Were murder'd by some perjur'd face. All these th' enchanted streams frequent, To drown their cares, and discontent, That th' inconstant, cruel sex Might not in death their spirits vex. And here our souls, big with delight Of their new state, will cease their flight: And now the last thoughts will appear, They'll have of us, or any here; But on those flow'ry banks will stay, And drink all sense and cares away. So they that did of these discuss, Shall find their fables true in us. LES AMOURS Tyrant, farewell! this heart, the prize And triumph of thy scornful eyes, I sacrifice to heaven, and give To quit my sins, that durst believe A woman's easy faith, and place True joys in a changing face. Yet ere I go: by all those tears And sighs I spent 'twixt hopes and fears; By thy own glories, and that hour Which first enslav'd me to thy power; I beg, fair one, by this last breath, This tribute from thee after death. If, when I'm gone, you chance to see That cold bed where I lodged be, Let not your hate in death appear, But bless my ashes with a tear: This influx from that quick'ning eye, By secret pow'r, which none can spy, The cold dust shall inform, and make Those flames, though dead, new life partake Whose warmth, help'd by your tears, shall bring O'er all the tomb a sudden spring Of crimson flowers, whose drooping heads Shall curtain o'er their mournful beds: And on each leaf, by Heaven's command, These emblems to the life shall stand Two hearts, the first a shaft withstood; The second, shot and wash'd in blood; And on this heart a dew shall stay, Which no heat can court away; But fix'd for ever, witness bears That hearty sorrow feeds on tears. Thus Heaven can make it known, and true That you kill'd me, 'cause I lov'd you. TO AMORET. The Sigh. Nimble sigh, on thy warm wings, Take this message and depart; Tell Amoret, that smiles and sings, At what thy airy voyage brings, That thou cam'st lately from my heart. Tell my lovely foe that I Have no more such spies to send, But one or two that I intend, Some few minutes ere I die, To her white bosom to commend. Then whisper by that holy spring, Where for her sake I would have died, Whilst those water-nymphs did bring Flowers to cure what she had tried; And of my faith and love did sing. That if my Amoret, if she In after-times would have it read, How her beauty murder'd me, With all my heart I will agree, If she'll but love me, being dead. TO HIS FRIEND BEING IN LOVE.