Obrazy na stronie
PDF
ePub

I ftruck, and yet no lucky crack did follow;
Yet I ftruck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow:
And which was worse, if any worse could prove,
The with'ring leaf forefhew'd your with'ring
love.

Yet farther (ah, how far a lover dares !)
My laft recourse I had to fieve and sheers;
And told the witch Agreo my disease:
Agreo, that in harvest 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 testy beldame swore,
And, foaming with her God, foretold my fate;
That I was doom'd to love, and

A milk-white goat for you

you to hate. 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'erstand his market twice!
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

move?

She must be flint, if the refuse my love.
Hippomenes, who ran with noble ftrife
To win his lady, or to lose 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 glitt'ring bribe cry'd,

Hold;

The man might have been hang'd, but for his gold.
Yet fome fuppofe 'twas love (fome few indeed)
That stopt the fatal fury of her speed:
She faw, fhe figh'd; her nimble feet refuse
Their wonted speed, and she took pains to lose.
A Prophet fome, and fome a Poet cry,
(No matter which, so neither of them lye)
From steepy Othry's top to Pylus drove
His herd; and for his pains enjoy'd his love:
If fuch another wager should be laid,
I'll find the man, if you can find the maid.
Why name I men, whom love extended finds
His pow'r on high, and in cœleftial minds;
Venus the shepherd's homely habit took,
And manag'd fomething elfe 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 Jason from Medea's love possest,

You shall not hear, but know 'tis like the reft.
My aking head can scarce fupport the pain;
This curfed love will furely turn my brain :
Feel how it shoots, and yet you take no pity;
Nay then 'tis time to end my doleful ditty.
A clammy sweat does o'er my temples creep ;
My heavy eyes are urg'd with iron fleep:
I lay me down to gafp my latest breath,
The wolves will get a breakfast by my death;
Yet scarce enough their hunger to supply,
For love has made me carrion ere I die.

THE

EPITHALAMIUM

OF

HELEN and M E NELAUS.

From the 18th Idyllium of THEocritus.

T

WelveSpartan 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 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, yet the stars are kindled in the sky,

Ere

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 refufe to bear their load,
With flowing bowls of a more generous God?
If gentle flumber on thy temples creep,
(But, naughty man, thou dost not mean to sleep)
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 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 canst boast alone,
That Jove, whene'er he thunders, calls thee fon:
Betwixt two sheets thou shalt enjoy her bare,
With whom no Grecian virgin can compare;
So foft, so sweet, fo balmy and so 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 viragos of the Spartan race,

}

« PoprzedniaDalej »