_Alci._ It being yet their luck to come this way, The Fond Ones to our Lecture we'll betray: And though they only sought a private shade, Perhaps they may depart more Vertuous made. I will accost them. Gentle Nymph and Swaine, Good _Melibæus_ us doth entertain With Lays Divine: if you'll his Hearers be, Take streight your Seats without Apology. _Alci._ Paying short thanks, at fair _Amiras_ feet, I'le lay me down: let her choose where 'tis meet _Al._ Shepherd, behold, we all attentive sit. _Meli._ What shall I sing? what shall my _Muse_ reherse? Love is a Theme well sutes a Past'ral Verse, That gen'ral Error, Universal Ill, That Darling of our Weakness and our Will; By which though many fall, few hold it shame; Smile at the Fault, which they would seem to blame. What wonder then, if those with Mischief play, It to destruction them doth oft betray? But by experience it is daily found, That Love the softer Sex does sorest wound; In Mind, as well as Body, far more weak Than Men: therefore to them my Song shall speak, Advising well, however it succeed: But unto All I say, _Of Love take heed_. So hazardous, because so hard to know On whom they are we do our Hearts bestow; How they will use them, or with what regard Our Faith and high Esteem they will reward: For few are found, that truly acted be By Principles of Generosity. That when they know a Virgins Heart they've gain'd, (And though by many Vows and Arts obtain'd) Will think themselves oblig'd their Faith to hold Tempted by Friends, by Interest, or by Gold. Expect it not: most, Love their Pastime make, Lightly they Like, and lightly they forsake; Their Roving Humour wants but a pretence With Oaths and what's most Sacred to dispence. When unto such a Maid has given her Heart, And said, _Alone my Happiness thou art, In thee and in thy Truth I place my Rest_. Her sad Surprize how can it be exprest, When all on which she built her Joy she finds, Vanish, like Clouds, disperst before the Winds; Her self, who th'adored Idol wont to be, A poor despis'd Idolater to see? Regardless Tears she may profusely spend, Unpitty'd sighs her tender Breast may rend: But the false Image she will ne're erace, Though far unworthy still to hold its place: So hard it is, even Wiser grown, to take Th'Impression out, which Fancy once did make. Believe me Nymphs, believe my hoary hairs, Truth and Experience waits on many years. Before the Eldest of you Light beheld, A Nymph we had, in Beauty all excell'd, _Rodanthe_ call'd, in whom each Grace did shine, Could make a Mortal Maid appear Divine. And none could say, where most her Charms did lye, In her inchanting Tongue, or conquering Eye. Her Vertue yet her Beauties so out-shon,