����COUNTESS OP WINCHILSEA 129 �In vain, I from the object goe, �Since my own thoughts, can wound me soe ; �I'll back again, and ruin'd be �By hate, by scorn, or Jealousie. �Such real ills attend us all, �Lovers, by fancy need not fall. �A SONG �Miranda, hides her from the Sun, �Beneath those shady beaches nigh, Whilst I, by her bright rayes undone, �Can no where for refreshment fly. �In that fair grove, att height of noone, �His fiercest glorys, she defies ; I have alas! such shelter, none, �No safe umbrella, 'gainst her eyes. �Thus, does th' unequal hand of fate �Refuse itts' favours to devide, Giving to her, a safe retreat, �And all ofensive arms beside. �A SONG �Whilst Thirsis, in his pride of youth �To me alone, professt Dessembl'd passion, dress't like truth, �He tryumph'd in my breast. �I lodg'd him neer my yeilding heart, �Deny'd him but my arms, Deluded with his pleasing art, �Transported with his charms. ��� �
