A New SONG, called, Parthenia's Complaint On the Ingratitude of STREPHON.  
To a delicate new Tune.  
This may be Printed, R. P.  
AS on the dearest Strephon's Breast. Parthenia leaned her mournful Head,  
Expecting there she should have rest, by loving sighs, and thus she said:  
O Phoebus God of tuneful Strings, And Venus Queen of softest Fire,  
Thou God of all harmonious Things, inspire our Hearts with like desire.  

II.  
But when she found the Gods above,  
to ease her Pain no Cure applied,  
And Strephon backward of his love,  
then to herself Parthenia cried:  
Amongst Woods and Hills I'll mourn my Fate,  
to them of all my Wrongs complain;  
Theyll pity this my wretched State,  
and echo back my Woes again.   

III.  
Or to a pleasant myrtle shade,  
to ease my present Cares I'll go,  
A place which Nature only made,  
for Lovers to declare their Woe.  
There I'll ingrateful Strephon name,  
and tell the feathered Choir my Care:  
And in harmonious Notes proclaim,  
the endless cause of my Dispair.   

IV.  
Each day within a silent Bower,  
with Arms across, I'll sighing Muse;  
In private spend each restless hour,  
and busy Nature's Works peruse:  
But when the God of Sleep shall call,  
and all my pleasant Cares destroy,  
Upon the tender Grass I'll fall,  
and Dream of all my former joy.   

V.  
But when the glittering God of day  
expands his warm and cheerful Beams,  
And guilds with his delightful Ray  
the flowery Meads and purling Streams;  
Then Birds their lazy slumber scorn,  
delighted with approaching day,  
And welcome in the glorious Morn,  
with notes will melt my cares away.   

VI  
My dearest Strephon, Ah, Return!  
ye Gods with Love his Heart inspire,  
Ah, hear the wronged Parthenia mourn,  
and quench the Heart you've set on fire!  
If you continue thus unkind,  
Parthenia must unhappy be  
And to her last hour be-confined  
within the bounds of misery.   

VII.  
Ingreateful Strephon, how could you  
the kind Pathenia's Love implore,  
Now causeless bid the Nymph adieu,  
whom you so highly loved before?  
But when my tender Soul shall fly  
tothth' lofty Regions of the Just,  
No thought of Love shall you enjoy  
when I lie stifled in the Dust.    

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in Pie-corner.