I rave, and in my raging fit fhall tear
The garland, which I wove for you
to wear,
Of parfly, with a wreath of ivy bound,
And border'd with a rofy edging round.
What pangs I feel, unpity'd and unheard!
Since I must die, why is my fate deferr'd!
I ftrip my body of my fhepherd's frock :
Behold that dreadful downfall of a rock,
Where yon old fisher views the waves from high!
'Tis that convenient leap I mean to try.
Yon would be pleas'd to fee me plunge to fhore,
But better pleas'd if I should rise no more.
I might have read my fortune long ago,
When, feeking my fuccefs in love to know,
I try'd th' infallible prophetic way,
A poppy-leaf upon my palm to lay
I ftruck, and yet no lucky crack did follow;
Yet I ftruck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow:
And which was worfe, if any worfe could prove,
The withering leaf forefhew'd your withering love.
Yet farther (ah, how far a lover dares!)
My last recourse I had to fieve and fheers;
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 the 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 fate;
That I was doom'd to love, and you to hate.
A milk-white goat for you I did provide ;
Two milk-white kids ran frisking by her fide,
For which the nut-brown lafs, Erithacis,
Full often offer'd many a favoury kifs.
Hers they fhall be, fince you refuse the price:
What madman would o'erstand his market twice!
My right eye itches, some good-luck is near,
Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear;
I'll fet up fuch a note as the shall hear.
What nymph but my melodious voice would move?
She must be flint, if she refuse my love.
Hippomenes, who ran with noble ftrife
To win his lady, or to lose his life,
(What shift fome 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 gold.
Yet fome fuppofe 'twas Love (fome few indeed)
That ftopt the fatal fury of her speed:
She faw, the figh'd; her nimble feet refufe
Their wonted speed, and she took pains to lofe.
A Prophet some, 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 cœlestial minds;
Venus the shepherd's homely habit took,
And manag'd fomething elie befides the crook ;
Nay, when Adonis died, 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 poffest,
You fhall not hear, but know 'tis like the rest.
My aking head can scarce fupport the pain;
This curfed Love will furely turn my brain :
Feel how it fhoots, and yet you take no pity;
Nay then 'is time to end my doleful ditty.
A clammy fweat does o'er my temples creep;
My heavy eyes are urg'd with iron sleep:
I lay me down to gafp my latest breath,
The wolves will get a breakfast by my death;
Yet fcarce enough their hunger to supply,
For Love has made me carrion ere I die.
From the 18th Idyllium of THEOCRITUS.
Welve Spartan virgins, noble, young, and fair, With violet wreaths adorn'd their flowing hair; And to the pompous palace did refort,
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
Jove's beauteous daughter now his bride muft be,
And Jove himself was lefs a God than he :
For this their artful hands inftruct the lute to found,
Their feet affift their hands, and justly beat the ground.
This was their fong: Why, happy bridegroom, why,
Ere yet the ftars are kindled in the fky,
Ere twilight fhades, or evening dews are shed,
Why dost thou fteal fo foon away to bed?
Has Somnus brush'd thy eye-lids with his rod,
Or do thy legs refufe 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 thyself, and leave thy bride alone:
Go, leave her with her maiden mates to play,
At sports 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.
Of all our heroes thou canft boast alone,
That Jove, whene'er he thunders, calls thee fon
Betwixt two fheets thou fhalt enjoy her bare,
With whom no Grecian virgin can compare ;
So foft, fo fweet, fo balmy, and fo fair.
A boy, like thee, would make a kingly line :
But oh, a girl like her must be divine.
Her equals, we, in years, but not in face,
Twelvefcore viragoes of the Spartan race,
While naked to Eurotas' banks we bend,
And there in manly exercife contend,
When the appears, are all eclips'd and lost,
And hide the beauties that we made our boast.
So, when the night and winter difappear,
The purple morning, rising with the year,
Salutes the fpring, as her celeftial eyes
Adorn the world, and brighten all the skies :
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