A SONG

AS Am'rous Corydon was laid
I'th' shady Myrtle Grove;
Thus did his Words his Sighs upbraid,
For telling of his Love.
Ah Trayterous Rebels, without sence,
Of what her Scorn can doe;
'Tis I must dye for your offence,
And be thought guilty too.

Nor can I blame ill Fate, for this
My wretched hopeless state;
Nor yet Philena's Cruelties,
Who kills me with her hate.
But your audacious Villani•s
Occasions this my fall;
Else I had dy'd a Sacrifice,
But now a Criminal.