Pygmalion loathing their lascivious Life, | |
| Abhorr’d all Womankind, but most a Wife: | |
| So single chose to live, and shunn’d to wed, | |
| Well pleas’d to want a Consort of his Bed. | |
| Yet fearing Idleness, the Nurse of Ill, | 5 |
| In Sculpture exercis’d his happy Skill; | |
| And carv’d in Iv’ry such a Maid, so fair, | |
| As Nature could not with his Art compare, | |
| Were she to work; but in her own Defence, | |
| Must take her Pattern here, and copy hence. | 10 |
| Pleas’d with his Idol, he commends, admires, | |
| Adores; and last, the Thing ador’d, desires. | |
| A very Virgin in her Face was seen, | |
| And had she mov’d, a living Maid had been: | |
| One wou’d have thought she could have stirr’d; but strove | 15 |
| With Modesty, and was asham’d to move. | |
| Art hid with Art, so well perform’d the Cheat, | |
| It caught the Carver with his own Deceit: | |
| He knows ’tis Madness, yet he must adore, | |
| And still the more he knows it, loves the more: | 20 |
| The Flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft, | |
| Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft. | |
| Fir’d with this Thought, at once he strain’d the Breast, | |
| And on the Lips a burning Kiss impress’d. | |
| ’Tis true, the harden’d Breast resists the Gripe, | 25 |
| And the cold Lips return a Kiss unripe: | |
| But when, retiring back, he look’d agen, | |
| To think it Iv’ry, was a thought too mean: | |
| So wou’d believe she kiss’d, and courting more, | |
| Again embrac’d her naked Body o’er; | 30 |
| And straining hard the Statue, was afraid | |
| His Hands had made a Dint, and hurt his 3 Maid: | |
| Explor’d her, Limb by Limb, and fear’d to find | |
| So rude a Gripe had left a livid Mark behind: | |
| With Flatt’ry now he seeks her Mind to move, | 35 |
| And now with Gifts, (the pow’rful Bribes of Love:) | |
| He furnishes her Closet first; and fills | |
| The crowded Shelves with Rarities of Shells; | |
| Adds Orient Pearls, which from the Conchs he drew, | |
| And all the sparkling Stones of various Hue: | 40 |
| And Parrots, imitating Humane Tongue, | |
| And Singing-birds in Silver Cages hung; | |
| And ev’ry fragrant Flow’r, and od’rous Green, | |
| Were sorted well, with Lumps of Amber laid between: | |
| Rich, fashionable Robes her person Deck: | 45 |
| Pendants her Ears, and Pearls adorn her Neck: | |
| Her taper’d Fingers too with Rings are grac’d, | |
| And an embroider’d Zone surrounds her slender Waste. | |
| Thus like a Queen array’d, so richly dress’d, | |
| Beauteous she shew’d, but naked shew’d the best. | 50 |
| Then, from the Floor, he rais’d a Royal Bed, | |
| With Cov’rings of Sydonian Purple spread: | |
| The Solemn Rites perform’d, her calls her Bride, | |
| With Blandishments invites her to his Side, | |
| And as she were with Vital Sense possess’d, | 55 |
| Her Head did on a plumy Pillow rest. | |
| The Feast of Venus came, a Solemn Day, | |
| To which the Cypriots due Devotion pay; | |
| With gilded Horns the Milk-white Heifers led, | |
| Slaughter’d before the sacred Altars, bled: | 60 |
| Pygmalion off’ring, first approach’d the Shrine, | |
| And then with Pray’rs implor’d the Pow’rs Divine: | |
| Almighty Gods, if all we Mortals want, | |
| If all we can require, be yours to grant; | |
| Make this fair Statue mine, he would have said, | 65 |
| But chang’d his Words for shame; and only pray’d, | |
| Give me the Likeness of my Iv’ry Maid. | |
| The Golden Goddess, present at the Pray’r, | |
| Well knew he meant th’ inanimated Fair, | |
| And gave the Sign of granting his Desire; | 70 |
| For thrice in chearful Flames ascends the Fire. | |
| The Youth, returning to his Mistress, hies, | |
| And, impudent in Hope, with ardent Eyes, | |
| And beating Breast, by the dear Statue lies. | |
| He kisses her white Lips, renews the Bliss, | 75 |
| And looks and thinks they redden at the Kiss: | |
| He thought them warm before: Nor longer stays, | |
| But next his Hand on her hard Bosom lays: | |
| Hard as it was, beginning to relent, | |
| It seem’d, the Breast beneath his Fingers bent; | 80 |
| He felt again, his Fingers made a Print, | |
| ’T was Flesh, but Flesh so firm, it rose against the Dint: | |
| The pleasing Task he fails not to renew; | |
| Soft, and more soft at ev’ry Touch it grew; | |
| Like pliant Wax, when chafing Hands reduce | 85 |
| The former Mass to Form, and frame for 4 Use | |
| He would believe, but yet is still in pain, | |
| And tries his Argument of Sense again, | |
| Presses the Pulse, and feels the leaping Vein. | |
| Convinc’d, o’erjoy’d, his studied Thanks and Praise, | 90 |
| To her who made the Miracle, he pays: | |
| Then Lips to Lips he join’d; now freed from Fear, | |
| He found the Savour of the Kiss sincere: | |
| At this the waken’d Image op’d her Eyes, | |
| And view’d at once the Light and Lover, with surprize. | 95 |
| The Goddess present at the Match she made, | |
| So bless’d the Bed, such Fruitfulness convey’d, | |
| That e’er ten Moons had sharpen’d either Horn, | |
| To crown their Bliss, a lovely Boy was born; | |
| Paphos his Name, who, grown to Manhood, wall’d | 100 |
| The City Paphos, from the Founder call’d. | |
