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No morning-banish'd darkness, nor black night
By her alternate course expell'd the day,
In which Philetus by a constant rite
At Cupid’s altars did not weep and pray;
And yet he nothing reap'd for all his pain,
But care and sorrow was his only gain.

But now at last the pitying god, o'ercome
By constant votes and tears, fix’d in her heart
A golden shaft, and she is now become
A suppliant to Love, that with like dart
He'd wound Philetus; does with tears implore
Aid from that power, she so much scorn'd be-
fore.

Little she thinks she kept Philetus' heart
In her scorch'd breast, because her own she gave
To him. Since either suffers equal smart,
And a like measure in their torments have :
His soul, his griefs, his fires, now her’s are grown:
Her heart, her mind, her love, is his alone.
Whilst thoughts 'gainst thoughts rise up in m
tiny, - -
She took a lute (being far from any ears)
And tun'd this song, posing that harmony
Which poets attribute to heavenly spheres.
Thus had she sung when her dear love was slain,
She'd surely call'd him back from Styx again.

THE SONG.

TO whom shall I my sorrows show 2
Not to Love, for he is blind:
And my Philetus doth not know
The inward torment of my mind.
And all these senseless walls, which are
Now round about me, cannot hear;

For, if they could, they sure would weep,
And with my griefs relent:
Unless their willing tears they keep,
Till I from Earth am sent.
Then I believe they’ll all deplore
My fate, since I taught them before.

I willingly would weep my store,
If th’ flood would land thy love,
My dear Philetus, on the shore
Of my heart; but, should'st thou prove
Afraid of flames, know the fires are
But bonfires for thy coming there.

THEN tears in envy of her speech did flow
From her fair eyes, as if it seem'd that there
Her burning flame had melted hills of snow,
And so dissolv'd them into many a tear;
Which, Nilus-like, did quickly overflow,
And quickly caus’d new serpent griefs to grow,

Here stay, my Muse; for if I should recite
Her mournful language, I should make you werp
Like her, a flood, and so not see to write
Such lines as I, and th’ age requires, to keep
Me from stern Death, or with victorious rhyme
Revenge their master's death, and conquer
Time.
By this time, chance and his own industry
Had help'd Philetus forward, that he grew
Acquainted with her brother, so that he
Might, by this means, his bright Constantia view;
And, as time serv'd, show her his misery:
This was the first act in his tragedy.

Thus to himself, sonth'd bv.his flattering state,
He said: “How shall I thank thee for this gain,
to Cupid! or reward my helping Fate,
Which sweetens all my sorrows, all my pain
What husbandinan would any pains refuse,
To reap at last such fruit, his labour's use?”

But, when he wisely weigh’d his doubtful state,
Seeing his griefs liuk’d like an endless chain
To following woes, he would when 'twas too late
Quench his hot flames, and idle love disdain.
But Cupid, when his heart was set on fire,
Had burnt his wings, who could not then retire.

The wounded youth and kind Philocrates
(So was her brother call’d) grew soon so dear,
Sotrue and constant in their amities,
And in that league so strictly joined were,
That death itself could not their friendship sever,
But, as they liv'd in love, they died together.

If one be melancholy, th' other's sad;
If one besick, the other's surely ill; o
And if Philetus any sorrow had,
Philocrates was partner in it still:
Pylades' soul, and mad Orestes', was
In these, if we believe Pythagoras.
Oft in the woods Philetus walks, and there
Exclaims against his fate, fate too unkind :
With speaking tears his griefs he doth declare,
And with sad sighs instructs the angry wind
To sigh; and did ev'n upon that prevail;
It groan'd to hear Philetus' mournful tale.
The crystal brooks, which gently run between
The shadowingtrees, and,as they through them pass,
Water the earth, and keep the meadows green,
Giving a colour to the verdant grass,
Hearing Philetus tell his woeful state,
In show of grief rum murmuring at his fate.

Philomel answers him again, and shows,
In her best language, her sad history,
And in a mournful sweetness tells her woes,
Denying to be pos'd in misery:
Constantia he, she Tereus, Tereus, cries;
With him both grief, and grief's expression, vies.

Philocrates must needs his sadness know,
Willing in ills, as well as joys, to share,
Nor will on then the name of friends bestow,
Who in light sport, not sorrow, partners are.
Wholeaves to guide the ship when storms arise,
Is guilty both of sin and cowardice.

But when his noble friend perceiv'd that he
Yielded to tyrant Passion shore and more,
Desirous to partake his malady,.
He watches him, in hope to cure his sore
By counsel, and recall the poisonous dart,
When it, alas! was fixed in his heart.

