And neerer when he did repaire, Both face and voyce he knew, Her plaints for to renew: Amintas, is my loue to thee Where those the oaths that thou didst make, The vowes thou didst conceiue, When I, for thy contentment's fake, How oft didft thou proteft to me, Ere thou wouldst change thy thought? And woe is me therefore. Well might I, if I had been wife, All thy behauiours were (God knowes) Thine oathз and vowes did promise more Then well thou couldst performe, Much like a calme that comes before An unexpected ftorme. God knowes, it would not grieue me mnch For to be kill'd for thee: But oh! too neere it doth me touch, That thou fhouldft murder mee; Amyntas, tell me, if thou may, If any fault of mine Hath giuen thee caufe thus to betray Mine hearts delight and thine? But ah, alas! what doe I gaine, With that her hand, cold, wan, and pale, Upon her breft fhe layes, And feeing that her breath did faile, That after that fhe neuer fayd, Nor figh'd nor breath'd no more. Q C THE DEBT O R. BY SIR JOHN MOORE. HILDREN of affluence, hear a poor man's pray'r! O hafte, and free me from this dungeon's gloom; Let not the hand of comfortless despair Sink my grey hairs with forrow to the tomb! Unus'd compaffion's tribute to demand, With clamorous din wake charity's dull car, Far different thoughts employ'd my early hours, But ah, how quick the change!, the morning gleam, Fled like the gairifh pageant of a dream, Such is the lot of human blifs below; Fond hope awhile the trembling flow'ret rears; 'Till unforeseen defcends the blight of wøe, And withers in an hour the pride of years. In evil hour, to fpecious wiles a prey, I trusted;-(who from faults is always free?) And the fhort progress of one fatal day Was all the space 'twixt wealth and poverty. Where could I feek for comfort or for aid? Too late I found the wretched have no friend! E'en he, amid the reft, the favour'd youth, And left my child in folitude to mourn. Pity in vain ftretch'd forth her feeble hand Though deeply hurt, yet, fwayed by decent pride, She hufh'd her forrows with becoming art, And faintly ftrove with fickly fmiles to hide The canker-worm that prey'd upon her heart. |