I ftruck, and yet no lucky crack did follow; 65
Yet I ftruck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow:
And, which was worse, if any worse could prove,
The withering leaf forefhew'd your withering
love.
Yet farther (ah, how far a lover dares !)
My laft recourse I had to fieve and sheers; 70
And told the witch Agreo my disease:
(Agreo, that in harveft us'd to leafe:
But harvest done, to chare-work did aspire;
Meat, drink, and two-pence was her daily hire,)
To work fhe went, her charms fhe mutter'd
o'er, And yet the refty fieve wagg'd ne'er the more; I wept for woe, the tefty beldame swore, And, foaming with her god, foretold my That I was doom'd to love, and you to hate. A milk-white goat for you I did provide ; Two milk-white kids run frifking by her fide, For which the nut-brown lafs, Erithacis, Full often offer'd many a favoury kifs.
Hers they shall be, fince you refuse the price: What madman would o'erftand his market
My right eye itches, fome good luck is near,
Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear;
I'll fet up fuch a note as the fhall hear.
What nymph but my melodious voice would
She must be flint, if she refufe my love.
Hippomenes, who ran with noble ftrife
To win his lady, or to lofe his life,
(What shift some men will make to get a wife?)
Threw down a golden apple in her way;
For all her hafte she could not choose but stay :
Renown faid, Run; the glittering bribe cry'd,
Hold;
The man might have been hang'd, but for his
Yet fome fuppofe 'twas love (some few indeed) That stopt the fatal fury of her fpeed:
She faw, fhe figh'd; her nimble feet refufe 100
Their wonted speed, and she took pains to lose.
A Prophet fome, and fome a Poet cry,
(No matter which, fo neither of them lye)
From steepy Othrys' top to Pylus drove
His herd; and for his pains enjoy'd his love:
If fuch another wager fhould be laid,
I'll find the man, if you can find the maid.
Why name I men, when Love extended finds
His power on high, and in cœleftial minds?
Venus the shepherd's homely habit took,
And manag'd fomething else befides the crook;
Nay, when Adonis dy'd, was heard to roar,
And never from her heart forgave the boar.
How bleft was fair Endymion with his moon,
Who fleeps on Latmos' top from night to noon!
What Jafon from Medea's love poffeft,
You shall not hear, but know 'tis like the reft.
My aking head can scarce support the pain ;
This curfed love will furely turn my brain :
Feel how it fhoots, and yet you take no pity;
Nay then 'tis time to end my doleful ditty. 21
A clammy fweat 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; 25
Yet fcarce enough their hunger to fupply,
For love has made me carrion ere I die,
EIGHTEENTH IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.
TWELVE Spartan virgins, noble, young, and fair,
With violet wreaths adorn'd their flowing hair;
And to the pompous palace did resort,
Where Menelaus kept his royal court.
There hand in hand a comely choir they led ;
To fing a bleffing to his nuptial bed,
With curious needles wrought, and painted
flowers befpread.
Jove's beauteous daughter now his bride must
And Jove himself was lefs a god than he:
For this their artful hands inftruct the lute to
Their feet affift their hands, and justly beat the ground.
This was their fong: Why, happy bridegroom, why,
Ere yet the stars are kindled in the fky,
Ere twilight fhades, or evening dews are shed,
Why doft thou steal fo foon away to bed?
Has Somnus brush'd thy eye-lids with his rod,
Or do thy legs refuse to bear their load,
With flowing bowls of a more generous god?
If gentle flumber on thy temples creep,
(But, naughty man, thou doft not mean to
fleep)
Betake thee to thy bed, thou drowzy drone, Sleep by thyfelf, and leave thy bride alone: Go, leave her with her maiden mates to play At fports more harmless till the break of day: Give us this evening; thou haft morn and night,
And all the year before thee, for delight.
O happy youth! to thee, among the crowd
Of rival princes, Cupid fneez'd aloud;
And every lucky omen fent before,
To meet thee landing on the Spartan fhore. so
Of all our heroes thou canft boaft alone,
That Jove, whene'er he thunders, calls thee
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