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EBBA 32818

National Library of Scotland - Crawford
Ballad XSLT Template
A New SONG, called,
Parthenias Complaint
On the Ingratiof STREPHON.
To a delicate new Tune.
This may be Printed, R.P.

AS on the dearest Strephons Breast,
Parthenia leand her mournfull Head,
Expecting there she should have rest,
by loving sighs, and thus she said:
O Phoebus God of tuneful Strings,
And Venus Queen of softest Fire,
Thou God of all harmonious Things,
inspire our Hearts with like desire.

II.
But when she found the Gods above,
to ease her Pain no Cure applyd,
And Strephon backward of his love,
then to herself Parthenia cryd:
Amongst Woods and Hills Ill mourn my Fate,
to them of all my Wrongs complain;
Theyll pity this my wretched State,
and eccho back my Woes again.

III.
Or to a pleasant myrtle shade,
to ease my present Cares Ill go,
A place which Nature only made,
for Lovers to declare their Woe.
There Ill ingrateful Strephon name,
and tell the featherd Quire my Care:
And in harmonious Notes proclaim,
the endless cause of my Dispair.

IV.
Each day within a silent Bowr,
with Arms across, Ill sighing Muse;
In private spend each restless hour,
and busie Natures Works peruse:
But when the God of Sleep shall call,
and all my pleasant Cares destroy,
Upon the tender Grass Ill fall,
and Dream of all my former joy.

V.
But when the glittring God of day
expands his warm and cheerful Beams,
And guilds with his delightful Ray
the flowry Meads and purling Streams;
Then Birds their lazy slumber scorn,
delighted with approaching day,
And welcome in the glorious Morn,
with notes will melt my cares away.

VI.
My dearest Strephon, Ah, Return!
ye Gods with Love his Heart inspire,
Ah, hear the wrongd Parthenia mourn,
and quench the Heart youve set on fire!
If you continue thus unkind,
Parthenia must unhappy be,
And to her last hour be confind
within the bounds of misery.

VII.
Ingreateful Strephon, how could you
the kind Pathenias Love implore,
Now causeless bid the Nymph adieu,
whom you so highly lovd before?
But when my tender Soul shall flye
to th lofty Regions of the Just,
No thought of Love shall you enjoy
when I lye stifled in the Dust.


Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in Pye-corner.

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