| |
| THE WANTON troopers riding by | |
| Have shot my fawn, and it will die. | |
| Ungentle men! they cannot thrive | |
| Who killed thee. Thou ne’er didst alive | |
| Them any harm, alas! nor could | 5 |
| Thy death yet do them any good. | |
| I’m sure I never wished them ill; | |
| Nor do I for all this, nor will: | |
| But, if my simple prayers may yet | |
| Prevail with Heaven to forget | 10 |
| Thy murder, I will join my tears, | |
| Rather than fail. But, O my fears! | |
| It cannot die so. Heaven’s king | |
| Keeps register of everything, | |
| And nothing may we use in vain; | 15 |
| Even beasts must be with justice slain; | |
| Else men are made their deodands. | |
| Though they should wash their guilty hands | |
| In this warm life-blood which doth part | |
| From thine, and wound me to the heart, | 20 |
| Yet could they not be clean; their stain | |
| Is dyed in such a purple grain. | |
| There is not such another in | |
| The world, to offer for their sin. | |
| Unconstant Sylvio, when yet | 25 |
| I had not found him counterfeit, | |
| One morning (I remember well), | |
| Tied in this silver chain and bell, | |
| Gave it to me: nay, and I know | |
| What he said then, I’m sure I do: | 30 |
| Said he, ‘Look how your huntsman here | |
| Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.’ | |
| But Sylvio soon had me beguiled; | |
| This waxèd tame, while he grew wild, | |
| And quite regardless of my smart, | 35 |
| Left me his fawn, but took his heart. | |
| Thenceforth I set myself to play | |
| My solitary time away | |
| With this; and, very well content, | |
| Could so mine idle life have spent; | 40 |
| For it was full of sport, and light | |
| Of foot and heart, and did invite | |
| Me to its game: it seemed to bless | |
| Itself in me; how could I less | |
| Than love it? O, I cannot be | 45 |
| Unkind to a beast that loveth me. | |
| Had it lived long, I do not know | |
| Whether it too might have done so | |
| As Sylvio did; his gifts might be | |
| Perhaps as false, or more, than he; | 50 |
| But I am sure, for aught that I | |
| Could in so short a time espy, | |
| Thy love was far more better then | |
| The love of false and cruel men. | |
| With sweetest milk and sugar first | 55 |
| I it at my own fingers nursed; | |
| And as it grew, so every day | |
| It waxed more white and sweet than they. | |
| It had so sweet a breath! And oft | |
| I blushed to see its foot more soft | 60 |
| And white, shall I say than my hand? | |
| Nay, any lady’s of the land. | |
| It is a wondrous thing how fleet | |
| ’Twas on those little silver feet; | |
| With what a pretty skipping grace | 65 |
| It would oft challenge me the race; | |
| And, when ’t had left me far away, | |
| ’Twould stay, and run again, and stay; | |
| For it was nimbler much than hinds. | |
| And trod as if on the four winds. | 70 |
| I have a garden of my own, | |
| But so with roses overgrown, | |
| And lilies, that you would it guess | |
| To be a little wilderness; | |
| And all the spring-time of the year | 75 |
| It only lovèd to be there. | |
| Among the beds of lilies I | |
| Have sought it oft, where it should lie, | |
| Yet could not, till itself would rise, | |
| Find it, although before mine eyes; | 80 |
| For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade, | |
| It like a bank of lilies laid. | |
| Upon the roses it would feed, | |
| Until its lips e’en seem to bleed | |
| And then to me ’twould boldly trip, | 85 |
| And print there roses on my lip, | |
| But all its chief delight was still | |
| On roses thus itself to fill, | |
| And its pure virgin limbs to fold | |
| In whitest sheets of lilies cold; | 90 |
| Had it lived long, it would have been | |
| Lilies without, roses within. | |
| O help! O help! I see it faint | |
| And die as calmly as a saint! | |
| See how it weeps! the tears do come | 95 |
| Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. | |
| So weeps the wounded balsam; so | |
| The holy frankincense doth flow; | |
| The brotherless Heliades | |
| Melt in such amber tears as these. | 100 |
| I in golden vial will | |
| Keep these two crystal tears, and fill, | |
| It till it do o’erflow with mine, | |
| Then place it in Diana’s shrine. | |
| Now my sweet faun is vanished to | 105 |
| Whither the swans and turtles go; | |
| In fair Elysium to endure, | |
| With milk-like lambs, and ermines pure. | |
| O do not run too fast: for I | |
| Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. | 110 |
| First, my unhappy statue shall | |
| Be cut in marble; and withal, | |
| Let it be weeping too; but there | |
| The engraver sure his art may spare; | |
| For I so truly thee bemoan, | 115 |
| That I shall weep, though I be stone, | |
| Until my tears, still dropping, wear | |
| My breast, themselves engraving there; | |
| There at my feet shalt thou be laid, | |
| Of purest alabaster made; | 120 |
| For I would have thine image be | |
| White as I can, though not as thee. | |
| |
