Some God transform me by his heav'nly pow'r
Ev'n to a bee to buzz within your bow'r,
The winding ivy-chaplet to invade,
And folded fern that your fair forehead fhade.
Now to my coft the force of love I find;
The heavy hand it bears on human kind.
The milk of tigers was his infant food,
Taught from his tender years the taste of blood;
His brother whelps and he ran wild about the wood.
Ah nymph, train'd up in his tyrannic court,
To make the fufferings of your flaves your sport!
Unheeded ruin! treacherous delight!
O polish'd hardnefs foften'd to the fight!
Whose radiant eyes your ebon brows adorn,
Like midnight thofe, and these like break of morn!
Smile once again, revive me with your charms ;
And let me die contented in your arms.
I would not ask to live another day,
Might I but sweetly kifs my foul away.
Ah, why am I from empty joys debarr'd?
For kiffes are but empty when compar❜d.
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 muft die, why is my fate deferr'd!
I ftrip my body of my fhepherd's frock
Behold that dreadful downfal of a rock,
Where yon old fisher views the waves from high!
'Tis that convenient leap I mean to try.
You would be pleas'd to fee me plunge to fhore,
But better pleas'd if I fhould 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 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 afpire;
Meat, drink, and two-pence was her daily hire,
To work she 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 fwore,
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 run frifking 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, fome good-luck is near,
Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear;
I'll fet up fuch a note as fhe fhall hear.
What nymph but my melodious voice would move? She must be flint, if she refufe my love. Hippomenes, who ran with noble strife
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 fhe 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 ftopt the fatal fury of her speed:
She faw, fhe figh'd; her nimble feet refuse
Their wonted speed, and fhe took pains to lose,
A Prophet fome, and fome a Poet cry,
(No matter which, fo neither of them lye)
From fleepy Othry's 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, whom love extended finds
His pow'r 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 fhall not hear, but know 'tis like the rest.
My aking head can fcarce 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 fweat 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 fearce enough their hunger to fupply,
For love has made me carrion ere I die.
The EPITHALAMIUM Of HELEN
and MENELAUS.
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 resort,
Where Menelaus kept his royal court.
Their 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,
Ere yet the ftars are kindled in the sky,
Ere twilight shades, or evening dews are shed,
Why doft thou fteal so soon 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 thyself, 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.
Of all our heroes thou canft boaft 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 viragos of the Spartan race,
While naked to Eurota's banks we bend,
And there in manly exercife contend,
When the appears, are all eclips'd and loft,
And hides the beauties that we made our boast.
So, when the night and winter disappear,
The purple morning rifing with the year,
Salutes the fpring, as her celeftial eyes
Adorn the world, and brighten all the fkies:
So beauteous Helen fhines among the reft,
Tall, lender, ftraight, with all the Graces bleft.
As pines the mountains, or as fields the corn,
Or as Theffalian fteeds the race adorn;
So rofy-colour'd Helen is the pride
Of Lacedæmon, and of Greece befide.
Like her no nymph can willing ofiers bend
In basket works, which painted ftreaks commend:
With Pallas in the loom she may contend.
But none, ah! none can animate the lyre.
And the mute ftrings with vocal fouls infpire:
Whether the learn'd Minerva be her theme,
Or chafte Diana bathing in the stream;
None can record their heavenly praise fo well
As Helen, in whofe eyes ten thousand Cupids dwell,
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