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A Dialogue between Daphney and amintas

D.: O, pale, Amintas, do thy looks appear,

as if thy doom drew near;

whence do thy sorrows flow?

A.: From discontent, the plague of pow’rs below;

I’m weary of this world,

and would another know.

D. Can this poor world find no relief

to cure thy melancholy grief,

nor tempting hopes of happiness draw near,

that may contain thy wishes here?

A.: The world in all its pomp and state

is but a lottery of fate,

where fortune blindly does bestow

favours on him to whom ne’er did owe;

where fondlings meritless as wise

enjoy the prize,

and fate her equity denies.

D. Fortune, a cheat unto our hopes, is sent

to steal away the blessing of content,

depending on our fraud, renews our care,

and brings us to despair.

A.: But few repine at Fate who happy are.

D.: Alas poor swain! Those who you daily see,

that seem far happier than thee,

more troubles undergo,

in all they think or do,

and to he world less happy are than we.


D./A.: Let music be our charm

to keep the mind from harm;

let helpless trouble live alone,

let envy make her moan,

while all those blessings we pursue

still wait on me and you,

and fall, as on our flocks the morning dew.