A Song (“Go tell Amynta, gentle Swain”)

GO tell Amynta, gentle Swain,

I wou’d not die, nor dare complain,

Thy tuneful Voice with numbers joyn,

Thy words will more prevail than mine.

To Souls oppress’d, and dumb with grief,

The Gods ordain this kind relief;

That Musick shou’d in sounds convey

What dying Lovers dare not say.

A Sigh or Tear perhaps she’ll give,

But love on pitty cannot live.

Tell her that Hearts for Hearts were made,

And love with love is only paid.

Tell her my pains so fast encrease,

That soon they will be past redress;

But ah! the Wretch, that speechless lyes,

Attends but Death to close his Eyes.