Amintor's lamentation 〈…〉  
Setting forth the passion of a Young man, who falling in love with a coy Lady that had no kindness for him, pursued his inclinations so far, that she was forced to fly beyond Sea, to avoid the importunity of his Address, whereupon he thus complains.  
Both Sexes from this Song may learn,  
of what they should beware:  
How in extremes they may discern,  
Unkindness and despair.  
To a delicate New Tune: Or, Since Celia's my foe.  
 

SInce Celia's my Foe,  
To a Desert I'll go,  
Where some River  
for ever  
shall echo my Woe!  
The Trees will appear  
More relenting than her,  
In the morning,  
adorning,  
each Leaf with a tear.  
When I make my sad moan,  
To the Rocks all alone,  
From each hollow  
Will follow  
some pitiful groan:  
But with silent disdain,  
She requites all my pain:  
To my mourning,  
returning,  
no answer again.   

O why was I born,  
To a Fate so forlorn,  
To inherit,  
Not merit  
her anger, or scorn:  
My affection is such,  
As no blemish can touch,  
Yet i'm slighted,  
and spighted  
for loving too much.  
Perhaps could I prove,  
More unjust to my love,  
I might find her,  
yet kinder,  
and pity might move,  
But i'll choose to obey,  
Tho' I die by the way;  
Yet 'tis better,  
Than get her,  
by going astray.   
 
 
 

Then why should you fly,  
My fair Celia? O why?  
When to please ye  
'tis casse,  
for Amintas to die.  
If your Lover you'd shun,  
You no danger shall run,  
Him you banish  
will vanish,  
And from you he gone.  
Stay Celia unkind,  
Will you leave me behind,  
Let me enter,  
and venture  
myself with the Wind.  
Ah! from me will you part,  
Who so love your desert,  
Either tarry,  
Or carry  
your slave with his heart.  
Were you but secure,  
I'd your absence endure,  
Were all danger  
a stranger  
to Virgins so pure:  
But some insolent wave,  
May your merit out brave,  
Both regardless,  
and careless  
What virtues you have.   

Yet Storms shall not dare,  
To assault one so fair,  
To attend you  
i'll send you,  
sighs softer than air:  
The Nymphs of the Deep,  
My dear Celia shall keep,  
On a Pillow,  
each Billow  
Shall lull you asleep.  
The Seas they shall dance,  
And the Winds shall advance,  
With your Galley  
To dally,  
and guide you to France;  
While I from the Shore,  
My fair Idol adore;  
Till that Neptune  
your Captain,  
Hath wafted you o'er.  
Then Celia adieu,  
When I cease to pursue,  
You'll discover  
No Lover  
was ever so true,  
Your sad Shepherd flies  
From those dear cruel eyes,  
Which not seeing  
his being,  
Decays and he dies.   

Yet 'tis better to run  
To the fates we can't shun,  
Then for ever  
T'endeavor  
what cannot be won:  
What ye Gods have I done  
That Amintor alone,  
Is thus treated,  
and hated  
for loving but one?  
And thus I complain,  
Tho 'tis all but in vain,  
Yet the trouble  
is double,  
to stifle my pain:  
The Sea or the Shore,  
I as well might implore,  
They're as moving,  
and loving  
as her I adore.  
Then since 'tis the fate  
Of my wretched estate,  
Without pity,  
'Tis fit I  
submit to her hate.  
For as Winter comes on  
When Apollo is gone,  
So declining,  
and pining,  
She leaves me alone.    

Printed for P. Brooksby, near the Hospital-gate in West-smithfield.