The Confined Lover.
No Prison like to CUPIDS Goal,
where some Confined be,
When Sighs and Tears cannot prevail,
to purchase Liberty:
Till tender Females do apply
a Balsom to the Wound;
Some Lovers live, some sighing dye,
and so the World goes Round.
To the Tune of, The Charms of Love.
|
AH! how powerful is her Charming eye,
|
which so strangely doth enslave me;
|
Cupid I feel thy Tyranny,
|
of all my sense thou dost bereave me:
|
The more I strive for to get free,
|
the stronger I find is my Desire,
|
Thou art my Dear the only she,
|
that to my burning flame still adds a scorching fire.
|
Now now in Fetters ile Delight,
|
and joy to see my self thus Chained;
|
For when thou art out of my sight,
|
I find my self extreamly pained:
|
While others sweetly take their rest,
|
in secret I do mourn for thee;
|
And then my sorrows makes me blest,
|
my Silvia I delight my self in none but thee.
|
Sweet Dreams too often vex my Soul,
|
when waking I do find they flatter,
|
Methinks I see her through a Hole,
|
and yet by no means can come at her:
|
Oh then I storm like one inraged,
|
and blame that wanton winking Boy,
|
No sooner is my heart asswaged,
|
but Silvia is again my Love and dearest Joy.
|
But should she prove to me unkind,
|
and give to me a flat denyal,
|
No joys on earth could ease my mind,
|
who whilst I live must needs be Loyal:
|
No falshood shall be found in me,
|
whilst I retain my murmuring breath,
|
But Silvia ile be true to thee,
|
until I chance to meet with grim and pale-facd death.
|
Then let the world on me look strange,
|
and blame my fond and helpless passion,
|
The wavering mind delights in change,
|
and calls perhaps my Vow a rash one:
|
But let man count me what he pleases,
|
oh Love is a pain I now delight in,
|
Nor can be any such Diseases,
|
as Females angry frowns when they their Loves are slighting.
|
Betwixt my pleasure and my pain,
|
I am sometimes pleasd, sometimes tormented,
|
Though once I did love clear disdain,
|
I now therewith am well contented:
|
And thus I spend my Youthful days,
|
in Doting and in fond desire,
|
But when Loves passion I dispraise,
|
immediately I burn and fry in endless Fire.
|
Let none dispise the Winged Boy,
|
whose Darts are of exceeding power,
|
And those who Love do count a Toy,
|
may loose their freedoms in an hour:
|
And when theyr once layd up and chained,
|
no sighs can purchase Liberty,
|
Where Cupid finds himself disdained,
|
his darts that are resistless then he soon lets flye.
|
Yet to be Strangers to his Fires,
|
is altogether hapless counted,
|
For he thats filld with hot desires,
|
to the heighth of joy is surely mounted:
|
For if one minute brings him pain,
|
the next doth bring him much more pleasure,
|
Then let no man kind love disdain,
|
for tis the best of worldly joys, and earthly treasure.
|
Oh Mortals pattern take by me,
|
that now in Love am so delighted,
|
Methinks I gain my Liberty,
|
when I perceive my self but slighted:
|
And then my self I do recall,
|
I chide my self who vowd to love,
|
When I poor Captive was in thrall,
|
I thought my self as happy as the Souls above.
|
|
|
|
|
|