The Fortunate Complaint.

As Strephon in a wither'd Cypress Shade,
 For anxious Thought, and sighing Lovers made
 Revolving lay upon his wretched State,
 And the hard Usage of too partial Fate;
 Thus the sad Youth complain'd, once happy Swain
 Now the most abject Shepherd of the Plain:
 Where's that harmonious Consort of Delights,
 Those peaceful Days, and pleasurable Nights;
 That generous Mirth, and noble Jollity,
 Which gayly made the Dancing Minutes flee? 
Dispers'd, and banish'd from my troubl'd Breast? 
Nor leave me one short Interval of Rest. 

Why do I prosecute a hopeless Flame,
 And play in Torment, such a losing Game;
 All things conspire to make my Ruin sure;
 When Wounds are Mortal they admit no Cure. 
But Heav'n sometimes does a mirac'lous thing,
 When our last Hope is just upon the Wing;
 And in a Moment drives those Clouds away,
 Whose sullen Darkness hid a glorious Day. 

Why was I born, or why do I survive,
 To be made wretched only, kept alive? 
Fate is too cruel in the harsh Decree,
 That I must live, yet live in Misery. 
Are all its pleasing happy Moments gone,
 Must Strephon be unfortunate alone? 
On other Swains it lavishly bestows;
 On them each Nymph neglected Favour throws. 
They meet Compliance still in ev'ry Face,
 And lodge their Passions in a kind Embrace:
 Obtaining from the soft incurious Maid
 True Love for Counterfeit, and Gold for Lead. 
Success on Mævius always does attend;
 Inconstant Fortune, is his constant Friend:
 He levels blindly, yet the Mark does hit,
 And owes the Victory to Chance, not Wit. 
But let him conquer e'er one Blow be struck;
 I'd not be Mævius to have Maevius' Luck. 
Proud of my Fate, I would not change my Chains
 For all the Trophies purring Maevius gains,
 But rather still live Delia's Slave, than be
 Like Maevius silly, and like Maevius free. 
But he is happy; loves the common Road,
 And, Pack-horse like, joggs on beneath his Load:
 If Phyllis peevish, or unkind does prove,
 It ne'er disturbs his grave mechanick Love. 
A little Joy his languid Flame contents,
 And makes him easy under all Events. 
But when a Passion's noble and sublime,
 And higher still would every Moment climb;
 If 'tis accepted with a just Return,
 The Fire's immortal, will for ever burn;
 And with such Raptures fills the Lover's Breast,
 That Saints in Paradise are scarce more blest. 

But I lament my Miseries in vain,
 For Delia hears me pityless, complain. 
Suppose she pities, and believes me true;
 What Satisfaction can from thence accrue,
 Unless her Pity, makes her love me too? 
Perhaps she loves, ('tis but perhaps, I fear,
 For that's a Blessing can't be bought too dear,)
 If she has Scruples that oppose her Will,
 I must alas, be miserable still. 
Tho' if she loves, those Scruples soon will fly
 Before the Reas'nings of the Deity. 
For where Love enters, he will rule alone,
 And suffer no Copartner in his Throne:
 And those false Arguments, that would repel
 His high Injunctions, teach us to rebel. 

What Method can poor Strephon then propound,
 To cure the Bleeding of his fatal Wound:
 If she, who guided the vexatious Dart
 Resolves to cherish and increase the Smart? 
Go Youth, from these unhappy Plains remove,
 Leave the Pursuit of unsuccessful Love;
 Go, and to foreign Swains thy Griefs relate;
 Tell 'em the Cruelty of frowning Fate:
 Tell 'em the noble Charms of Delia's Mind,
 Tell 'em how fair, but tell 'em how unkind. 
And when few Years thou hast in Sorrow spent,
 (For sure they cannot be of large Extent,)
 In Prayers for her thou lov'st, resign thy Breath,
 And bless the Minute gives thee Ease, and Death. 

Here paus'd the Swain — When Delia driving by
 Her bleating Flocks to some fresh Pasture nigh,
 By Love directed, did her Steps convey
 Where Strephon, wrapt in silent Sorrows, lay. 
As soon as he perceiv'd the beauteous Maid,
 He rose to meet her, and thus, trembling, said. 

