Enough, enough, my dear abandon’d Maid, Enough thy Eyes, thy Sighs, thy Tongue have said, In all the Groves, on all the Plains, ‘Mongst all the Shepherds, all the Swains, I never saw the Charms cou’d move My yet unconquer’d heart, to Love; And tho a God _Alexis_ were, He should not Rule the Empire here. _Cloris._ Then from his charming Language fly; Or thou’rt undone as well as I; The God of Love is sure his Friend, Who taught him all his Arts, And when a Conquest he design’d, He furnish’d him with Darts; His Quiver, and his gilded Bow, To his assistance brings, And having given the fatal Blow, Lends him his fleeting wings. Tho not a Cottage-Slave, can be, Before the Conquest, so submiss as he, To Fold your sheep, to gather Flowers, To Pipe and sing, and sigh away your hours; Early your Flocks to fragrant Meads, Or cooling shades, and Springs he Leads; Weaves Garlands, or go seek your Lambs, That struggle from their bleating Dams, Or any humble bus’ness do, But once a Victor, he’s a Tyrant too. _Selinda._ _Cloris_, such little Services would prove Too mean, to be repaid with Love; A Look, a Nod, a Smile would quit that score, And she deserves to be undone, that pays a Shepherd more. _Cloris._ His new-blown Passion if _Selinda_ Scorn, _Alexis_ may again to me return. _Selinda._ Secure thy Fears, the Vows he makes to me I send a Present, back to thee; _Cloris._ Then we will sing, in every Grove, The greatness of your Mind,-- _Selinda._ ... And I your Love. _Both._ And all the Day, With Pride and Joy, We’ll let the Neighb’ring Shepherds see, That none like us, Did e’er express, The heights of Love and Amity; And all the day, &c. A PINDARIC _to Mr._ P. _who sings finely_. _By Mrs._ A. B. _Damon_, altho you waste in vain That pretious breath of thine, Where lies a Pow’r in every strain, To take in any other heart, but mine; Yet do not cease to sing, that I may know, By what soft Charms and Arts, What more than Humane ‘tis you do, To take, and keep your hearts; Or have you Vow’d never to wast your breath, But when some Maid must fall a Sacrifice, As _Indian_ Priests prepare a death, For Slaves t’addorn their Victories, Your Charm’s as powerful, if I live, For I as sensible shall be, What wound you can, to all that hear you, give, As if you wounded me; And shall as much adore your wondrous skill, As if my heart each dying Note cou’d kill.