A Pastoral Dialogue BETWEEN ALEXIS and STREPHON, Written by the Right Honourable, The Late Earl of Rochester. At the BATH, 1674.  Alex. 

I.  
THere sighs not on the Plain  
So lost a Swain as I;  
Scorchted up with Love, frozen with Disdain.  
Of kill Sweetness I complain.   Streph. 
If 'tis Corinna, die.  

II.  
Since first my dazzled Eyes were thrown  
On that bewitching Face,  
Like ruin'd Birds, robbed of their Young,  
Lamenting, frighted, and alone,  
I fly from place to place.   

III.  
Framed by some Cruel Powers 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.   Alex. 

IV.  
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.   

V.  
Proud and ill-natured Powers they are,  
Who peevish to Mankind,  
For their own Honour's sake, with Care,  
Make a sweet Form divinely Fair,  
And adds a Cruel Mind.   Streph. 

VI  
Since she's insensible of Love,  
By Honour taught to hate,  
If we, forced by Decrees above,  
Must sensible to Beauty prove,  
How Tyrannous is Fate?   Alex. 

VII.  
I to the Nymph have never named  
The Cause of all my pain.   Streph. 
Such Bashfulness may well be blamed;  
For since to serve we're not ashamed,  
Why should she blush to Reign?  Alex. 

VIII.  
But if her haughty Heart despise  
My humble proffered One,  
The just Compassion she denies,  
I may obtain from other's Eyes;  
Hers are not Fair alone.   

IX.  
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.   Streph. 
Wouldst live, when Love is lost?  

X.  
Be dead before thy Passion dies;  
For if thou shouldst survive,  
What Anguish would the Heart surprise,  
To see her Flames begin to rise,  
And Thine no more Alive.   Alex. 

XI.  
Rather what Pleasure should I meet  
In my Triumphant scorn,  
To see my Tyrant at my Feet;  
Whilst taught by her, unmoved I sit  
A Tyrant in my Turn.   Streph. 

XII.  
Ungentle Shepherd, cease for shame;  
Which way can you pretend  
To merit so Divine a Flame,  
Who to dull Life makes a mean Claim,  
When Love is at an End?   

XIII.  
As Trees are by their Bark embraced,  
Love to my Soul doth cling;  
When torn by th' Herd's greedy Taste,  
The injured Plants feel they're defaced,  
They whither in the Spring.   

XIV.  
My rifled Love would soon retire,  
Dissolving into Air,  
Should I that Nymph cease to admire,  
Blest in whose Arms I will expire,  
Or at her Feet despair.    

LONDON▪ 〈…〉