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By my love, long, firm, and true,
Borne to you,
Sounds your praise,
Or, if I may not desire
That your ire
When I have
A Fiction how Cupid made a Nymph wound herself
with his arrows '. It chanc'd of late a shepherd's swain,
That went to seek a strayed sheep, Within a thicket, on the plain,
Espied a dainty nymph asleep.
Her golden hair o'erspread her face,
Her careless arms abroad were cast, Her quiver had her pillow's place,
Her breast lay bare to every blast.
1 Erroneously ascribed in Dryden's Misc. (vol. iv. p. 274) to Sidney Godolphin, under the title of “ Cupid's Pastime.”
The shepherd stood and gaz’d his fill,
Nought durst he do, nought durst he say; When chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the god of love that way.
The crafty boy, that sees her sleep,
Whom, if she wak’d, he durst not see, Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended be.
There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place ; Ne dares he any longer stay,
But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.
Scarce was he gone when she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by ; Her bended bow in haste she takes,
And at the simple swain let fly.
Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain ; Yet up again forth with he start,
And to the nymph he ran amain.
Amaz’d to see so strange a sight,
She shot, and shot, but all in vain : The more his wounds, the more his might,
Love yieldeth strength in midst of pain.
Her angry eyes are great with tears,
She blames her hands, she blames her skill ; The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
And try them on herself she will.
Take heed, sweet nymph, try not thy shaft!
Each little touch will prick the heart ; Alas! thou know'st not Cupid's craft,
Revenge is joy, the end is smart.
Yet try she will, and prick some bare ;
Her hands were glov’d, and next to hand Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,
That made the shepherd senseless stand.
That breast she prick’d, and through that breast
Love finds an entry to her heart : At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord! how the gentle nymph doth start.
She runs not now, she shoots no more ;
Away she throws both shafts and bow : She seeks for that she shunn'd before,
She thinks the shepherd's haste too slow.
Though mountains meet not, lovers may,
The god of love sits on a tree,
THOMAS CAMPION Was a physician in the reign of James I. and author of two Masques ; one presented at Whitehall, on the mar. riage of Lord Hayes, printed 1607, 4to, and the other represented at Lord Knowles's, at Cawsome-house, &c., printed 1613, 4to. The following pieces are taken from Davison's miscellany.
Of Corinna's Singing.
And as her lute doth live or die,
Of his Mistress's Face. And would you see my mistress' face? It is a flowery garden-place, Where knots of beauty have such grace, That all is work, and no where space.
It is a sweet delicious morn,
It is the heaven's bright reflex,
It is a face of death that smiles,
It is fair beauty's freshest youth :