SONG.
Amyntas go, thou art undone, Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate; That love is better not begun, Where love is come to love too late.[43]
Had she professed[44] hidden fires, Or show'd one[45] knot that tied her heart, I could have quench'd my first desires, And we had only met to part.
But, tyrant, thus to murder men, And shed a lover's harmless blood, And burn him in those flames again, Which he at first might have withstood.
Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weep Such sacred dew, with such pure[46] grace; Durst think them feigned tears, or seek For treason in an angel's face.
This is her art, though this be true, Men's joys are kill'd with[47] griefs and fears, Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew, Doth thrive and flourish in her tears.
This, cruel, thou hast done, and thus That face hath many servants slain, Though th' end be not to ruin us, But to seek glory by our pain.[48]
[43] MS. Whose pure offering comes too late.
[44] MS. profess'd her.
[45] MS. the.
[46] MS. such a.
[47] MS. by.
[48]
MS. Your aime is sure to ruine us. Seeking your glory by our paine