THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE
THIRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sachariffa lov'd, but lov'd in vain :
Like Phœbus sung the no leffe amorous boy;
Like Daphne fhe, as lovely and as coy :
With numbers he the flying nimph pursues,
With numbers fuch as Phœbus felf might use:
Such is the chase when love and fancy leads
Ore craggy mountains, and through flowry meads;
Invok'd to teftifie the lovers care,
Or form fome image of his cruell fair.
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
Ore thefe he fled; and, now approaching near,
Had reacht the nimph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay;
Yet what he fung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessfull, was not fung in vain:
All, but the nimph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his paffion, and approve his fong.
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unfought praife,
He catcht at love, and fill'd his arm with bayes,
ON MY LADY ISABELLA PLAYING ON
THE LUTE.
SUCH moving founds, from such a careless touch!
So unconcern'd herfelf, and we fo much!
What art is this, that, with fo little pains,
Transports us thus, and o're our spirit reigns?
The trembling ftrings about her fingers croud, 5
And tell their joy for every kifs aloud:
Small force there needs to make them tremble fo;
Touch'd by that hand, who would not tremble too?
Here Love takes ftand, and, while fhe charms the
Empties his quiver on the listening deer:
Mufic fo foftens and difarms the minde,
That not an arrow does refiftance finde.
Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize,
And acts herself the triumph of her eyes :
So Nero once, with harp in hand, furvay'd
His flaming Rome, and as it burnt he play'd.
FAIR hand! that can on virgin-paper write,
Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white;
Whofe travel o're that filver field does fhow
Like track of leveretts in morning fnow.
Love's image thus in pureft minds is wrought, 5
Without a spot, or blemish, to the thought.
Strange that your fingers should the pencil foyl,
Without the help of colours, or of oyl!
For, though a painter boughs and leaves can make,
'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake:
Whose breath falutes your new-created grove, 11
Like fouthern winds, and makes it gently move.
Orpheus could make the forreft dance; but
Can make the motion, and the forreft too.
HENCE, loathed Melancholy!
Of Cerberus and blackeft midnight born,
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mong ft horrid shapes, and fhreiks, and fights unholy;
Find out fom uncouth cell,
Wher brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven fings;
There under ebon fhades, and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian defert ever dwell.
But com thou goddess fair and free,
In heav'n ycleap'd Euphrofyne,
And by men, heart-eafing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two fifter Graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as som fager fing)
The frolick wind that breathes the spring,
Zephir, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a maying,
There on beds of violets blew,
And fresh-blown roses washt in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So buckfom, blith, and debonair.
Hafte thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jeft and youthful Jollity,
26
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple fleek; 30
Sport that wrincled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his fides.
Com, and trip it as you go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee 35
The mountain nymph, fweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crue,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And finging startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to com, in spight of forrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:
|