I struck, and yet no lucky crack did follow; Yet I struck hard, and yet the leaf lay hollow :
And which was worse, if any worse could prove, The with'ring leaf foreshew'd your with'ring
Yet farther (ah, how far a lover dares !)
My last recourse I had to fieve and sheers;
And told the witch Agreo my disease :
Agreo, that in harvest us'd to lease :
But harvest done, to chare-work did aspire;
Meat, drink, and two-pence was her daily hire,
To work she went, her charms she mutter'd o'er,
And yet the resty sieve 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 you to hate.
A milk-white goat for you I did provide;
Two milk-white kids run frisking by her fide,
For which the nut-brown lass, Erithacis,
Full often offer'd many a savoury kiss.
Hers they shall be, since you refuse the price:
What madman would o'erstand his market twice!
My right eye itches, some good-luck is near,
Perhaps my Amaryllis may appear;
I'll fet up such a note as she shall hear.
What nymph but my melodious voice would
She must be flint, if she refuse my love.
Hippomenes, who ran with noble strife
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 haste she could not choose but stay :
Renown said, Run; the glitt'ring bribe cry'd,
The man might have been hang'd, but for his gold.
Yet some suppose 'twas love (some few indeed)
That stopt the fatal fury of her speed :
She saw, the figh'd; her nimble feet refuse
Their wonted speed, and she took pains to lose.
A Prophet some, 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 such 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 cæleftial 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 blest 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 rest.
My aking head can fcarce support the pain;
This cursed love will surely 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 sleep:
I lay me down to gasp my latest breath,
The wolves will get a breakfast by my death;
Yet scarce enough their hunger to fupply,
For love has made me carrion ere I die.
HELEN and MENELAUS.
From the 18th Idyllium of THEOCRITUS.
WelveSpartan virgins, noble, young, and fair,
With violet wreaths adorn'd their flowing
hair;
And to the pompous palace did refort,
Where Menelaus kept his royal court.
There hand in hand a comely choir they led;
To fing a blessing to his nuptial bed,
With curious needles wrought, and painted
Jove's beauteous daughter now his bride must be,
And Jove himself was less a God than he:
For this their artful handsinstruct the lute to sound,
Their feet assist their hands, and justly beat the
This was their song: Why, happy bridegroom, why, Ere yet the stars are kindled in the sky,
Ere twilight shades, or evening dews are shed,
Why dost thou steal 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 slumber on thy temples creep,
(But, naughty man, thou dost 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 sports more harmless till the break of day:
Give us this evening, thou hast morn and night,
And all the year before thee, for delight.
O happy youth! to thee, among the crowd
Of rival princes, Cupid sneez'd aloud;
And every lucky omen sent before,
To meet thee landing on the Spartan shore.
Of all our heroes thou canst boast alone,
That Jove, whene'er he thunders, calls thee son:
Betwixt two sheets thou shalt enjoy her bare,
With whom no Grecian virgin can compare;
So soft, so sweet, so 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,
Twelvescore viragos of the Spartan race,
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