Cupids Tragedy: EIBNG Corydon's Courtship; Or, Philomels Exaltation.
To the Tune of,
The new Bory; Or,
Will you be a Man of Fashion.
[...]
[...]
PRitty
Phillomel was so Charming,
so much sweetness grac'd each part:
All her actions so allarming,
so much goodness in her heart:
That who ever saw this fair one,
needs her Votary must be:
She, ah! she, is Natures dear one,
and I fear no less to me.
Every smile was so betraying,
in each look a Plot she laid:
This I knew, yet was obeying,
though I saw each Ambuscade.
And, to shew my forward duty,
needs must venture in her sight,
Till her Centinels of Beauty
struck me blind with too much light.
In this Transport, like a creature,
with too sudden joy o'recome,
Gaz'd upon this lovely Creature,
till with extasie struck dumb:
Yet my posture did discover
that I was her humble Slave,
And I found she lik'd her Lover,
by a Signal that she gave.
WHen I saw my Pardon granted.
streight I did approach her han
[...]
Kist and sigh'd, and sigh'd and panted,
all my sences were at stand:
Then she laught, and plainly told me
I more manly would appear:
And carress a Nymph more boldly,
if that
Phillis were but there.
But if
Corydon will leave her,
Phillis need not to despair,
Young
Alexis will receive her,
and your Choice will be less fair.
Search the Groves and every Bower,
set the Nymphs all on a row:
Phillis is of a
[...]l the Flower,
and does bend the sharpest Bow.
Ah, said I, divinest Creature,
that the Powers above e're made:
Do not wrong the Gods and Nature,
but repent of what you've said:
Phillis does not think so vainly,
for to give the Maid her due:
Oft she's said the Gods that made you,
does admire themselves in you.
Coridon, quoth she, your praises,
if you love do not displease:
But I know a Shepherds phrases
can dissemble a Disease:
If my Beauty has the power
to attract to brave a Swain:
Walk with me to yonder Bower,
I will gratifie your aim.
Strephon all this while lay panting
in a Cave, where he could hear
Her too easie heart consenting,
what he begg'd for many a year.
Out he rusht from forth the Thicket,
with his Iavelin he run
In poor
Coridon did strike it,
dye, said he, thou happy Man.
When poor
philomel saw him bleeding,
stretcht along upon the ground:
From her eyes the tears succeeding,
with which she washt the bloody wound.
Wrung her hands, and tore her hair,
sigh'd that ever she was born:
Coridon, quoth she, my Dear,
do not leave me thus forlorn.
Thus poor
philomel in distraction
call'd on her lov'd
Coridon:
Pray'd the Gods for satisfaction,
thorough her heart a Poniard run.
Thus, said she, the Gods deliver
those that in true love do joyn:
Thine, dear
Coridon, thine for ever,
thou in life and death art mine.
FINIS.
Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-ball, in West-smithfield.