Away I'll go into fome fhady Bowers,
And sing the Songs I made in happier hours,
And charm my woes. How can I better chuse,
Than amongst wildest Woods my self to lose,
And carve our Loves upon the tender Tree;
There they will thrive. See how my Loves agree
With the young Plants: look how they grow together,
In spight of absence, and in spight of Weather.
Mean while, I'll climb that Rock, and ramble o'er
Yon woody Hill; I'll chase the grizly Boar,
I'll find Diana's and her Nymphs refort;

No Frofts, no Storms, shall slack my eager Sport.
Methinks I'm wandring all about the Rocks
And hollow founding Woods: look how my Locks
Are torn with Boughs and Thorns; my Shafts are
My Legs are tir'd, and all my Sport is done. [gone,
Alas! this is no cure for my Disease ;

Nor can our toils that angry God appease.
Now neither Nymphs, nor Songs can please me more,
- Nor hollow Woods, nor yet the chafed Boar:
No fport, no labour, can divert my Grief:
Without Lycoris there is no relief.

Though I should drink up Heber's Icy ftreams,
Or Scythian Snows, yet fill her fiery Beams
Would scorch me up. Whatever we can prove,
Love conquers all, and we must yield to Love.

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