Loves Tyranny: OR, Death more welcome then Disdain.
Being the Tragedy of Leander
for the Love of Roxane.
Lovers beware, for in Loves Smiles the fates,
To Ruine two Adventurous Mortals waits;
Women like Syrens,
first with Charms allure,
Untill they Wound, then leave us without Cure:
Such fate
Leander founds, and for disdain,
Took Death's kind portion, which expell'd his pain:
To the Tune of,
Let the Critticks Adore, &c.
AH! how drousie's the Skies,
Now black Night does arise
From the Ocean;
And all the bright Fires,
Seem void of desires,
And of motion:
While my flames I do discover,
love charges my Breast,
Oh the Nymph there does hover,
that's my portion of Rest:
They'r creating a Desire,
and such hopes of a Bliss,
As my thoughts do inspire,
[...]She does leave me confin'd,
And as swift as the Wind,
she does flie me;
Whilst here all alone,
I do breath my sad moan,
she does try me:
Melted in feavors of Passion,
like a
Phoenix I'm fry'd,
So beyond alteration,
my fierce Torments abide:
And I straight am made Fuel,
to the Beams of her eyes,
Till each moment she grows cruel,
and my Flame does despise
The second Part,
to the same Tune.
WHile the beautious fair,
Does wound with dispair,
I must perish,
Vnless her bright face,
Will yield my Love place,
for to Cherish:
Oh! her Angel-bright beauty,
does so Charm with Delight,
That I think it my Duty,
through the shaddows of night:
For to follow her flying,
I, and sadly complain,
And implore her, still sighing,
for to ease my great pain.
And when Purple morning,
The Skies is adorning,
each Meander,
Of the wide Grove,
I importune for Love,
and do wander:
While as Eccho replies,
with a doleful harsh sound,
Thy
Roxane she now flies,
which like death's shafts wound:
So that still she's Creating
a Composser of Fate,
Which surpasses the relating
the wonders so great.
Oh I fear some one sips,
From her fair Corral Lips,
the sweet Necture,
While I sigh here in vain,
And to Woods do complain,
I neglect her:
Once more i'le arise,
from my mournful cold Bed,
Though with Charms that surprize,
she does strike me for dead:
I'le press on to those pleasures,
though I perish in Love,
Oh! those sacred Treasures,
do so powerful prove.
I'le no longer dispair,
Thus tormented with care,
and sad Fancies,
But clasp'd in her Arms,
There i'le perish with Charms,
and with Glances:
Oh 'tis better to be Dying,
then continually grieve,
Or at least for to be trying,
she perhaps may relieve
This so woful disaster,
that Love hath now wrought,
Or to drive an fate faster,
while to moan I am taught.
Or before 'tis too late,
I'le revive my sad state,
e're I slumber,
And in Death's cold shade,
For Ages am laid,
without number:
But O what now appears,
from yon Cypress Grove,
How revived are my fears,
'tis the Queen of my Love:
Ah! where fleets thou my joy,
what a vision was this,
So soon gone, to destroy
my short fancy of Bliss.
Oh! make room in the shades,
Lovers Ghosts for life fades,
and is flying;
Oh! i'le not always hear,
This Eternal dispair,
to be dying:
Then he drew his keen sword,
and cry'd thus with a wound,
I'le a Cure now afford,
that
Appollone'r found:
Oh! then into that Breast,
which Death could ne'r fright,
The fatal steel prest,
and his soul took flight.