Another of the same

At what a wild malicious rate,
Blind, cruel Deity,
Do thy keen Arrows fly!
Sure th' art not God of Love, but Hate,
Bold Tyrant-Child, that can'st endure
To make a Wound admits no Cure.

An Happiness can wait upon
Strangers, that distant are,
As North and Southern Star,
But we, though born under one Zone,
Who in one Root, one Cradle lay,
In Love must be less blest than they.

Ah! that's the cause why we must run,
Like streams sprung from one Source,
Each in a various course,
The fiction Incest so to shun:
When better, that we mixt, it were,
Than other Rivers ravish't her.
But I'll pursue her, till our floods agree,
Alpheus I, and Arethusa she.