_And as in other Sectuaries you find,_ _His Votaries most consist of Womankind,_ _Who Throng t’ adore the necessary Evil,_ _But most for fear, as Indians do the Devil._ _Peevish, uneasy all; for in Revenge,_ _Love shoots ‘em with a thousand Darts._ _They feel, but not confess the change;_ _Their false Devotion cannot save their Hearts._ _Thus while the Idol Honour they obey,_ } _Swift time comes on, and blooming Charms decay,_ } _And Ruin’d Beauty does too late the Cheat betray._ } This Goblin here--the lovely Maid Alarms, And snatch’d her, even from my Trembling Arms, With all the Pow’r of _Non-sence_ he commands, Which she for mighty Reason understands. Aminta, _fly_, he crys! _fly, heedless Maid,_ _For if thou enter’st this Bewitching shade,_ _Thy Flame, Content, and Lover, all are lost,_ _And thou no more of Him, or Fame shall boast,_ _The charming Pleasure soon the Youth will cloy,_ _And what thou wouldst preserve, that will destroy._ _Oh hardy Maid by too much Love undone,_ _Where are thy Modesty, and Blushes gone?_ _Where’s all that Virtue made thee so Ador’d?_ _For Beauty stript of Virtue, grows abhorr’d:_ _Dyes like a flower whose scent quick Poyson gives,_ _Though every gawdy Glory paints its leaves;_ _Oh fly, fond Maid, fly that false happiness,_ _That will attend Thee in the Bower of Bliss._ Thus spoke the Phantom, while the listening Maid, Took in the fatal Councel; and obey’d: Frighted she flys, even from the Temple door, And left me fainting on the sacred floor: LOVE saw my Griefs, and to my rescue came, Where on his Bosom, thus I did complain. The LOSS. _Weep, weep,_ Lysander, _for the lovely Maid,_ _To whom thy sacred Vows were paid;_ _Regardless of thy Love, thy Youth, thy Vows,_ _The Dull Advice of Honour now pursues;_ _Oh say my lovely Charmer, where_ _Is all that softness gone?_ _Your tender Voice and Eyes did wear,_ _When first I was undone._ _Oh whether are your Sighs and Kisses fled?_ _Where are those clasping Arms,_ _That left me oft with Pleasures dead,_ _With their Excess of Charms?_ _Where is the Killing Language of thy Tongue,_ _That did the Ravisht Soul surprize?_ _Where is that tender Rhetorick gone,_ _That flow’d so softly in thy Eyes?_ _That did thy heavenly face so sweetly dress,_ _That did thy wonderous Soul so well express?_ _All fled with Honour on a Phantom lost;_ _Where Youth’s vast store must perish unpossest._ _Ah, my dear Boy, thy loss with me bemoan,_ _The lovely Fugitive is with Honour gone!_