Amyntor From Beyond The Sea To Alexis A Dialogue

                        Amyntor.

        Alexis! ah Alexis! can it be,

            Though so much wet and drie

                Doth drowne our eye,

          Thou keep'st thy winged voice from me?

                        Alexis.

        Amyntor, a profounder sea, I feare,

            Hath swallow'd me, where now

                My armes do row,

          I floate i'th' ocean of a teare.

        Lucasta weepes, lest I look back and tread

            Your Watry land againe.

Amyn.            I'd through the raine;

          Such showrs are quickly over-spread.

        Conceive how joy, after this short divorce,

            Will circle her with beames,

                When, like your streames,

          You shall rowle back with kinder force,

        And call the helping winds to vent your thought.

Alex.        Amyntor! Chloris! where

                Or in what sphere

          Say, may that glorious fair be sought?

Amyn.    She's now the center of these armes e're blest,

            Whence may she never move,

                Till Time and Love

          Haste to their everlasting rest.

Alex.    Ah subtile swaine! doth not my flame rise high

            As yours, and burne as hot?

                Am not I shot

          With the selfe same artillery?

        And can I breath without her air?—Amyn.

                  Why, then,

            From thy tempestuous earth,

                Where blood and dearth

          Raigne 'stead of kings, agen

        Wafte thy selfe over, and lest storms from far

            Arise, bring in our sight

                The seas delight,

          Lucasta, that bright northerne star.

Alex.    But as we cut the rugged deepe, I feare

            The green god stops his fell

                Chariot of shell,

          And smooths the maine to ravish her.

Amyn.    Oh no, the prince of waters' fires are done;

            He as his empire's old,

                And rivers, cold;

          His queen now runs abed to th' sun;

        But all his treasure he shall ope' that day:

            Tritons shall sound: his fleete

                In silver meete,

          And to her their rich offrings pay.

Alex.    We flye, Amyntor, not amaz'd how sent

            By water, earth, or aire:

                Or if with her

                By fire: ev'n there

          I move in mine owne element.