To Anna’s banks, alas! he’s gone; To Eccles fam’d for maidens fair; And, to augment my grievous moan, I dread some pow’rful rival there. ARMEDA. O Sylvia, all your fears are vain; I’ve seen the nymphs display their art, To captivate your charming swain; But none can there engage his heart. Insensible he seems to grow; Defies the little armed boy: From his lov’d horse, a fatal throw Does more his anxious thoughts employ. Than Cupid’s arrows more severe, The wounds he got his cares now prove: Can Sylvia think it strange to hear Alonzo quite forgets to love? SYLVIA. Forgets to love! that must not be; Sure Sylvia would be wretched then. Alonzo, when depriv’d of thee, Rough winter still deforms the plain. O hasten and dispel my fears! The birds with thee more sweetly sing. O crown with joy revolving years! Thy presence gives perpetual spring. THE _CAPTIVATED SOLDIER_. Ye swains unacquainted with love, Attend to my pitiful lay: My pipe shall resound through the grove, And my woes in sad accents display. Long time I with freedom did range; With indiff’rence I gaz’d on the fair: Now my heart, how affecting the change! Matilda has caught in the snare. Ah me! how unlucky the day, When thoughtless I hasten’d to view? A wedding was coming this way, Nor dream’d I of what did ensue. Matilda appear’d in her charms; Her cheeks with soft blushes did glow: My bosom was fill’d with alarms, Nor knew I who wounded me so. Her shape it is handsome; her air Excels all the nymphs of the town: Her eyes may with diamonds compare; Her locks of the loveliest brown. She swift from my presence did fly. I call’d, but she answer’d me not: She fear’d that some danger might be Sly lurking beneath the red coat. If red will affrighten my dear, I’ll dress in the good russet grey, Abandon my sword and my spear, And cast my bright armour away. No more I’ll attend to the drum; But take up my shuttle and weave: From that sure no danger can come, Such clowns have no art to deceive. No razor shall come on my face, Nor powder be seen on my hair: I’ll walk at no regular pace; In brogues to my love I’ll repair. O then, will she hear my soft tale? O then, will Matilda prove kind? If rustics with her can prevail, The rustic in me she shall find. ON READING LADY MARY MONTAGUE and Mrs. ROWE’S _LETTERS_. As Venus by night, so Montague bright Long in the gay circle did shine: She tun’d well the lyre, mankind did admire; They prais’d, and they call’d her divine. This pride of the times, in far distant climes, Stood high in the temple of Fame: Britannia’s shore, then ceas’d to adore, A greater the tribute did claim. To sue for the prize, fam’d Rowe did arise, More bright than Apollo was she: Superior rays obtain’d now the bays, And Montague bended the knee.