Enough is said, Almeda dear, to prove No fault is seen in those we truly love. The son of Venus, by a magic art, Deceives the sight, soon as he wounds the heart. Blind as himself does all his vot’ries make, Extremely happy in their own mistake. In all his charms I have young Strephon seen, Yet never by the youth have wounded been. Yet were he, as you paint him, thus complete, And fond to lay his garlands at your feet, Sure young men’s minds still subject are to change, Though from our plains he were not doom’d to range. A change of scenes may, with distorted brows, Pour swift contempt on all your former vows. But let indiff’rence lodge within your breast, Nor Strephon’s absence e’er your mind molest; The more his charms, the surer he’ll succeed ’Mong pow’rful rivals, whom you now may dread. ALMEDA. I know his charms the gentlest dame might move, But he’ll admit no rival in his love: My image still remains within his breast, True to that hour I first my love confest. This pleasing hope will soothe my anxious soul, Nor let stern care its peaceful sway controul, Diffuse into my heart its soft relief, Dispel my fears and dissipate my grief. I’ll say the youth, for me by heaven design’d, Is good, as lovely, constant, as he’s kind; So smoothly shall the seasons glide along, Till Strephon’s presence animate my song, Then shall my pleasure as my love abound, ’Till Hymen’s rites with purest joys be crown’d. FLAVIA. So may you sing, and sigh your years away, With flatt’ring hope, perch’d on the feeble spray Of Strephon’s faith, the efforts rend’ring vain Of such as would essay your love to gain, Till his own choice, or some disaster show, Your promis’d pleasures vanish’d like the snow. Your charms are fled, no lover then in view, The paths of discontent you will pursue. That you despis’d Philander then you’ll mourn, Nor gave Lothario’s suit a just return; Or for Alonzo sigh when ’tis too late, And with reluctance meet your destin’d fate. This will your slighted lovers laugh to see Almeda then a maiden old will be. ALMEDA. The paths you paint I will not tread alone, While Flavia lives I shall be sure of one. Then hand in hand we’ll smooth the rugged way, And sigh for sigh shall bear our griefs away. FLAVIA. Why should we sigh? In smiles we will contend, And laugh at what we have no power to mend. Should fate deprive me of my darling swain, Some braver youth perhaps may grace the plain, And make me happy by the nuptial band, When cheerfully he gives his heart and hand. Or if despis’d and unadmir’d I rest, I’ll call my own sad destiny the best. I’ll bliss the fate I oft have sought to shun, And scorn the fool who would to wedlock run. See Nature now in contrast with thy grief; The warbling songsters seem to chant relief; Their notes are cheerful, nor with sighs depress’d; In concert join and soothe your cares to rest. ALMEDA.