« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Believe me, sweet girl, I speak true,
Or else put my love to the test;
Like them do you bless and be blest.
The nymph that I lov'd was as cheerful as day, And as sweet as the blossoming hawthorn in May; Her temper was smooth as the down on the dove, And her face was as fair as the mother's of Love.
And receives gentle odours from violet beds,
Her mind was unsullied as new-fallen snow,
The sweets that each virtue or grace had in store, She cull’d as the bee would the bloom of each
flow'r. Which treasur'd for me, o, how happy was I, For tho'her's to collect, it was mine to enjoy.
As Granville's soft numbers tune Myra's just
- praise, And Chloe shines lovely in Prior's sweet lays : So, would Daphne but smile, their example I'd
follow, 'And, as she looks like Venus, I'd sing like Apollo : But alas! while no smiles from the fair one inspire,
[lyre! How languid my strains, and how tuneless my
Go, zephyrs, salute in soft accents her ear,
And tell how I languish, sigh, pine, and despair ; · In gentiest numbers iny passion commend ;
But whisper it softly, for fear you offend, · For sure, oh ye winds, ye may tell her my pain,
'T'is Strephon's to suffer, but not to complain,
Wherever I go, or whatever I do,
But with her neither lily nor rose can compare ;
If, to vent my fond anguish, I steal to the grove, The spring there presents the fresh bloom of my The nightingale too with impertinent noise, slove; Pours forth her sweet strains in my Syren's sweet voice :
[brings; Thus the grove and its music her image still For like spring she looks fair, like the nightingale
If forsaking the groves, I fly to the court,
[appear? But, alas ! what would Brudenel or Richmond Unheeded they'd pass, were my Daphne but
If to books I retire, to drown my fond pain,
Like Lydia, or Chloe, would Daphne but prove,
[Way, translator of the Fabliaux.]
How yonder ivy courts the oak,
And clips it with a false embrace ! So I abide a wanton's yoke,
And yield me to a smiling face. And both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.
How fain the tree would swell its rind !
But, vainly trying, it decays,
So wastes the vigour of my days.
A lass, forlorn for lack of grace,
My kindly pity first did move ; And in a little moment's space,
This pity did engender love. And now my death must prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.
For now she rules me with her look,
And round me winds her harlot chain ; Whilst by a strange enchantment struck, • My nobler will recoils in vain. And soon my death will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.
But, had the oak denied its shade,
The weed had trail'd in dust below; And she, had I her suit gainsaid,
Might still have pin’d in want and woe : Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.
When Damon languish'd at my feet,
But ah! how swift they flew !
The garden and the grove Have echoed to his ardent tale,
And vows of endless love.