For pitty hide thy Starry eyes, Whose Languishments destroy: And look not on the Slave that dyes With an Excess of Joy. Defend thy Coral Lips, thy Amber Breath; To taste these Sweets lets in a Certain Death. III. Forbear, fond Charming Youth, forbear, Thy words of Melting Love: Thy Eyes thy Language well may spare, One Dart enough can move. And she that hears thy voice and sees thy Eyes With too much Pleasure, too much Softness dies. IV. Cease, Cease, with Sighs to warm my Soul, Or press me with thy Hand: Who can the kindling fire controul, The tender force withstand? Thy Sighs and Touches like wing’d Lightning fly, And are the Gods of Loves Artillery. _To_ Lysander, _who made some Verses on a Discourse of Loves Fire._ I. In vain, dear Youth, you say you love, And yet my Marks of Passion blame: Since Jealousie alone can prove, The surest Witness of my Flame: And she who without that, a Love can vow, Believe me, _Shepherd_, does not merit you. II. Then give me leave to doubt, that Fire I kindle, may another warm: A Face that cannot move Desire, May serve at least to end the Charm: Love else were Witchcraft, that on malice bent, Denies ye Joys, or makes ye Impotent. III. ‘Tis true, when Cities are on Fire, Men never wait for Christal Springs; But to the Neighb’ring Pools retire; Which nearest, best Assistance brings; And serves as well to quench the raging Flame, As if from God-delighting Streams it came. IV. A Fancy strong may do the Feat Yet this to Love a Riddle is, And shows that Passion but a Cheat; Which Men but with their Tongues Confess. For ‘tis a Maxime in Loves learned School, Who blows the Fire, the flame can only Rule. V. Though Honour does your Wish deny, Honour! the Foe to your Repose; Yet ‘tis more Noble far to dye, Then break Loves known and Sacred Laws: What Lover wou’d pursue a single Game, That cou’d amongst the Fair deal out his flame? VI. Since then, _Lysander_, you desire, _Amynta_ only to adore; Take in no Partners to your Fire, For who well Loves, that Loves one more? And if such Rivals in your Heart I find, Tis in My Power to die, but not be kind. _A Dialogue for an Entertainment at Court, between_ Damon _and_ Sylvia. _Damon._ Ah, _Sylvia_! if I still pursue, Whilst you in vain your Scorn improve; What wonders might your Eies not do: If they would dress themselves in _Love_. _Sylvia._