Love's Tyranny: OR, Death more welcome than Disdain.  
Being the Tragedy of Leander for the Love of Roxane.  

Lovers beware, for in Loves Smiles the fates,  
To Ruin two Adventurous Mortals waits;  
Women like Sirens, first with Charms allure,  
Until they Wound, then leave us without Cure:  
Such fate Leander found'st, and for disdain,  
Took Death's kind portion, which expelled his pain:   
To the Tune of, Let the Critics Adore, etc.  
 
 
 

AH! how drousie's the Skies,  
Now black Night does arise  
From the Ocean;  
And all the bright Fires,  
Seem void of desires,  
And of motion:  
While my flames I do discover,  
love charges my Breast,  
Oh the Nymph there does hover,  
that's my portion of Rest:  
They're creating a Desire,  
and such hopes of a Bliss,  
As my thoughts do inspire,   

She does leave me confined,  
And as swift as the Wind,  
she does fly me;  
Whilst here all alone,  
I do breath my sad moan,  
she does try me:  
Melted in favours of Passion,  
like a Phoenix I'm fried,  
So beyond alteration,  
my fierce Torments abide:  
And I strait am made Fuel,  
to the Beams of her eyes,  
Till each moment she grows cruel,  
and my Flame does despise   

The second Part,  
to the same Tune.  

WHile the beauteous fair,  
Does wound with despair,  
I must perish,  
Unless her bright face,  
Will yield my Love place,  
for to Cherish:  
Oh! her Angel-bright beauty,  
does so Charm with Delight,  
That I think it my Duty,  
through the shadows of night:  
For to follow her flying,  
I, and sadly complain,  
And implore her, still sighing,  
for to ease my great pain.   

And when Purple morning,  
The Skies is adorning,  
each Meander,  
Of the wide Grove,  
I importune for Love,  
and do wander:  
While as Echo replies,  
with a doleful harsh sound,  
Thy Roxane she now flies,  
which like death's shafts wound:  
So that still she's Creating  
a Composser of Fate,  
Which surpasses the relating  
the wonders so great.   

Oh I fear some one sips,  
From her fair Coral Lips,  
the sweet Necture,  
While I sigh here in vain,  
And to Woods do complain,  
I neglect her:  
Once more i'll arise,  
from my mournful cold Bed,  
Though with Charms that surprise,  
she does strike me for dead:  
I'll press on to those pleasures,  
though I perish in Love,  
Oh! those sacred Treasures,  
do so powerful prove.   

I'll no longer despair,  
Thus tormented with care,  
and sad Fancies,  
But clasped in her Arms,  
There i'll perish with Charms,  
and with Glances:  
Oh 'tis better to be Dying,  
then continually grieve,  
Or at least for to be trying,  
she perhaps may relieve  
This so woeful disaster,  
that Love hath now wrought,  
Or to drive an fate faster,  
while to moan I am taught.   

Or before 'tis too late,  
I'll revive my sad state,  
ere I slumber,  
And in Death's cold shade,  
For Ages am laid,  
without number:  
But O what now appears,  
from yond Cypress Grove,  
How revived are my fears,  
'tis the Queen of my Love:  
Ah! where fleets thou my joy,  
what a vision was this,  
So soon gone, to destroy  
my short fancy of Bliss.   

Oh! make room in the shades,  
Lovers Ghosts for life fades,  
and is flying;  
Oh! i'll not always hear,  
This Eternal despair,  
to be dying:  
Then he drew his keen sword,  
and cried thus with a wound,  
I'll a Cure now afford,  
that Appollone'r found:  
Oh! then into that Breast,  
which Death could ne'er fright,  
The fatal steel pressed,  
and his soul took flight.