Wherever I am, and whatever I do, My Phyllis is still in my mind; When angry, I mean not to Phyllis to go, My feet, of themselves, the way find: Unknown to myself I am just at her door, And when I would rail, I can bring out no more, Than, Phyllis too fair and unkind! When Phyllis I see, my heart bounds in my breast, And the love I would stifle is shown; But asleep or awake I am never at rest, When from my eyes Phyllis is gone. Sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad mind; But, alas! when I wake, and no Phyllis I find, How I sigh to myself all alone! Should a king be my rival in her I adore, He should offer his treasure in vain: Oh, let me alone to be happy and poor, And give me my Phyllis again! Let Phyllis be mine, and but ever be kind, I could to a desert with her be confined, And envy no monarch his reign. Alas! I discover too much of my love, And she too well knows her own power! She makes me each day a new martyrdom prove, And makes me grow jealous each hour: But let her each minute torment my poor mind, I had rather love Phyllis, both false and unkind, Than ever be freed from her power. II. HE. How unhappy a lover am I, While I sigh for my Phyllis in vain: All my hopes of delight Are another man's right, Who is happy, while I am in pain! SHE. Since her honour allows no relief, But to pity the pains which you bear, 'Tis the best of your fate, In a hopeless estate, To give o'er, and betimes to despair. HE. I have tried the false medicine in vain; For I wish what I hope not to win: From without, my desire Has no food to its fire; But it burns and consumes me within. SHE. Yet, at least, 'tis a pleasure to know That you are not unhappy alone: For the nymph you adore Is as wretched, and more; And counts all your sufferings her own. HE. O ye gods, let me suffer for both; At the feet of my Phyllis I'll lie: I'll resign up my breath, And take pleasure in death, To be pitied by her when I die. SHE. What her honour denied you in life, In her death she will give to your love. Such a flame as is true After fate will renew, For the souls to meet closer above. * * * * * XIV. SONG OF THE SEA-FIGHT, IN AMBOYNA. Who ever saw a noble sight, That never view'd a brave sea-fight! Hang up your bloody colours in the air, Up with your fights, and your nettings prepare; Your merry mates cheer, with a lusty bold spright. Now each man his brindace, and then to the fight. St George, St George, we cry, The shouting Turks reply. Oh, now it begins, and the gun-room grows hot, Ply it with culverin and with small shot;