'Tis cruel to prolong a pain;
And to defer a joy,
Believe me, gentle Celimene,
Offends the winged boy.

An hundred thousand oaths your fears
Perhaps, would not remove;
And, if I gaz'd a thousand years,
I could no deeper love.

Filled with grief for what is past,
Let us at length be wife;
And to love's true enjoyments hafte,
Since we have paid the price.

Love does timid fouls defpife,

Who lose themselves for toys,

And escapes for those devise

Who tafte his utmost joys.

Love should like the year be crown'd
With fweet variety;

Hope should in the spring abound,

Kind fears, and jealousy.

In the fummer, flowers fhould rise,
And in the autumn, fruit:

His fpring doth else but mock our eyes,
And in a fcoff falute.

SONG.

THANKS, fair Urania, to your fcorn,
I now am free, as I was born.
Of all the pain that I endured,
By your late coldness I am cured.

In lofing me, proud nymph, you lofe
The humblest flave your beauty knows:
In lofing you, I but throw down
A haughty tyrant from her throne.

My ranging love did never find
Such charms of person and of mind;
You've beauty, wit, and all things know,
But where you fhould your love bestow.

I, unawares, my freedom gave,
And to those tyrants grew a slave;
Would you have kept what you had won,
You should have more compaffion shewn.

Love is a burthen, which two hearts,
When equally they bear their parts,
With pleasure carry; but no one,
Alas! can bear it long alone.

I'm not of those who court their pain,
And make an idol of disdain ;

My hope in love does ne'er expire,

But it extinguishes defire.

Nor yet of thofe, who ill received,
Would have it otherwise believed;

And, where their love could not prevail,
Take the vain liberty to rail.

Whoe'er would make his victor less Muft his own weak defence confefs; And, while her power he does defame, He poorly doubles his own shame.

Even that malice does betray,
And fpeak concern another way;
And all fuch fcorn in men, is but
'The smoke of fires but ill put out.

He's ftill in torment, whom the rage
To detraction doth engage :

In love, indiff'rence is the fure
And only fign of perfect cure.

SONG.

HEARS not my Phillis, how the birds
Their feather'd mates falute?
They tell their paffion in their words,
Muft I alone be mute?

Phillis, without frown or smile,

Sat and knotted all the while.

The god of love, in thy bright eyes,

Doth like a tyrant reign;

But in thy heart, a child he lies,

Without his dart or flame.

And yet in raging love;

Might well deferve one word at laft,

My paffion should approve.

Phillis, &c.

Must then your faithful swain expire,

And not one look obtain ; Which he, to footh his fond defire, Might pleasingly explain? Phillis, without frown or fmile,

Sat and knotted all the while.

SONG.

PHILLIS is my only joy,

Faithlefs as the winds or feas;
Sometimes coming, fometimes coy,
Yet fhe never fails to please.
If with a frown