And now-- Her Eyes no more their wonted Smiles afford, But grew more fierce, the more they were ador’d; The marks of her esteem which heretofore Rais’d my aspiring flame, oblige no more; She calls up all her Pride to her defence; And as a Crime condemns my just pretence; Me from her presence does in Fury chase; No supplications can my doom reverse; And vainly certain of her Victory, Retir’d into the _Den_ of _Cruelty_. The Den of Cruelty. A Den _where_ Tygers _make the passage good,_ _And all attempting_ Lovers _make their Food;_ _I’th’ hollow of a mighty_ Rock _’.is plac’d,_ _Which by the angry Sea is still imbrac’d:_ _Whose frightful surface constant Tempest wears,_ _Which strikes the bold Adventurers with Fears._ _The_ Elements _their rudest Winds send out,_ _Which blow continual coldness round about._ _Upon the_ Rock _eternal Winter dwells,_ _Which weeps away in dropping Isicles;_ _The barren hardness meets no fruitful Ray,_ _Nor bears it Issue to the God of day;_ _All bleek and cale, th’ unshady prospect lies,_ _And nothing grateful meets the melancholy Eyes._ To this dire place _Aminta_ goes, whilst I, Begg’d her with Prayers and Tears to pass it by; All dying on the Ground my self I cast, And with my Arms her flying Feet imbrac’d; But she from the kind force with Fury flung, And on an old deformed Woman hung. A Woman frightful, with a horrid Frown, And o’re her angry Eyes, her Brows hung down: One single Look of hers, fails not t’ impart, A terror and despair to every Heart: She fills the Universe with discontents, And Torments for poor Lovers still invents. This is the mighty _Tyrant Cruelty_, Who with the _God of Love_ is still at enmity; She keeps a glorious Train, and Glorious Court, And thither Youth and Beauty still resort: But oh my Soul form’d for Loves softer Sport, Cou’d not endure the _Rigor_ of her Court! Which her first rude Address did so affright, That I all Trembling hasted from her Sight, Leaving the unconcern’d and cruel Maid, And on a Rivers Bank my self all fainting laid; Which River from the obdurate Rock proceeds, And cast’s it self i’th’ Melancholy Meads. The River of Despair. _Its Torrent has no other source,_ _But Tears from dying Lovers Eyes;_ _Which mixt with Sighs precipitates its course;_ _Softning the senseless Rocks in gliding by;_ _Whose doleful Murmurs have such Eloquence_ _That even the neighbouring Trees and flow’rs have pitying sense;_ _And Cruelty alone knows in what sort,_ _Against the moving sound to make defence,_ _Who laughs at all despair and Death as sport._