_Amyntas_ on a Holyday As fine as any Lord of _May_, Amongst the Nimphs, and jolly Swaines, That feed their Flocks upon the Plaines: Met in a Grove beneath whose shade, A Match of Dancing they had made. His Cassock was of Green, as trim As Grass upon a River brim; Untoucht or sullied with a spot, Unprest by either Lamb or Goat: And with the Air it loosely play’d, With every motion that he made. His Sleeves a-many Ribbons ties, Where one might read Love-Mysteries: As if that way he wou’d impart, To all, the Sentiments of his Heart, Whose Passions by those Colours known, He with a Charming Pride wou’d own. His Bonnet with the same was Ti’d, A Silver Scrip hung by his Side: His Buskins garnisht A-la-mode, Were grac’d by every step he Trod; Like _Pan_, a Majesty he took, And like _Apollo_ when he spoke. His Hook a Wreath of Flowers Braid, The Present of some Love-sick Maid, Who all the morning had bestow’d, And to her Fancy now compos’d: Which fresher seem’d when near that place, To whom the Giver Captive was. His Eyes their best Attracts put on, Designing some should be undone; For he could at his pleasure move, The Nymphs he lik’d to fall in Love: Yet so he order’d every Glance, That still they seem’d but Wounds of Chance. He well cou’d feign an Innocence, And taught his Silence Eloquence; Each Smile he us’d, had got the force, To Conquer more than soft Discourse: Which when it serv’d his Ends he’d use, And subtilly thro’ a heart infuse. His Wit was such it cou’d controul The Resolutions of a Soul; That a Religious Vow had made, By Love it nere wou’d be betra’d: For when he spoke he well cou’d prove Their Errors who dispute with Love. With all these Charms he did Address Himself to every Shepherdess: Until the Bag-pipes which did play, Began the Bus’ness of the day; And in the taking forth to Dance, The Lovely Swain became my Chance. To whom much Passion he did Vow, And much his Eyes and Sighs did show; And both imploy’d with so much Art, I strove in vain to guard my Heart; And ere the Night our Revels crost, I was intirely won and lost. Let me advise thee, _Amoret_, Fly from the Baits that he has set In every grace; which will betray All Beauties that but look that way: But thou hast Charms that will secure A Captive in this Conquerour. _Our Cabal._ Come, my fair _Cloris_, come away, Hast thou forgot ‘tis Holyday? And lovely _Silvia_ too make haste, The Sun is up, the day does waste: Do’st thou not hear the Musick loud, Mix’d with the murmur of the Crowd? How can thy active Feet be still, And hear the Bag-pipes chearful Trill? _Mr._ V. U.