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EBBA 30579

British Library - Roxburghe
Ballad XSLT Template
Coridon and Parthenia,
The Languishing Shepherd made Happy.
Or, Faithful Love rewarded.
Being a most Pleasant and Delectable New Play Song.
Here mournful Love is turnd into Delight,
To this we a Chast amorist Invite;
Where Charming beauty rules its powrs like Death,To Save or Murder with the self-same breath:
The Noble Swain, whose Youthful Love hath won
So many Mymphs, by Love was here undone:Languishing faint, on the Gold Ground he lies,
Until the Sun-shine of Parthenias Eyes
Dissolvd the Cloud that did benight his bliss,
And turnd his Torments into Paradise.
To the Tune of, When busie Fame.

WHen busie Fame ore all the Plain,
Parthenias Praises rung,
And on the Oaten Pipe each Swain;
her matchless Beauties Sung:
The envious Nymphs were forcd to yeild,
she had the sweetest face,
No Emulord Disputes were held,
but for the Second place,

Young Coridon whose stubborn heart,
no Beauties ere could move,
But smild at Cupids Bow and Dart,
and brave the God of Love:Hed view this Nymph, and pleasd at first,
such silent Charms to see,
With wonder gazd, then sighd and Curst,
his Curiosity.

CRying alas, I am undone,
so Powerful are her eyes,
Those kiiling Charms prevaild above,
and all my thoughts surprize:In coolest shades fierce feavors burn,
martyrd by Love I fry,
And now except Parthenia Turn,
and smile on me I dye.

My Hood be here for ever laid,
and on this Ferdant Plain.
Beneath this spreading Mirtle Shade,
till death I must remain:My Snowy Flocks may freely stray,
whilst here I gazing lye,
And dare not move from hence away,
for if I do I dye.

Parthenia cruel Nymph no more,
turn hence that Angel face,
Which Coridon must still adore,
as cheif of Mortal Race:Oh! from the Groves sad Ecchos sound,
and say in vain I try,
Nay, still augment the Fatal wound,
I must Loves Martyr dye.

What doleful tunes mongst pleasant Reeds
my Bleeting Flocks complain,
Whilst wolves invade them as they feed,
all scaterd through the Plain:Here Chaind by Love by cruel Love,
on earth I mourning lye,
And though my Couch sweet Violets prove,
yet Languishing I dye.

Whilst in sad strains the Winged Quire,
my doleful Requies Sing
And Chaunt how I for Love expire,
unto the blooming Spring:Let purling streams likewise declare,
as they run murmering by,
How for Parthenia I dispair,
and thus dispairing dye.

Ah hark, what sad Laments are these,
what mournful sounds are here:What dying Sounds my fancy sees,
what sighs invade my Ear?
Tis this Mirtle Grove ile seek,
tis sure some Lover nigh,
Ile find, and to him Comfort speak,
before for Love he dye.

Oh it is Coridon kind Swain,
from whence proceeds your grief?
Coridon. By you I wounded here remain,
tis you can yield relief:Conquerd by your prevailing Charms,
and by your starry eyes,
For you unless you raise my Arms,
a faithful Shepherd dies.

Alas poor Swain, for me I swear,
by Cupid all above,
You shall not languish nor dispair,
but first enjoy my Love:
Coridon. Parthenia kind tis sure I dream,
O Angel form draw nigh,
Speak speak again that saving Theam,
that will not let me dye,

Rise Shepherd, rise, and freely take,
since thou dost constant prove,
Those chast delights, which for thy sake
I have designd in Love:
Coridon. Oh im so Ravisht with this voice
that dangers I defie,
And in Parthenias Love rejoyce,
which will not let me dye.

Come, come my, Coridon, lets haste,
unto you pleasing Bower;
For Lovers should no moments waste,
whilst joyes in plenty showre:
But folded in each others Arms,
loves utmost Forces try;
whilst warbling noats augments our charms
and we in pleasure dye.

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball, in West-smithfield.

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