Classic Poem

Say wherefore is't that Damon flys,
From the Weake charms of Cloras Eyes?
Weake Charms they surely needs must bee,
Which till this Houre he could not see,
Nor is she now more Faire, than when
Theire first acquaintance, they began,
When the Gay Shepherd Laugh'd at love,
Swore it no Gen'rous Heart could move,
Disease of Fools, Fond Lunacie,
To Cloras Face oft would he cry,
For mee your Friendship but bestow,
(Friendship, the onely Good below)
Faire shepherdess, Ile ask no more,
Since more to give, exceeds your Pow'r,
Damon the Mightie Gift then gain'd,
With Witt exalted now maintain'd
No Happy Lovers greatest Bliss
More then a shadow was to his,
Which all Refin'd, found no alloy,
And like to Fate, nought could destroy.
Long did the Happy Youth thus live,
Hee could not ask, nor could shee give,
Till wandering the other Day
To, on the Ground the Shepherd lay,
Pensive, as unseene Clora thought,
Whom, heedless steps had thither brought
To heare bewail his Miserie,
Complain of loss of Libertie,
Curse his owne stubborn Pride, and then
With Teares, and sighs, begin againe,
Ask Pardon of Philosophy
For Passions rude Apostacie,
Resolve he would no Captive bee,
But set Himself by Reason free,
Hee Paus'd on this awhile, but strait
Ah Damon cry'd, it is too late,
Thou yesterday the Will didst lose,
To Day the Power to refuse,
Condemn'd a Sacrifice to bee,
Oppose not then thy Destinie,
Appease loves God, let Clora know
How much to thee her charms do owe,
Her Pitty she cannot Deny
Though all her Powers thou didst Defy,
More difficult the Conquest is
The Nobler sure esteem'd it is.
Mistaken, Damon, she Reply'd,
Did herself no longer hide,
Conquests so hardly gain'd do show
Wee nothing to the Conquer'd owe.
Nor can I challenge any part
In captivating thy rough Heart,
Since I am still the same as, when
My Powers, and loves, you did disdaine,
Just Destinie, thy love does cause,
Submiting thee to Humane Laws,
Who proudly woud'st exempted be
Through Ignorance, or Vanitie.
The Friendship once I gave retaine
But think from me no more to gaine,
To whom thy Passion comes too late,
That scorne a Conquest giv'n by Fate.
With this, she left the trembling swaine
Half Dead with Greife at her disdaine,
Who for his love no lure can find
But Breaths his Plaints unto the Wind
Not Dareing Cloras Eyes to see
Since her injust Severitie,
Who still insensible remaines,
His Constant Passion still disdains,
And laughs at all his Greife, and Pains.