| |
| TO 1 Amaryllis Love compells my way, | |
| My browzing Goats upon the Mountains stray: | |
| O Tityrus, tend them well, and see them fed | |
| In Pastures fresh, and to their watring led; | |
| And ’ware 2 the Ridgling with his butting 3 head. | 5 |
| Ah, beauteous Nymph, can you forget your Love, | |
| The conscious Grottos, and the shady Grove; | |
| Where stretcht at ease your tender Limbs were laid, | |
| Your nameless Beauties nakedly display’d? | |
| Then I was call’d your darling, your desire, | 10 |
| With Kisses such as set my Soul on fire: | |
| But you are chang’d, yet I am still the same; | |
| My heart maintains for both a double Flame; | |
| Griev’d, but unmov’d, and patient of your scorn: | |
| So faithfull I, and you so much forsworn! | 15 |
| I dye, and Death will finish all my pain; | |
| Yet e’er I dye, behold me once again: | |
| Am I so much deform’d, so chang’d of late? | |
| What partial Judges are our Love and Hate! | |
| Ten Wildings have I gather’d for my Dear; | 20 |
| How ruddy like your Lips their streaks appear! | |
| Far off you view’d them with a longing Eye | |
| Upon the topmost branch (the Tree was high;) | |
| Yet nimbly up, from bough to bough I swerv’d, | |
| And for to Morrow have Ten more reserv’d. | 25 |
| Look on me Kindly, and some pity shew, | |
| Or give me leave at least to look on you. | |
| Some God transform me by his Heavenly pow’r | |
| Ev’n to a Bee to buzz within your Bow’r, | |
| The winding Ivy-chaplet to invade, | 30 |
| And folded Fern, that your fair Forehead shade. | |
| Now to my cost the force of Love I find; | |
| The heavy hand he bears on humane kind. | |
| The Milk of Tygers was his Infant food, | |
| Taught from his tender years the tast of blood; | 35 |
| His Brother whelps and he ran wild about the wood. | |
| Ah nymph, train’d up in his Tyrannick Court, | |
| To make the suff’rings of your Slaves your sport! | |
| Unheeded Ruine! treacherous delight! | |
| O polish’d hardness, soften’d to the sight! | 40 |
| Whose radiant Eyes your Ebon Brows adorn, | |
| Like Midnight those, and these like break of Morn! | |
| Smile once again, revive me with your Charms: | |
| And let me dye contented in your Arms. | |
| I would not ask to live another Day, | 45 |
| Might I but sweetly Kiss my Soul away. | |
| Ah, why am I from empty Joys debarr’d? | |
| For Kisses are but empty, when Compar’d! | |
| I rave, and in my raging fit shall tear | |
| The Garland which I wove for you to wear, | 50 |
| Of Parsley with a wreath of Ivy bound, | |
| And border’d with a Rosie edging round. | |
| What pangs I feel, unpity’d and unheard! | |
| Since I must dye, why is my Fate deferr’d! | |
| I strip my Body of my Shepherds Frock: | 55 |
| Behold that dreadfull downfall of a Rock, | |
| Where yon old Fisher views the Waves from high! | |
| ’Tis that Convenient leap I mean to try. | |
| You would be pleas’d to see me plunge to shoar, | |
| But better pleas’d if I should rise no more. | 60 |
| I might have read my Fortune long agoe, | |
| When, seeking my success in Love to know, | |
| I try’d th’ infallible Prophetique way, | |
| A Poppy leaf upon my palm to lay; | |
| I struck, and yet no lucky crack did follow, | 65 |
| Yet I struck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow. | |
| And, which was worse, if any worse cou’d prove | |
| The withring leaf foreshew’d your withring Love. | |
| Yet farther (Ah, how far a Lover dares!) | |
| My last recourse I had to Seive and Sheeres; | 70 |
| And told the Witch Agreo my disease, | |
| (Agreo, that in Harvest us’d to lease; | |
| But Harvest done, to Chare-work did aspire; | |
| Meat, drink, and Tow-pence was her daily hire;) | |
| To work she went, her Charms she mutter’d o’er, | 75 |
| And yet the resty Seive wagg’d ne’er the more; | |
| I wept for Woe, the testy Beldame swore, | |
| And foaming with her God, foretold my Fate; | |
| That I was doom’d to Love, and you to Hate. | |
| A milk-white Goat for you I did provide; | 80 |
| Two milk-white 4 Kids run frisking by her side, | |
| For which the Nut-brown Lass, Erithacis, | |
| Full often offer’d many a savoury Kiss. | |
| Hers they shall be, since you refuse the price, | |
| What madman would o’erstand his Market twice! | 85 |
| My right Eye itches, some good-luck is near, | |
| Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear; | |
| I’ll set up such a Note as she shall hear. | |
| What Nymph but my melodious Voice would move? | |
| She must be Flint, if she refuse my Love. | 90 |
| Hippomenes, who ran with Noble strife | |
| To win his Lady, or to lose his Life, | |
| (What shift some men will make to get a Wife!) | |
| Threw down a Golden Apple in her way; | |
| For all her haste she could not chuse but stay: | 95 |
| Renown said run; the glitt’ring Bribe cry’d hold; | |
| The Man might have been hang’d, but for his Gold. | |
| Yet some suppose ’twas Love (some few indeed,) | |
| That stopt the fatal fury of her Speed: | |
| She saw, she sigh’d; her nimble Feet refuse | 100 |
| Their wonted Speed, and she took pains to lose. | |
| A Prophet some, and some a Poet cry, | |
| (No matter which, so neither of them lye) | |
| From steepy Othrys top to Pylus drove | |
| His herd; and for his pains enjoy’d his Love: | 105 |
| If such another Wager shou’d be laid, | |
| I’ll find the Man, if you can find the Maid. | |
| Why name I Men, When Love extended finds | |
| His pow’r on high, and in Celestial Minds? | |
| Venus the Shepherd’s homely habit took, | 110 |
| And manag’d something else besides the Crook; | |
| Nay, when Adonis dy’d, was heard to roar, | |
| And never from her heart forgave the Boar. | |
| How blest is fair Endymion with his Moon, | |
| Who sleeps on Latmos top from Night to Noon! | 115 |
| What Jason from Medea’s Love possest, | |
| You shall not hear, but know ’tis like the rest. | |
| My aking Head can scarce support the pain; | |
| This cursed Love will surely turn my Brain: | |
| Feel how it shoots, and yet you take no Pity, | 120 |
| Nay then ’tis time to end my doleful Ditty. | |
| A clammy Sweat does o’er my Temples creep; | |
| My heavy Eyes are urg’d with Iron sleep: | |
| I lay me down to gasp my latest Breath, | |
| The Wolves will get a Breakfast by my Death; | 125 |
| Yet scarce enough their hunger to supply, | |
| For Love has made me Carrion e’er I dye. | |
