IT chanced of late a shepherd’s swain, | |
| That went to seek a strayed sheep, | |
| Within a thicket on the plain, | |
| Espied a dainty Nymph asleep. | |
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| Her golden hair o’erspread her face, | 5 |
| Her careless arms abroad were cast, | |
| Her quiver had her pillow’s place, | |
| Her breast lay bare to every blast. | |
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| The shepherd stood and gazed his fill; | |
| Naught durst he do, naught durst he say, | 10 |
| When chance, or else perhaps his will, | |
| Did guide the God of Love that way. | |
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| The crafty boy that sees her sleep, | |
| Whom if she waked, he durst not see, | |
| Behind her closely seeks to creep | 15 |
| Before her nap should ended be. | |
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| There come, he steals her shafts away, | |
| And puts his own into their place; | |
| Nor dares he any longer stay, | |
| But ere she wakes, hies thence apace. | 20 |
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| Scarce was he gone when she awakes, | |
| And spies the shepherd standing by; | |
| Her bended bow in haste she takes, | |
| And at the simple swain let fly. | |
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| Forth flew the shaft and pierced his heart, | 25 |
| That to the ground he fell with pain; | |
| Yet up again forthwith he start, | |
| And to the Nymph he ran amain. | |
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| Amazed to see so strange a sight, | |
| She shot, and shot, but all in vain; | 30 |
| The more his wounds, the more his might; | |
| Love yielded strength in midst of pain. | |
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| Her angry eyes are great with tears, | |
| She blames her hands, she blames her skill; | |
| The bluntness of her shafts she fears, | 35 |
| And try them on herself she will. | |
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| Take heed, sweet Nymph, try not thy shaft, | |
| Each little touch will prick the heart; | |
| Alas, thou knowest not Cupid’s craft, | |
| Revenge is joy, the end is smart. | 40 |
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| Yet try she will, and prick some bare; | |
| Her hands were gloved, and next to hand | |
| Was that fair breast, that breast so rare, | |
| That made the shepherd senseless stand. | |
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| That breast she pricked, and through that breast | 45 |
| Love finds an entry to her heart; | |
| At feeling of this new-come guest, | |
| Lord, how the gentle Nymph doth start! | |
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| She runs not now, she shoots no more; | |
| Away she throws both shaft and bow; | 50 |
| She seeks for that she shunned before, | |
| She thinks the shepherd’s haste too slow. | |
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| Though mountains meet not, lovers may; | |
| So others do, and so do they: | |
| The God of Love sits on a tree, | 55 |
| And laughs that pleasant sight to see. | |
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