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An Altar and Sacrifice to Disdain, for freeing
him from love.
My muse by thee restor'd to life,
Long suits in vain,
That binds desire:
that if I love again,
SWEET, I do not pardon crave,
Till I have
That your ire
Not my will, but fate did fetch
Me, poor wretch,
Pain can find
Then, O then! let that suffice,
Your dear eyes
Need at all
By my love, long, firm, and true,
Borne to you,
By these tears my grief expressing,
Sounds your praise,
Or, if I may not desire
That your ire
When I have
Ir chanc'd of late a shepherd 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,
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
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; But up again forthwith 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 the 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. VOL. III.