When in the woods, places best fit for care,
He to himself did his past griefs recite,
Th’obsequious friend straight follows him, and there
Doth hide himself from sad Philetus' sight;
Whothus exclaims (for a swoln heart wouldbreak,
Ifit for vent of sorrow might not speak):

* Oh! I am lost, not in this desert wood,
But in Love's pathless labyrinth; there I
My health, each joy and pleasure counted good,
Havelost, and, which is more, my liberty;
And now am forc'd to let him sacrifice
My heart, for rash believing of my eyes.

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“When years first styl'd me twenty, I began
To sport with catching snares that Love had set:
Like birds that flutter round the gin till ta'en,
Or the poor fly caught in Arachne's net,
Even so I sported with her beauty's light,
Till I at last grew blind with too much sight.

“First it came stealing on me, whilst I thought
*Twas easy to repel it; but as fire,
Though but a spark, soon into flames is brought,
So mine grew great, and quickly mounted higher;
Which so have scorch'd my love-struck soul,
that I
Still live in torment, yet each minute die.”

“Who is it,” said Philocrates, “can move With charming eyes such deep affection? I may perhaps assist you in your love; , Two can effect more than yourself alone. My counsel this thy errour may reclaim, Ormy salttears quenchthy destructive flame.”

“Nay,” said Philetus, “oft my eyes do flow
Like Nilus, when it scorns th' opposed shore;
Yet all the watery plenty I bestow,
Is to my flame an oil that feeds it more.
So fame reports o' th' Dodonéan spring,
That lightens all those which are put therein.

“’But, being you desire to know her, she
Is call’d.” (with that his eyes let fall a shower,
As if they fain would drown the memory
Of his life-keeper's name) “Constantia—” More
Grief would not let him utter; tears, the best
Expressers of true sorrow, spoke the rest.

To which his noble friend did thus reply:
“And was this all Whate'er your grief would ease,
Though a far greater task, believe’t, for thee
It should be soon done by Philocrates:
Think all your wish perform'd; but see,the day,
Tir'd with its heat, is hasting now away !”
Home from the silent woods Night bids them go :
But sad Philetus can no comfort find;
What in the day he fears of future woe,
At night in dreams, like truth, affrights his mind.
why dost thou vex him, Love? Could'st thou but
Thou would'st thyself Philetus' rival be. [see,

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But, if beyond those limits you demand, I must not answer, sir, nor understand.”

“Believeme, virtuous maiden! my desire
Is chaste and pious as thy virgin thought;
No flash of lust, 'tis no dishonest fire,
Which goes as soon as it was quickly brought;
But as thy beauty pure; which let not be
Eclipsed by disdain and cruelty"
“Oh! how shall I reply?” she cry’d, “thou 'st
My soul, and therefore take thy victory: [wou
Thy eyes and speeches have my heart o'ercome,
And if I should deny thee love, then I
Should be a tyrant to myself: that fire
Which is kept close burns with the greatestire.

“Yet do not count my yielding lightness, now;
Impute it rather to my ardent love;
Thy pleasing carriage won melong ago,
And pleading Beauty did my liking move; [might
Thy eyes, which draw like loadstones with their
The hardest hearts, won mine to leave me
quite.” *
“Oh! I am rapt above the reach,” said he,
“Of thought; my soul already feels the bliss [thee
Of Heaven: when, sweet, mythoughts once tax but
With any crime, may I lose all happiness
Is wish'd for: both your favour here, and dead,
May the just gods pour vengeance onmy head!”
Whilst he was speaking this (behold their fate :)
Constantia's father enter'd in the room,
When glad Philetus, ignorant of his state,
Kisses her cheeks, more red than setting Sun,
Orelse the Morn,blushingthroughclouds of water,
To see ascending Sol congratulate her.

Just as the guilty prisoner fearful stands,
Reading his fatal Theta in the brows
Of him who both his life and death commands,
Ere from his mouth he the sad sentence knows:
Such was his state to see her father come,
Nor wish'd-for, nor expected, in the room.

Th’ enrag'd old man bids him no more to dare
Such bold intrusion in that house, nor be
At any time with his lov'd daughter there,
Till he had given him such authority:
But to depart, since she her love did show him,
Was living death, with lingering torments, to him.
This being known to kind Philocrates,
He chears his friend, bidding him banish fear,
And by some letter his griev'd mind appease,
And show her that which to her friendly ear
Time gave no leave to tell; and thus his quill
Declares to her the absentlover's will.

THE LETTER.

Philetus to constantia.

ITRUST, dear soul, my absence cannot move You to forget or doubt my ardent love: For, were there any means to see you, I Would run through death, and all the misery Fate could inflict; that so the world might say, In life and death I lov'd Constantia. Then let not, dearest sweet, our absence part Our loves, but each breast keep the other's heart; Give warmth to one another, till there rise From all our labours and our industries The long-expected fruits: have patience, sweet! There's no man whom the summer pleasures greet

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