Till on a time the hapless Maid Retir’d to shun the Heat o’th’ Day Into a Grove, beneath whose shade _Strephon_ the careless _Shepherd_ sleeping lay: But O such Charms the Youth adorn, Love is reveng’d for all her Scorn. III. Her Cheeks with Blushes cover’d were, And tender Sighs her Bosom warm, A Softness in her Eyes appear; Unusual Pain she feels from ev’ry Charm: To Woods and Ecchoes now she cries, For Modesty to speak denies. SONG. I. Ah! what can mean that eager Joy Transports my Heart when you appear? Ah, _Strephon_! you my Thoughts imploy In all that’s Charming, all that’s Dear. When you your pleasing Story tell, A Softness does invade each Part, And I with Blushes own I feel Something too tender at my Heart. II. At your approach my Blushes rise, And I at once both wish and fear; My wounded Soul mounts to my Eyes, As it would prattle Stories there. Take, take that Heart that needs must go; But, _Shepherd_, see it kindly us’d: For who such Presents will bestow, If this, alas! should be abus’d? _The Invitation_: A Song. _To a New Scotch Tune._ I. Come, my _Phillis_, let us improve Both our Joyes of Equal Love: While we in yonder Shady Grove, Count Minutes by our Kisses. See the Flowers how sweetly they spread, And each Resigns his Gawdy Head, To make for us a Fragrant Bed, To practice o’er New Blisses. II. The Sun it self with Love does conspire, And sends abroad his ardent Fire, And kindly seems to bid us retire, And shade us from his Glory; Then come, my _Phillis_, do not fear; All that your Swain desires there, Is by those Eyes anew to swear How much he does adore ye. III. _Phillis_, in vain you shed those Tears; Why do you blush? Oh speak your Fears! There’s none but your _Amyntas_ hears: What means this pretty Passion? Can you fear your Favours will cloy Those that the Blessing does enjoy? Ah no! such needless Thoughts destroy: This Nicety’s out of Fashion. IV. When thou hast done, by _Pan_ I swear, Thou wilt unto my Eyes appear A thousand times more Charming and Fair, Then thou wert to my first Desire: That Smile was kind, and now thou’rt wise, To throw away this Coy Disguise, And by the vigor of thy Eyes, Declare thy Youth and Fire. _Silvio’s Complaint_: A Song. _To a Fine Scotch Tune._ I.