Had _Pompey_ lookt like thee, thô he had prov’d The vanquisht, yet from _Egypts_ faithless King He had receiv’d the vows of being belov’d, In stead of Orders for his murdering. But here, _Amintas_, thy misfortune lys, Nor brave nor good are in our age esteem’d, Content thee then with meaner victorys, Unless that Glorious age cou’d be redeem’d. _A. B._ _On the first discovery of falseness in_ Amintas. _By Mrs._ B. Make hast! make hast! my miserable soul, To some unknown and solitary Grove, Where nothing may thy Languishment controle Where thou maist never hear the name of Love. Where unconfin’d, and free, as whispering Air, Thou maist caress and welcome thy despair: Where no dissembl’d complisance may veil The griefes with which, my soul, thou art opprest, But dying, breath thyself out in a tale That may declare the cause of thy unrest: The toyles of Death ‘twill render far more light And soon convey thee to the shades of night. Search then, my soul, some unfrequented place, Some place that nature meant her own repose: When she herself withdrew from human race, Displeas’d with wanton Lovers vows and oaths. Where _Sol_ cou’d never dart a busy Ray, And where the softer winds ne’re met to play. By the sad purling of some Rivulet O’re which the bending Yew and Willow grow, That scarce the glimmerings of the day permit, To view the melancholy Banks below, Where dwells no noyse but what the murmurs make, When the unwilling stream the shade forsakes. There on a Bed of Moss and new-faln leaves, Which the Triumphant Trees once proudly bore, Thô now thrown off by every wind that breaths, Despis’d by what they did adorn before, And who, like useless me, regardless lye While springing beautys do the boughs supply. There lay thee down, my soul, and breath thy last, And calmly to the unknown regions fly; But e’re thou dost thy stock of life exhaust, Let the ungrateful know, why tis you dye. Perhaps the gentle winds may chance to bear Thy dying accents to _Amintas_ ear. Breath out thy Passion; tell him of his power And how thy flame was once by thee approv’d. How soon as wisht he was thy conqueror, No sooner spoke of Love, but was belov’d. His wonderous Eyes, what weak resistance found, While every charming word begat a wound?