Songs

Amintor, heedless of his flocks,
His flocks which once employ’d his care,
Now strays himself among the rocks
And to ’s sorrow adds despair.
‘Oh! cruel Clarissa,’ cries he, ‘you forbid me
Your sight, when you know ’twas your eyes that undid me;
Pray revoke the sad fate to which I am doom’d
Or else in these flames I shall soon be consum’d.’
Then up he took his pipe and play’d,
And gently with the passion strove,
But straight the reed aside he laid,
To sing of his neglected love.
If ever poor man that was wrack’d in despair
Prevail’d on the cruel, or soften’d the fair;
Then pity, Clarissa, oh! pity the swain,
Whose life’s but a torment, till you cure his pain.

Then down he laid him on the ground,
His cares inclining him to sleep,
But he much rather troubles found,
That wretched lovers waking keep.
Then as if from some dream in a maze he came,
He started, and started, and call’d on her name,
‘Return, my Clarissa, or else you’ll undo me,
For sleeping and waking my griefs do pursue me.’