_Shepherd_, you urge my Love in vain, For I can ne’er Reward your pain; _A Slave_ each Smile of mine can win, And all my softning Darts, When e’er I please, can bring me in A Thousand Yeilding Hearts. _Damon._ Yet if those _Slaves_ you treat with Cruelty, ‘Tis an Inglorious Victory; And those unhappy _Swaines_ you so subdue, May Learn at last to scorn, as well as you; Your Beauty though the Gods design’d Shou’d be Ador’d by all below; Yet if you want a God-like Pittying Mind, Our Adoration soon will colder grow: ‘Tis Pitty makes a Deity, Ah, _Sylvia_! daine to pitty me, And I will worship none but thee. _Sylvia._ Perhaps I may your Councel take, And Pitty, tho’ not Love, for _Damons_ sake; Love is a Flame my Heart ne’er knew, Nor knows how to begin to burn for you. _Damon._ Ah, _Sylvia_, who’s the happy _Swain_, For whom that Glory you ordain! Has _Strephon_, _Pithius_, _Hilus_, more Of Youth, of Love, or Flocks a greater store? My flame pursues you too, with that Address, Which they want Passion to Profess: Ah then make some Returns my Charming _Shepherdess_. _Sylvia._ Too Faithful _Shepherd_, I will try my Heart, And if I can will give you part. _Damon._ Oh that was like your self exprest, Give me but part, and I will steal the rest. _Sylvia._ Take care, _Young Swain_, you treat it well, If you wou’d have it in your Bosom dwell; Now let us to the Shades Retreat, Where all the _Nymphs_ and _Shepherds_ meet. _Damon._ And give me there your leave my Pride to show, For having but the hopes of Conquering you; Where all the _Swaines_ shall Passion learn of me: And all the _Nymphs_ to bless like thee. _Sylvia._ Where every Grace I will bestow, And every Look and Smile, shall show How much above the rest I vallue you. _Damon._ And I those Blessings will improve; By constant Faith, and tender Love. [_A Chorus of Satyrs and Nymphs made by another hand._] _On Mr._ J. H. _In a Fit of Sickness._ I.