Daphne's Answer to Sylvia, declaring she
 should esteem all as Enemies, 
 who should talk to her of LOVE.

THEN, to the snowy Ewe, in thy esteem, 
The Father of the Flock a Foe must seem, 
The faithful Turtles to their yielding Mates. 
The cheerful Spring, which Love and Joy creates, 
That reconciles the World by soft Desires, 
And tender Thoughts in ev'ry Breast inspires, 
To you a hateful Season must appear, 
Whilst Love prevails, and all are Lovers here. 
Observe the gentle Murmurs of that Dove, 
And see, how billing she confirms her Love! 
For this, the Nightingale displays her Throat, 
And Love, Love, Love, is all her Ev'ning Note. 
The very Tygers have their tender Hours, 
And prouder Lyons bow beneath Love's Pow'rs. 
Thou, prouder yet than that imperious Beast, 
Alone deny'st him Shelter in thy Breast. 
But why should I the Creatures only name 
That Sense partake, as Owners of this Flame? 
Love farther goes, nor stops his Course at these: 
The Plants he moves, and gently bends the Trees. 
See how those Willows mix their am'rous Boughs; 
And, how that Vine clasps her supporting Spouse! 
The silver Firr dotes on the stately Pine; 
By Love those Elms, by Love those Beeches join. 

But view that Oak; behold his rugged Side: 
Yet that rough Bark the melting Flame do's hide. 
All, by their trembling Leaves, in Sighs declare 
And tell their Passions to the gath'ring Air. 
Which, had but Love o'er Thee the least Command, 
Thou, by their Motions, too might'st understand. 



 AMINTOR, being ask'd by THIRSIS 
 Who is the Object of his Love? 
 speaks as follows.

Amint. THIRSIS! to Thee I mean that Name to show, 
Which, only yet our Groves, and Fountains know: 
That, when my Death shall through the Plains be told, 
Thou with the wretched Cause may'st that unfold 
To every-one, who shall my Story find 
Carv'd by thy Hand, in some fair Beeches rind; 
Beneath whose Shade the bleeding Body lay: 
That, when by chance she shall be led that way, 
O'er my sad Grave the haughty Nymph may go, 
And the proud Triumph of her Beauty shew 
To all the Swains, to Strangers as they pass; 
And yet at length she may (but Oh! alas! 
I fear, too high my flatt'ring Hopes do soar) 
Yet she at length may my sad Fate deplore; 
May weep me Dead, may o'er my Tomb recline, 
And sighing, wish were he alive and Mine! 
But mark me to the End?
 Thir. Go on; for well I do thy Speech attend, 
Perhaps to better Ends, than yet thou know'st. 
 Amint. Being now a Child, or but a Youth at most, 
When scarce to reach the blushing Fruit I knew, 
Which on the lowest bending Branches grew; 
Still with the dearest, sweetest, kindest Maid 
Young as myself, at childish Sports I play'd. 
The Fairest, sure, of all that Lovely Kind, 
Who spread their golden Tresses to the Wind; 
Cydippe's Daughter, and Montano's Heir, 
Whose Flocks and Herds so num'rous do appear; 
The beauteous Sylvia; She, 'tis She I love, 
Warmth of all Hearts, and Pride of ev'ry Grove. 
With Her I liv'd, no Turtles e'er so fond. 
Our Houses met, but more our Souls were join'd. 
Together Nets for Fish, and Fowl we laid; 
Together through the spacious Forest stray'd; 
Pursu'd with equal Speed the flying Deer, 
And of the Spoils there no Divisions were. 
But whilst I from the Beasts their Freedom won, 
Alas! I know not how, my Own was gone. 
By unperceiv'd Degrees the Fire encreas'd, 
Which fill'd, at last, each corner of my Breast; 
As from a Root, tho' scarce discern'd so small, 
A Plant may rise, that grows amazing tall. 
From Sylvia's Presence now I could not move, 
And from her Eyes took in full Draughts of Love, 
Which sweetly thro' my ravish'd Mind distill'd; 
Yet in the end such Bitterness wou'd yield, 
That oft I sigh'd, ere yet I knew the cause, 
And was a Lover, ere I dream'd I was. 
But Oh! at last, too well my State I knew; 
And now, will shew thee how this Passion grew. 
Then listen, while the pleasing Tale I tell. 



 THIRSIS persuades AMINTOR not to despair upon the 
 redictions of Mopsus discov'ring him to be an Impostor.

Thirsis. Why dost thou still give way to such Despair! 
 Amintor. Too just, alas! the weighty Causes are. 
Mopsus, wise Mopsus, who in Art excels, 
And of all Plants the secret Vertue tells, 
Knows, with what healing Gifts our Springs abound, 
And of each Bird explains the mystick Sound; 
'Twas He, ev'n He! my wretched Fate foretold. 
 Thir. Dost thou this Speech then of that Mopsus hold, 
Who, whilst his Smiles attract the easy View, 
Drops flatt'ring Words, soft as the falling Dew; 
Whose outward Form all friendly still appears, 
Tho' Fraud and Daggers in his Thoughts he wears, 
And the unwary Labours to surprize 
With Look