When humble Suppliants would the Gods appease,
 And in severe Afflictions beg for Ease;
 With constant Importunity they sue,
 And their Petitions ev'ry Day renew;
 Grow still more earnest as they are deny'd,
 Nor one well-weigh'd Expedient leave untry'd,
 Till Heav'n, those Blessings, they enjoy'd before,
 Not only does return; but gives 'em more. 

O, do not blame me, Delia! if I press
 So much, and with Impatience, for Redress. 
My pond'rous Griefs no Ease my Soul allow,
 For they are next t'intolerable now;
 How shall I then support 'em, when they grow
 To an Excess, to a distracting Woe? 
Since you're endow'd with a Celestial Mind,
 Relieve like Heaven, and like the Gods be kind. 
Did you perceive the Torments, I endure,
 Which you first caus'd, and you alone can cure:
 They would your Virgin Soul to Pity move;
 And pity may at last be chang'd to Love. 
Some Swains, I own, impose upon the Fair,
 And lead th' incautious Maid into a Snare. 
But let them suffer for their Perjury,
 And do not punish others Crimes in me,
 If there's so many of our Sex untrue;
 Yours should more kindly use the faithful few
 Tho' Innocence too oft incurs the Fate
 Of Guilt, and clears it self sometimes too late. 

Your Nature is to Tenderness inclin'd;
 And why to me, to me alone unkind? 
A common Love, by other Persons shown,
 Meets with a full Return, but mine has none:
 Nay scarce believ'd: tho' from Deceit as free,
 As Angels Flames, can for Archangels be. 
A Passion feign'd at no Repulse is griev'd;
 And values little if it ben't receiv'd;
 But Love sincere, resents the smallest Scorn,
 And the Unkindness does in secret mourn. 

Sometimes I please my self, and think you are
 Too good, to make me wretched by Despair. 
That Tenderness, which in your Soul is plac'd,
 Will move you to Compassion sure at last. 
But when I come to take a serious View
 Of my own Merits, I despond of you,
 For what can Delia, beauteous Delia see,
 To raise in her the least Esteem of me? 
I've nought that can encourage my Address,
 My Fortune's little; and my Worth is less. 
But if a Love of the sublimest Kind
 Can make Impressions on a gen'rous Mind:
 If all has real Value, that's Divine,
 There cannot be a nobler Flame than mine. 

Perhaps you pity me: I know you must,
 And my Affection can no more distrust:
 But what, Alas! will helpless Pity do? 
You pity, but you may despise me too. 
Still I am wretched, if no more you give,
 The starving Orphan can't on Pity live,
 He must receive the Food for which he cries,
 Or he consumes; and tho' much pity'd, dies. 

My Torments still do with my Passion grow,
 The more I love, the more I undergo. 
But suffer me no longer to remain
 Beneath the Pressures of so vast a Pain. 
My Wound requires some speedy Remedy:
 Delays are fatal, when Despair's so nigh. 
Much I've endur'd, much more than I can tell;
 Too much, indeed, for one that loves so well. 
When will the end of all my Sorrows be? 
Can you not love, I'm sure, you pity me? 
But if I must new Miseries sustain,
 And be condemn'd to more, and stronger Pain;
 I'll not accuse you, since my Fate is such,
 I please too little, and I love too much,

Strephon no more, the blushing Delia said,
 Excuse the Conduct of a tim'rous Maid:
 Now I'm convinc'd your Love's sublime and true,
 Such as I always wish'd to find in you. 
Each kind Expression, ev'ry tender Thought
 A mighty Transport in my Bosom wrought:
 And tho' in secret I your Flame approv'd,
 I sigh'd and griev'd, but durst not own I lov'd;
 Tho' now — O Strephon: be so kind to guess,
 What Shame will not allow me to confess. 

The Youth encompass'd with a Joy so bright,
 Had hardly Strength to bear the vast Delight;
 By too sublime an Extasy possest,
 He trembled, gaz'd, and clasp'd her to his Breast:
 Ador'd the Nymph that did his Pain remove,
 Vow'd endless Truth, and everlasting Love.