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