A
Pastoral Dialogue
BETWEEN
ALEXIS and STREPHON,
Written by the Right Honourable,
The Late Earl of Rochester.
At the BATH, 1674.
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I.
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Alex. THere sighs not on the Plain
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So lost a Swain as I;
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Scorcht't up with Love, frozen with Disdain.
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Of killing Sweetness I complain.
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Streph. If 'tis Corinna, die.
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II.
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Since first my dazled Eyes were thrown
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On that bewitching Face,
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Like ruin'd Birds, rob'd of their Young,
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Lamenting, frighted, and alone,
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I fly from place to place.
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III.
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Fram'd by some Cruel Powers above,
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So nice she is, and fair;
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None from undoing can remove,
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Since all, who are not Blind, must Love;
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Who are not vain, Despair.
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IV.
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Alex. The Gods no sooner give a Grace,
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But fond of their own Art,
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Severely jealous, ever place
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To guard the Glories of a Face,
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A Dragon in the Heart.
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V.
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Proud and ill-natur'd Powers they are,
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Who peevish to Mankind,
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For their own Honour's sake, with Care,
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Make a sweet Form divinely Fair,
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And adds a Cruel Mind.
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VI.
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Streph. Since she's insensible of Love,
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By Honour taught to hate,
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If we, forc'd by Decrees above,
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Must sensible to Beauty prove,
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How Tyrannous is Fate?
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VII.
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Alex. I to the Nymph have never nam'd
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The Cause of all my pain.
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Streph. Such Bashfulness may well be blam'd;
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For since to serve we're not asham'd,
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Why should she blush to Reign?
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VIII.
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Alex. But if her haughty Heart despise
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My humble proffer'd One,
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The just Compassion she denies,
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I may obtain from other's Eyes;
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Hers are not Fair alone.
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IX.
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Devouring Flames require new Food;
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My Heart's consum'd almost:
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New Fires must kindle in her Blood,
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Or Mine go out, and that's as good.
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Streph. Would'st live, when Love is lost?
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X.
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Be dead before thy Passion dies;
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For if thou should'st survive,
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What Anguish would the Heart surprize,
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To see her Flames begin to rise,
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And Thine no more Alive.
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XI.
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Alex. Rather what Pleasure shou'd I meet
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In my Tryumphant scorn,
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To see my Tyrant at my Feet;
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Whil'st taught by her, unmov'd I sit
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A Tyrant in my Turn.
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XII.
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Streph. Ungentle Shepherd, cease for shame;
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Which way can you pretend
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To merit so Divine a Flame,
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Who to dull Life makes a mean Claim,
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When Love is at an End?
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XIII.
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As Trees are by their Bark embrac'd,
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Love to my Soul doth cling;
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When torn by th' Herd's greedy Taste,
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The injur'd Plants feel they're defac't,
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They wither in the Spring.
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XIV.
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My rifled Love would soon retire,
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Dissolving into Aire,
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Shou'd I that Nymph cease to admire,
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Blest in whose Arms I will expire,
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Or at her Feet despair.
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