Where would coy _Amyntas_ run, From a despairing Lover's Story? When her Eyes have Conquest won, Why should her Ear refuse the Glory: Shall a Slave, whose Racks constrain, Be forbidden to complain; Let her scorn me, let her Fly me, Let her Looks, her Love deny me: Ne'er shall my Heart yield to despair, Or my Tongue cease to tell my Care, Or my Tongue cease to tell my Care: Much to love, and much to pray, Is to Heav'n the only way. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ Pelham Humphreys. [Music] A Wife I do hate, For either she's False, or she's Jealous; But give me a Mate, Who nothing will ask us or tell us: She stands at no Terms, Nor Chaffers by way of Indenture: Or Loves for the Farms, But takes the kind Man at a Venture. If all prove not right, Without an Act, Process or Warning, From Wife for a Night, You may be divorc'd the next Morning, Where Parents are Slaves, Their Brats can't be any other; Great Wits and great Braves, Have always a Punk to their Mother. _A_ SONG. [Music] Tell me ye _Sicilian_ Swains, Why this Mourning's o'er your Plains; Where's your usual Melody? Why are all your Shepherds mad, And your Shepherdesses sad? What can the mighty meaning be? _Chorus._ _Sylvia_ the Glory of our Plains; _Sylvia_ the Love of all our Swains; That blest us with her Smiles: Where ev'ry Shepherd had a Heart, And ev'ry Shepherdess a Part; Slights our Gods, and leaves our Isle, Slights our Gods, and leaves our Isle. _A_ SONG. [Music] When gay _Philander_ left the Plain, The Love, the Life of ev'ry Swain; His Pipe the mournful _Strephon_ took, By some sad Bank and murm'ring Brook: Whilst list'ning Flocks forsook their Food, And Melancholy by him stood; On the cold Ground himself he laid, And thus the Mournful Shepherd play'd. Farewel to all that's bright and gay, No more glad Night and chearing Day; No more the Sun will gild our Plain, 'Till the lost Youth return again: Then every pensive Heart that now, With Mournful Willow shades his Brow; Shall crown'd with chearful Garlands sing, And all shall seem Eternal Spring. Say, mighty _Pan_, if you did know, Say all ye rural Gods below; 'Mongst all Youths that grac'd your Plain, So gay so beautiful a Swain: In whose sweet Air and charming Voice, Our list'ning Swains did all Rejoyce; Him only, O ye Gods! restore Your Nymphs, and Shepherds ask no more. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ THO. KINGSLEY. [Music]