Текст оригинала на английском языке
A Pastoral Dialogue Between Alexis and Strephon
Written at the Bath, in the Year 1674. ALEXIS. THERE sighs not on the Plain So lost a Swain as I; Scorch'd up with Love, froz'n with Disdain, Of killing Sweetness I complain. STREPHON. If 'tis Corrinna, die. Since first my dazzled Eyes were thrown On that bewitching Face, Like ruin'd Birds robb'd of their Young, Lamenting, frighted, and undone, I fly from Place to Place. Fram'd by some cruel Pow'rs above, So Nice she is, and Fair; None from Undoing can remove, Since all, who are not blind, must Love; Who are not vain, Despair. ALEXIS. The Gods no sooner give a Grace, But, fond of their own Art, Severely Jealous, ever place, To guard the Glories of a Face, A Dragon in the Heart. Proud and Ill-natured Pow'rs they are, Who, peevish to Mankind, For their own Honour's sake, with care Make a sweet Form divinely fair, Then add a cruel Mind. ALEXIS. Since she's insensible of Love, By Honour taught to hate; If we, forc'd by Decrees above, Must sensible to Beauty prove, How tyrannous is Fate? I to the Nymph have never nam'd The Cause of all my Pain. STREPHON. Such Bashfulness may well be blam'd; For since to Serve we're not asham'd, Why should she blush to Reign? ALEXIS. But if her haughty Heart despise My humble proffer'd one; The just Compassion she denies, I may obtain from others' Eyes; Hers are not fair alone. Devouring Flames require new Food; My Heart's consumed almost: New Fires must kindle in her Blood, Or mine go out, and that's as good. STREPHON. Wou'dst live, when Love is lost? Be dead before thy Passion dies; For if thou shou'dst survive, What Anguish would thy Heart surprize, To see her Flames begin to rise, And thine no more alive? ALEXIS. Rather what Pleasure should I meet In my Triumphant Scorn, To see my Tyrant at my Feet; While taught by her, unmov'd I sit A Tyrant in my turn. STREPHON. Ungentle Shepherd! cease, for shame; Which way can you pretend To merit so Divine a Flame, Who to dull Life make a mean Claim, When Love is at an End? As Trees are by their Bark embrac'd, Love to my Soul doth cling; When torn by the Herd's greedy Taste, The injur'd Plants feel they're defac'd, They wither in the Spring. My rifled Love would soon retire, Dissolving into Air, Shou'd I that Nymph cease to admire, Bless'd in whose Arms I will expire, Or at her Feet despair.
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