Song (Fie pretty Doris! weep no more)

Fie pretty Doris! weep no more,
Damon is doubtless safe on shoar,
Despight of wind and wave;
The life is Fate-free that you cherish,
And 'tis unlike he now should perish
You once thought fit to save.

Dry (Sweet) at last, those twins of light,
Which whilst ecclips'd, with us 'tis night,
And all of us are blind:
The tears that you so freely shed,
Are both too pretious for the Dead,
And for the Quick too kind.

Fie, pretty Doris! sigh no more,
The Gods your Damon will restore,
From Rocks and Quick-sands free;
Your wishes will secure his way,
And doubtless he, for whom you pray,
May laugh at Destiny.

Still then those Tempests of your breast,
And set that pretty heart at rest,
The man will soon return;
Those sighs for Heav'n are only fit,
Arabian Gums are not so sweet,
Nor Off'rings when they burn.

On him you lavish grief in vain,
Can't be lamented, nor complain,
Whilst you continue true:
That man's disaster is above,
And needs no pitty, that does love
And is belov'd by you.