The Surprizal. I'th' narrowest walk of a close Grove, Whom shou'd I chance to meet but Love? I seiz'd the Elf, and said — At last I've caught thee, and I'l hold thee fast. Now by thy Mothers Doves and Sparrows, I'l rob thee of thy Bow and Arrows; I'l chain Thee up and clip thy Wings, Or Strangle Thee in thy own Strings, If thou refuse me to relate The Grounds of my Olinda's Hate. Then thus the Boy reply'd — Fond Swain, Vex not your self and me in Vain: Your Love as noble is and brave As ere this Bow and Quiver gave; But that Olinda flights your Flame, Nor Thou, nor I, nor She's too Blame. Weigh Circumstances, and you'l find She's of Necessity Unkind: She's Mortal, therefore never can Commiserate a suff'ring Swain; For such refin'd Perfections shine In Her, that cou'd She but Incline To Pitty Men, She were Divine!