While each in their Divine imployments strove } By every charm these new-form’d lights t’improve, } They left a space untoucht for mightyer Love. } The finishing last strokes the Boy perform’d; Who from his Quiver took a Golden Dart That cou’d a sympathizing wound impart, And toucht ‘em both, and with one flame they burn’d. The next great work was to create two frames Of the Divinest form, Fit to contain these heavenly flames. The Gods decreed, and charming _Lysidus_ was born, Born, and grew up the wonder of the Plains, } Joy of the Nymphs and Glory of the Swains. } And warm’d all hearts with his inchanting strains; } Soft were the Songs, which from his lips did flow, Soft as the Soul which the fine thought conceiv’d. Soft as the sighs the charming Virgin breath’d The first dear night of the chast nuptial vow. The noble youth even _Daphnis_ do’s excel, Oh never Shepherd pip’d and sung so well. _Aminta._ Now, _Damon_, you are in your proper sphear, While of his wit you give a character. But who inspir’d you a Philosopher? _Damon._ Old _Colin_, when we oft have led our Flocks Beneath the shelter of the shad’s and Rocks, While other youths more vainly spent their time, I listen’d to the wonderous Bard; And while he sung of things sublime With reverend pleasure heard. He soar’d to the Divine abodes And told the secrets of the Gods. And oft discours’d of Love and Sympathy; For he as well as thou and I Had sigh’t for some dear object of desire; But oh! till now I ne’re cou’d prove That secret mystery of Love; Ne’re saw two hearts thus burn with equal fire. _Aminta._ But, oh! what Nymph e’re saw the noble youth That was not to eternal Love betray’d? _Damon._ And, oh! what swain e’re saw the Lovely maid, That wou’d not plight her his eternal faith! Not unblown Roses, or the new-born day Or pointed Sun-beams, when they gild the skys, Are half so sweet, are half so bright and gay, As young _Clemena’s_ charming Face and Eyes! _Aminta._ Not full-blown flowrs, when all their luster’s on Whom every bosom longs to wear, Nor the spread Glories of the mid-days sun Can with the charming _Lysidus_ compare. _Damon._ Not the soft gales of gentle breez That whisper to the yeilding Trees, Nor songs of Birds that thrô the Groves rejoyce, Are half so sweet, so soft, as young _Clemena’s_ voyce. _Aminta._