Whilst the bleak Winds aloft my Garments bear, } Ruffling my careless and dishevel’d hair, } I look’d like the sad Statue of Despair. } With out-strech’d voice I cry’d, and all around The Rocks and Hills my dire complaints resound. I rent my Garments, tore my flattering Face, Whose false deluding Charms my Ruine was. Mad as the Seas in Storms, I breathe Despair, Or Winds let loose in unresisting Air. Raging and Frantick through the Woods I fly, And _Paris!_ lovely, faithless _Paris_ cry. But when the Echos sound thy Name again, I change to new variety of Pain. For that dear name such tenderness inspires, And turns all Passion to Loves softer Fires: With tears I fall to kind Complaints again, So Tempests are allay’d by Show’rs of Rain. Say, lovely Youth, why wou’dst thou thus betray My easie Faith, and lead my heart astray? I might some humble Shepherd’s Choice have been, Had I that Tongue ne’er heard, those Eyes ne’er seen. And in some homely Cott, in low Repose, Liv’d undisturb’d with broken Vows and Oaths: All day by shaded Springs my Flocks have kept, And in some honest Arms at night have slept. Then unupbraided with my wrongs thou’dst been Safe in the Joys of the fair Grecian Queen: What Stars do rule the Great? no sooner you Became a Prince, but you were Perjur’d too. Are Crowns and Falshoods then consistent things? And must they all be faithless who are Kings? The Gods be prais’d that I was humbly born, Even thô it renders me my _Paris_ scorn. For I had rather this way wretched prove, Than be a Queen and faithless in my Love. Not my fair Rival wou’d I wish to be, To come prophan’d by others Joys to thee. A spotless Maid into thy Arms I brought, Untouch’d in Fame, ev’n Innocent in thought; Whilst she with Love has treated many a Guest, And brings thee but the leavings of a Feast: With _Theseus_ from her Country made Escape, Whilst she miscall’d the willing Flight, a Rape. So now from _Atreus_ Son, with thee is fled, And still the Rape hides the Adult’rous Deed. And is it thus Great Ladies keep intire That Vertue they so boast, and you admire? Is this a Trick of Courts, can Ravishment Serve for a poor Evasion of Consent? Hard shift to save that Honour priz’d so high, Whilst the mean Fraud’s the greater Infamy. How much more happy are we Rural Maids, Who know no other Palaces than Shades? Who wish no Title to inslave the Croud, Lest they shou’d babble all our Crimes aloud; No Arts our Good to shew, our Ill to hide, Nor know to cover faults of Love with Pride. I lov’d, and all Love’s Dictates did pursue, And never thought it cou’d be Sin with you. To Gods, and Men, I did my Love proclaim;