Cupids Tragedy:
BEING
Corydon's Courtship; Or, Philomels Exaltation.
To the Tune of, The new Bory; Or, Will you be a Man of Fashion.
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PRitty Phillomel was so Charming,
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so much sweetness grac'd each part:
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All her actions so allarming,
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so much goodness in her heart:
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That whoever saw this fair one,
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needs her Votary must be:
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She, ah! she, is Natures dear one,
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and I fear no less to me.
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Every smile was so betraying,
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in each look a Plot she laid:
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This I knew, yet was obeying,
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though I saw each Ambuscade.
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And, to shew my forward duty,
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needs must venture in her sight,
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Till her Centinels of Beauty
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struck me blind with too much light.
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In this Transport, like a creature,
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with too sudden joy o'recome,
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Gaz'd upon this lovely Creature,
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till with extasie struck dumb:
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Yet my posture did discover
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that I was her humble Slave,
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And I found she lik'd her Lover,
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by a Signal that she gave.
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WHen I saw my Pardon granted,
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streight I did approach her han[d]
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Kist and sigh'd, and sigh'd and panted,
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all my sences were at stand:
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Then she laught, and plainly told me
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I more manly would appear:
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And carress a Nymph more boldly,
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if that Phillis were but there.
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But if Corydon will leave her,
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Phillis need not to despair,
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Young Alexis will receive her,
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and your Choice will be less fair.
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Search the Groves and every Bower,
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set the Nymphs all on a row:
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Phillis is of all the Flower,
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and does bend the sharpest Bow.
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Ah, said I, divinest Creature,
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that the Powers above e're made:
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Do not wrong the Gods and Nature,
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but repent of what you've said:
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Phillis does not think so vainly,
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for to give the Maid her due:
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Oft she's said the Gods that made you,
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does admire themselves in you.
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Coridon, quoth she, your praises,
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if you love do not displease:
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But I know a Shepherds phrases
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can dissemble a Disease:
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If my Beauty has the power
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to attract to brave a Swain:
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Walk with me to yonder Bower,
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I will gratifie your aim.
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Strephon all this while lay panting
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in a Cave, where he could hear
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Her too easie heart consenting,
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what he begg'd for many a year.
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Out he rusht from forth the Thicket[,]
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with his Javelin he run
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In poor Coridon did strike it,
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dye, said he, thou happy Man.
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When poor philomel saw him bleeding
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stretcht along upon the ground:
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From her eyes the tears succeeding,
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with which she washt the bloody wo[und.]
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Wrung her hands, and tore her hair,
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sigh'd that ever she was born:
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Coridon, quoth she, my Dear,
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do not leave me thus forlorn.
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Thus poor philomel in distraction
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call'd on her lov'd Coridon:
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Pray'd the Gods for satisfaction,
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thorough her heart a Poniard run.
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Thus, said she, the Gods deliver
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those that in true love do joyn:
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Thine, dear Coridon, thine forever,
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thou in life and death art mine.
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