ΤΗΣ DESPAIRING LOVER. FROM THE TWENTY-THIRD IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS. WITH inaufpicious love, a wretched swain 10 So fhe, to fhun his toils, her cares employ'd, 15 And fiercely in her favage freedom joy'd. Her mouth fhe writh'd, her forehead taught to frown, Her eyes to sparkle fires to love unknown: Her fallow cheeks her envious mind did fhew, And every feature spoke aloud the cursiness of a fhrew. 20 25 Yet could not he his obvious fate escape; race! Thy tigrefs heart belies thy angel face: 36 Too well thou fhew'ft thy pedigree from stone: Thy grandame's was the firft by Pyrrha thrown: Unworthy thou to be fo long defir'd ; But fo my love, and fo my fate requir'd, 40 45 I beg not now (for 'tis in vain) to live ; I go love: 50 Farewel, ye never-opening gates, ye ftones, cay, And whiter fnow in minutes melts away: 60 Such is your blooming youth, and withering fo: The time will come, it will, when you fhall know The rage of love; your haughty heart fhall burn In flames like mine, and meet a like return. Obdurate as you are, oh! hear at least 65 My dying prayers, and grant my laft request. When first you ope your doors, and, paffing by, The fad ill-omen'd object meets your eye, vey: Some cruel pleasure will from thence arise, 70 Then loose the knot, and take me from the place, And spread your mantle o'er my grizly face; Upon my livid lips beftow a kifs: 75 O envy not the dead, they feel not blifs! Nor fear kiffes can restore your my breath; E'en you are not more pityless than death. so Then for my carpfe a homely grave provide, Which love and me from public fcorn may hide. Thrice call upon my name, thrice beat your breast, And hail me thrice to everlasting rest: Laft let my tomb this fad infcription bear: 85 A wretch whom love has kill'd lies buried here; O paffengers, Aminta's eyes beware, Thus having faid, and furious with his love, He heav'd with more than human force to move 90 A weighty ftone (the labour of a team) Around its bulk a fliding knot he throws, Then fpurning backward, took a fwing, till death Crept up, and stopt the paffage of his breath. The bounce burft ope the door; the scornful fair 96 Relentlefs look'd, and faw him beat his quivering feet in air; Nor wept his fate, nor caft a pitying eye, by: And, as the paft, her chance of fate was fuch, Her garments touch'd the dead, polluted by the touch: 101 Next to the dance, thence to the bath did move; The bath was facred to the god of Love; |