The Wounded Lover's Lamentation
TO
SILVIA.
To an Excellent New Tune, Sung at Court.
This may be Printed, R. P.
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YOU I love, (by Jove) I do,
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More than all things here below;
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With a passion full as great,
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As e'er Creature fancied yet:
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Silvia, since my Heaven thou art,
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Ease and Cure my wounded heart.
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Bid the Miser leave his Ore,
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Bid the wretched sigh no more;
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Bid the Old be young agen;
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Bid the Maids ne'er think of Men:
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Silvia, this when you can do,
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Bid me then not think of you.
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Love's not a thing of Chance, but Fate,
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That makes me love, that makes you hate;
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Silvia then do what you will,
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Ease or Cure, torment or kill:
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Be kind or Cruel, false or true,
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Love I must, and none but you.
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Had I lov'd as others do,
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Only for an hour or two,
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Then there had a Reason bin,
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I should suffer for my sin,
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But fair Silvia let me find
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My dear Mistress always kind.
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Love thou know'st with what a flame,
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I adore young Silvias name;
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Let me then some pity find,
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Shoot a Dart and change her mind:
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Change her till she pity me,
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And thy Votary I'll be.
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On her gentle downy Breast,
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Let a sighing Lover rest,
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Twin'd within those tender Arms,
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Fetter'd by those pleasing Charms;
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Then I will hereafter rest
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On the Pillows of her Breast.
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Thus you'll show your power and skill,
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Able both to save and kill;
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But to kill has always bin
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Held a most notorious Sin;
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For young Beauties which we love,
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Should be tender as the Dove.
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In sweet Groves we'll always dwell,
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With more Joys than tongue can tell;
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There the wanton then we'll play,
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Steal each others hearts away,
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Thus we will our Joys renew,
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And be constant and be true.
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Every Maiden which is fair,
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Should be gentle as the Air,
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When we to the power submit,
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To their Beauty and their Wit,
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Then their Charms will all men move,
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And will make them ever Love.
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