Coridon and Parthenia.
The Languishing Shepherd made Happy.
Or, Faithful Love Rewarded.
Being a most Pleasant and Delectable New Play Song.
Here mournful Love is turn'd into Delight,
To this we a Chast Amorist Invite;
Where Charming Beauty rules its Pow'rs like Death,
To Save or Murder with the selfsame Breath:
The Noble Swain, whose Youthful Love hath won
So many Nymphs, by Loves was here undone;
Languishing faint, on the Cold Ground he lies,
Until the Sun-shine of Parthenia's eyes,
Dissolv'd the Cloud that did benight his Bliss,
And turn'd his Torments into Paradise.
To the Tune of, When busie Fame, etc.
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WHen busie Fame o're all the Plain,
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Parthenia's Praises rung,
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And on the Oaten Pipe each Swain,
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he matchless Beauties Sung:
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The envious Nymphs were forc'd to yield,
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she had the sweetest face,
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No Emulor'd Disputes were held,
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but for the Second place.
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Young Coridon whose stubborn heart,
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no Beauties e're could move,
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But smil[']d at Cupids Bow and Dart,
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and brave the God of Love:
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He'd view this Nymph, and pleas'd at first,
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such silent Charms to see,
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With wonder gaz'd, then sigh'd and Curst,
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his Curiosity.
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CRying alas, I am undone,
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so Powerful are her eyes,
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Those killing Charms prevail above,
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and all my thoughts surprize:
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In coolest shades fierce feavors burn,
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martyr'd by Love I fry,
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And now except Parthenia Turn,
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and smile on me I dye.
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My Hood be here forever laid,
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and on this Verdant Plain,
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Beneath this spreading Mirtle Shade,
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till death I must remain:
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My Snowy Flocks may freely stray,
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whilst here I gazing lye,
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And dare not move from hence away,
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for if I do I dye.
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Parthenia cruel Nymph, no more,
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turn hence that Angel face,
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Which Coridon must still adore,
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as chief of Mortal Race:
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Oh! from the Groves sad Eccho's sound,
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and say in vain I try,
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Nay, still augment the Fatal wound,
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I must Loves Martyr dye.
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What doleful Tunes 'mongst pleasant Reeds,
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my Bleeting Flocks complain,
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Whilst woolves invade them as they feed,
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all scatter'd through the Plain:
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Here chain'd by Love, by cruel Love,
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on earth I mourning lye,
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And though my Couch sweet Violets prove,
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yet Languishing I dye.
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Whilst in sad strains the Winged Quire,
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my doleful Requies Sing,
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And Chaunt how I for Love expire,
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unto the blooming Spring:
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Let purling streams likewise declare,
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as they run murmuring by,
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How for Parthenia I despair,
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and thus despairing dye.
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Parthenia.
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Ah hark, what sad Laments are these,
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what mournful sounds are here;
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What dying Sounds my fancy sees!
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what sighs invade my Ear?
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'Tis this Mirtle Grove i'le seek,
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sure some Lover nigh,
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I'le find, and to him Comfort speak,
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before for Love he dye.
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Oh it is Coridon, kind Swain,
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from whence proceeds your grief?
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Coridon. By you I wounded here remain,
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you can yield relief:
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Conquer'd by your prevailing Charms,
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and by your starry eyes,
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For you unless you raise my Arms,
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a faithful Shepherd dies.
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Parthenia.
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Alas poor Swain, for me I swear,
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by Cupid all above,
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You shall not languish nor dispair,
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but first enjoy my Love:
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Coridon. Parthenia kind, 'tis sure I dream,
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O Angel form draw nigh,
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Speak, spake again that saving Theam,
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that will not let me dye.
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Parthenia.
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Rise Shepherd, rise, and freely take,
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since thou dost constant prove,
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Those chast delights, which for thy sake,
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I have design'd in Love:
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Coridon. Oh i'm so Ravisht with this voice,
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that dangers I defie,
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And in Parthenia's Love rejoyce,
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which will not let me dye.
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Parthenia.
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Come, come, my Coridon, let's haste
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unto yon pleasing Bower;
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For Lovers should no moments waste,
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whilst joys in plenty showre:
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But folded in each others Arms,
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loves utmost Forces try;
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Whilst warbling noats augment our charms
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and we in pleasure dye.
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