Away I'll go into fome fhady Bowers,
And fing the Songs I made in happier hours,
And charm my woes. How can I better chufe,
Than amongst wildest Woods my self to lose,
And carve our Loves upon the tender Tree;
There they will thrive. See how my Loves agree
With the young Plants: look how they grow together,
In fpight of abfence, and in fpight of Weather.
Mean while, I'll climb that Rock, and ramble o'er
Yon woody Hill; I'll chafe the grizly Boar,
I'll find Diana's and her Nymphs refort;

No Frofts, no Storms, fhall flack my eager Sport.
Methinks I'm wandring all about the Rocks
And hollow founding Woods: look how my Locks
Are torn with Boughs and Thorns; my Shafts are
My Legs are tir'd, and all my Sport is done, [gone,
Alas! this is no cure for my Disease ;

Nor can our toils that angry God appease.
Now neither Nymphs, nor Songs can please me more,
Nor hollow Woods, nor yet the chafed Boar :
No fport, no labour, can divert my Grief:
Without Lycoris there is no relief.

Though I fhould drink up Heber's Icy ftreams,
Or Scythian Snows, yet fill her fiery Beams
Would fcorch me up. Whatever we can prove,
Love conquers all, and we muft yield to Love.

The End of the FIRST PART,