How Happy's the Mortal whose Heart is his own, And for his own Quiet's beholden to none, (_Eccho._ Beholden to none, to none;) That to Love's Enchantments ne'er lendeth an Ear, Which a Frown or a Smile can equally bear, (_Eccho._ Can equally bear, can bear,) Nor on ev'ry frail Beauty still fixes an Eye, But from those sly Felons doth prudently fly, (_Eccho._ Doth prudently, prudently fly, doth fly;) For the Heart that still wanders is pounded at last, And 'tis hard to relieve it when once it is fast, (_Eccho._ When once it is fast, is fast.) By sporting with Dangers still longer and longer, The Fetters and Chains of the Captive grows stronger; He drills on his Evil, then curses his Fate, And bewails those Misfortunes himself did create: Like an empty Camelion he lives on the Air, And all the Day lingers 'twixt Hope and Despair; Like a Fly in the Candle he sports and he Games, 'Till a Victim in Folly, he dies in the Flames. If Love, so much talk'd of, a Heresie be, Of all it enslaves few true Converts we see; If hectoring and huffing would once do the Feat, There's few that would fail of a Vict'ry Compleat; But with Gain to come off, and the Tyrant subdue, Is an Art that is hitherto practis'd by few; How easie is Freedom once had to maintain, But Liberty lost is as hard to regain. This driv'ling and sniv'ling, and chiming in Parts, This wining and pining, and breaking of Hearts; All pensive and silent in Corners to sit, Are pretty fine Pastimes for those that want Wit: When this Passion and Fashion doth so far abuse 'em, It were good the State should for Pendulums use 'em; For if Reason it seize on, and make it give o'er, No Labour can save, or reliev't any more. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ Henry Purcell. [Music] A Thousand several ways I try'd, To hide my Passion from your view; Conscious that I should be deny'd, Because I cannot Merit you: Absence, the last and worst of all, Did so encrease my wretched Pain, That I return'd, rather to fall By the swift Fate, by the swift Fate of your Disdain. _A_ SONG. [Music] To the Grove, gentle Love, let us be going, Where the kind Spring and Wind all Day are Woing; He with soft sighing Blasts strives to o'er-take her, She would not tho' she flies, have him forsake her, But in circling Rings returning, And in purling Whispers Mourning; She swells and pants, as if she'd say, Fain I would, but dare not stay. _A_ SONG. _Set by Mr._ FISHBURN. [Music] Tell me no more of Flames in Love, That common dull pretence, Fools in Romances use to move Soft Hearts of little Sense: No, _Strephon_, I'm not such a Slave, Love's banish'd Power to own; Since Interest and Convenience have So long usurp'd his Throne. No burning Hope or cold Despair, Dull Groves or purling Streams, Sighing and talking to the Air In Love's fantastick Dreams, Can move my Pity or my Hate, But Satyrist I'll prove, And all ridiculous create That shall pretend to Love.