my Arms,
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my ravishd thoughts to chear?
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But, Oh the state of things below!
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they change as doth the wind:
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Yet ere I to Deaths slumber go,
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sweet Phillada be kind.
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Triumph not in my misery,
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nor smile to see me grieve;
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Oh pitty me or else I die,
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none else can me reprieve:
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Injure not your Sex by thus
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bearing a cruel mind,
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Lest for your sake disdaind they curse:
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then Phillada be kind.
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Alas! tis all in vain I plead,
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she triumphs in my woe;
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Oh! thus tis better for to bleed,
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than Loves fierce tortures know:
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Ah! welcome Death thou certain Cure
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for a diseased mind,
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Thy scorns no longer ile indure,
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Proud, Cruel, and unkind.
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