Restless and wild, ranging each Field and Grove; I meet the Author of my painful Love; But still surrounded with a numerous Train Of Lovers, whom _Love_ taught to Sigh and Fawn, At my approach, my Soul all Trembling flies, And tells its soft Resentment at my Eyes: My Face all pale, my steps unsteady fall, And faint Confusion spreads it self o’re all. I listen to each low breath’d Word she says, And the returns the happy Answerer pays: When catching half the Sense, the rest Invent, And turn it still to what will most Torment; If any thing by Whispers she impart, ‘Tis Mortal, ‘tis a Dagger at my Heart; And every Smile, each Motion, Gesture, Sign, In favour of some Lover I explain: When I am absent, in some Rivals Arms, I Fancy she distributes all her Charms, And if alone I find her; sighing cry, _Some happier Lover she expects than I._ So that I did not only Jealous grow, Of all I saw; but all I fancy’d too. The COMPLAINT. I. _Oft in my Jealous Transports I wou’d cry,_ _Ye happy shades, ye happy Bow’rs,_ _Why speaks she tenderer things to you than me?_ _Why does she Smile, carress and praise your Flowers?_ _Why Sighs she (opening Buds) her Secrets all_ _Into your fragrant Leaves?_ _Why does she to her Aid your sweetness call,_ _Yet take less from you than she gives?_ _Why on your Beds must you be happy made,_ _And be together with_ Aminta _laid?_ _You from her Hands and Lips may KISSES take,_ _And never meet Reproaches from her Pride;_ _A thousand Ravishing stealths may make,_ _And even into her softer Bosome glide._ _And there expire! Oh happy Rival flowers,_ _How vainly do I wish my Fate like that of Yours?_ II. _Tell me, ye silent Groves, whose Gloom invites,_ _The lovely Charmer to your Solitudes?_ _Tell me for whom she languishes and sighs?_ _For whom she feels her soft Inquietudes?_ _Name me the Youth for whom she makes her Vows,_ _For she has breath’d it oft amongst your listening Boughs?_ _Oh happy confidents of her Amours,_ _How vainly do I wish my Fortune blest as Yours._ III. _Oh happy Brooks, oh happy Rivulets,_ _And Springs that in a thousand Windings move;_ _Upon your Banks how oft_ Aminta _sits,_ _And prattles to you all her Tale of Love:_ _Whilst your smooth surface little Circles bears,_ _From the Impressions of her falling Tears,_ _And as you wantonly reflecting pass,_ _Glide o’re the lovely Image of her Face;_ _And sanctifies your stream, which as you run,_ _You Boast in Murmurs to the Banks along._ _Dear Streams! to whom she gives her softest hours,_ _How vainly do I wish my happiness like yours._