Love in Fantastique Triumph satt, Whilst Bleeding Hearts a round him flow’d, For whom Fresh paines he did Create, And strange Tryanick power he show’d; From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire, Which round about, in sport he hurl’d; But ‘twas from mine he took desire, Enough to undo the Amorous World. From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his Pride and Crueltie; From me his Languishments and Feares, And every Killing Dart from thee; Thus thou and I, the God have arm’d, And sett him up a Deity; But my poor Heart alone is harm’d, Whilst thine the Victor is, and free. SONG. _The Complaint._ _Amyntas_ that true hearted Swaine, Upon a Rivers Banck was lay’d, Where to the Pittying streames he did Complaine On _Silvia_ that false Charming Maid While shee was still regardless of his paine. Ah! Charming _Silvia_, would he cry; And what he said, the _Echoes_ wou’d reply: Be kind or else I dy: _Ech_:--I dy. Be kind or else I dy: _Ech_:--I dy. Those smiles and Kisses which you give, Remember _Silvia_ are my due; And all the Joyes my Rivall does receive, He ravishes from me not you: Ah _Silvia_! can I live and this believe? Insensibles are toucht to see My Languishments, and seem to pitty me: Which I demand of thee: _Ech_:--of thee. Which I demand of thee: _Ech_:--of thee. _Set by Mr._ Banister. SONG. _The Invitation._ _Damon_ I cannot blame your will, ‘Twas Chance and not Design did kill; For whilst you did prepare your Charmes, On purpose _Silvia_ to subdue: I met the Arrows as they flew, And sav’d her from their harms. Alas she cannot make returnes, Who for a Swaine already Burnes; A Shepherd whom she does Caress: With all the softest marks of Love, And ‘tis in vaine thou seek’st to move The cruel Shepherdess. Content thee with this Victory, Think me as faire and young as she: I’le make thee _Garlands_ all the day, And in the Groves we’l sit and sing; I’le Crown thee with the pride o’th’ Spring, When thou art Lord of _May_. SONG. When _Jemmy_ first began to Love, He was the Gayest Swaine That ever yet a Flock had drove, Or danc’t upon the Plaine. T’was then that I, weys me poor Heart, My Freedom threw away; And finding sweets in every smart, I cou’d not say him nay. And ever when he talkt of Love, He wou’d his Eyes decline; And every sigh a Heart would move, Gued Faith and why not mine? He’d press my hand, and Kiss it oft, In silence spoke his Flame. And whilst he treated me thus soft, I wisht him more to Blame.