Cupid's Tragedy: EIBNG Corydon's Courtship; Or, Philomel's Exaltation.  
To the Tune of, The new Bory; Or, Will you be a Man of Fashion.  
 
 

Pretty Phillomel was so Charming,  
so much sweetness graced each part:  
All her actions so alarming,  
so much goodness in her heart:  
That who ever saw this fair one,  
needs her Votary must be:  
She, ah! she, is Nature's dear one,  
and I fear no less to me.   

Every smile was so betraying,  
in each look a Plot she laid:  
This I knew, yet was obeying,  
though I saw each Ambuscade.  
And, to show my forward duty,  
needs must venture in her sight,  
Till her Sentinels of Beauty  
struck me blind with too much light.   

In this Transport, like a creature,  
with too sudden joy o'ercome,  
Gazed upon this lovely Creature,  
till with ecstasy struck dumb:  
Yet my posture did discover  
that I was her humble Slave,  
And I found she liked her Lover,  
by a Signal that she gave.   
 
 

WHen I saw my Pardon granted.  
straight I did approach her han●  
Kissed and sighed, and sighed and panted,  
all my senses were at stand:  
Then she laughed, and plainly told me  
I more manly would appear:  
And caress a Nymph more boldly,  
if that Phillis were but there.   

But if Corydon will leave her,  
Phillis need not to despair,  
Young Alexis will receive her,  
and your Choice will be less fair.  
Search the Groves and every Bower,  
set the Nymphs all on a row:  
Phillis is of a●l the Flower,  
and does bend the sharpest Bow.   

Ah, said I, divinest Creature,  
that the Powers above e'er made:  
Do not wrong the Gods and Nature,  
but repent of what you've said:  
Phillis does not think so vainly,  
for to give the Maid her due:  
Oft she's said the Gods that made you,  
does admire themselves in you.   

Coridon, quoth she, your praises,  
if you love do not displease:  
But I know a Shepherd's phrases  
can dissemble a Disease:  
If my Beauty has the power  
to attract to brave a Swain:  
Walk with me to yonder Bower,  
I will gratify your aim.   

Strephon all this while lay panting  
in a Cave, where he could hear  
Her too easy heart consenting,  
what he begged for many a year.  
Out he rushed from forth the Thicket,  
with his javelin he run  
In poor Coridon did strike it,  
die, said he, thou happy Man.   

When poor philomel saw him bleeding,  
stretched along upon the ground:  
From her eyes the tears succeeding,  
with which she washed the bloody wound.  
Wrung her hands, and tore her hair,  
sighed that ever she was born:  
Coridon, quoth she, my Dear,  
do not leave me thus forlorn.   

Thus poor philomel in distraction  
called on her loved Coridon:  
Prayed the Gods for satisfaction,  
through her heart a Poniard run.  
Thus, said she, the Gods deliver  
those that in true love do join:  
Thine, dear Coridon, thine for ever,  
thou in life and death art mine.   
FINIS.   

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-ball, in West-smithfield.