The Cure

Nymph.

What busy cares too timely born
(Young Swain!) disturb thy sleep?
Thy early sighs awake the Morn,
Thy tears teach her to weep.

Shepherd.

Sorrows, fair Nymph, are full alone;
Nor counsel can endure.

Nymph.

Yet thine disclose, for until known
Sickness admits no cure.

Shepherd.

My griefs are such as but to hear
Would poison all thy joys,
The pity which thou seem'st to bear
My health, thine own destroys.

Nymph.

How can diseaséd minds infect?
Say what thy grief doth move!

Shepherd.

Call up thy virtue to protect
Thy heart, and know 'twas love.

Nymph.

Fond Swain!

Shepherd.

By which I have been long
Destin'd to meet with hate.

Nymph.

Fy, Shepherd, fy: thou dost love wrong,
To call thy crime thy fate.

Shepherd.

Alas what cunning could decline
What force can love repel?

Nymph.

Yet, there 's a way to unconfine
Thy heart.

Shepherd.

For pity tell.

Nymph.

Choose one whose love may be allur'd
By thine: who ever knew
Inveterate diseases cur'd
But by receiving new?

Shepherd.

All will like her my soul perplex.

Nymph.

Yet try.

Shepherd.

Oh could there be,
But any softness in that sex,
I'd wish it were in thee.

Nymph.

Thy prayer is heard: learn now t' esteem
The kindness she hath shown,
Who thy lost freedom to redeem
Hath forfeited her own.