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The Story of Phoe B U s and DAPHNE


HYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,

Fair SACHARIS SA lov'd, but lov'd in vain :
Like PHOB BUS sung the no less amorous boy;
Like DAPHNE she, as lovely, and as coy!
With Numbers he the flying Nymph pursues ;
With Numbers such as PH OB B U s' self might use!
Such is the chase, when love and fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and thro' Aow'ry meads ;
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Or form fome image of his cruel Fair.
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the Nymph with his harmonious Lay;
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet, what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unfuccessful, was not fung in vain :
All, but the Nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his paffion, and approve his Song.
Like Phoe B U-s thus, acquiring unfought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill’d his arms with bays.


RCADIÆ juvenis THYRSIS, PHOE BIQUE facerdos, A

Ingenti frustra SACHARIS SÆ ardebat amore. Haud Deus ipse olim DAPHNI majora canebat ; Nec fuit asperior DAPHNE, nec pulchrior illâ :


Carminibus PHOE B o dignis premit ille fugacem
rupes, per faxa, volans


Alorida vates Pascua: formosam nunc his componere Nympham, Nunc illis crudelem infanâ mente solebat. Audiit illa procul miserum, citharamque fonantem; Audiit, at nullis refpexit mota querelis ! Ne tamen omnino caneret desertus, ad alta Sidera perculsi referunt nova carmina montes. Sic, non quæfitis cumulatus laudibus, olim Elapsâ reperit DAPHNE sua laurea PHOE BU S.


AY, lovely Dream! where could'st thou find

Shades to counterfeit that face? Colors of this glorious kind

Come not from any mortal place.

In heav’n itself thou sure wer't drest

With that angel-like disguise: Thus deluded am I blest,

And see my joy with closed Eyes.

But ah ! this image is too kind

To be other than a Dream : Cruel SACHARISSA's mind

Never put on that sweet extreme!

Fair Dream ! if thou intend'st me grace,

Change that heav'nly face of thine ; Paint despis'd love in thy face,

And make it to appear like mine.

Pale, Pale, wan, and meagre let it look,

With a pity-moving shape; Such as wander by the brook

OF LETHE, or from graves escape.

Then to that matchless Nymph appear,

In whose shape thou shinest so; Softly in her sleeping ear,

With humble words express my woe.

Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride,

Thus surprised the may fall: Sleep does disproportion hide,

And, death resembling, equals all.

TO Mrs. BRAUGHTON, Servant to


AIR fellow-fervant! may your gentle ear


Than the bright dame's we serve: for her relief
(Vex'd with the long expressions of my grief)
Receive these plaints: nor will her high disdain


humble Muse to court her train. So, in those nations which the fun adore, Some modeft PERSIAN, or some weak-ey'd Moor, No higher dares advance his dazled fight, Than to fome gilded cloud, which near the light Of their ascending God adorns the east, And, graced with his beams, out-shines the rest.


Thy skilful hand contributes to our woe,
And whets those arrows which confound us so.
A thousand Cupids in those curls do sit,
(Those curious nets !) thy slender fingers knit:
The GRACE S put not more exactly on
Th' attire of Venus, when the Ball she won;
Than SACHARISSA by thy care is dress’d,
When all our youth prefers her to the rest.

You the soft season know, when best her mind
May be to pity, or to love, inclin'd:
In some well-chosen hour supply his fear,
Whose hopeless love durft never tempt the ear
Of that stern Goddess: you, her priest, declare
What off'rings may propitiate the Fair :
Rich orient Pearl, bright ftones that ne'er decay,
Or polish'd lines which longer last than they.
For if I thought she took delight in those,
To where the chearful morn do's first disclose,
(The shady night removing with her beams)
Wing'd with bold love, I'd fly to fetch fuch gems.
But fince her eyes, her teeth, her lip excels
All that is found in mines or fishes' shells ;
Her nobler part as far exceeding these,
None but immortal gifts her mind should please.
The shining jewels GR E E C E, and Troy, bestow'd
On * SPARTA's Queen, her lovely neck did load,
And snowy wrists : but when the town was burn'd,
Those fading glories were to ashes turn’d:
Her beauty too had perish'd, and her fame,
Had not the Muse redeem'd them from the flame.

* Helen.



HILE in this park I fing, the fiftning deer

Attend my passion, and forget to fear : When to the beeches I report my flame, They bow their heads, as if they felt the fame: To Gods appealing when I reach their Bow'rs With loud complaints, they answer me in fhow'rs. To Thee a wild and cruel foul is giv’n, More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heav'n! Love's foe profess’d! why dost thou fallly feign Thy self a SIDNEY? from which noble strain * He sprung, that could so far exalt the name Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame; That all we can of love, or high desire, Seems but the smoke of amorous SIDNEY's fire. Nor call her Mother, who fo well does One breast may hold both chastity, and love. Never can the, that so exceeds the spring In joy, and bounty, be suppos’d to bring One so destructive: to no humane stock We owe this fierce unkindness: but the rock, That cloven rock produc'd thee, by whose fide Nature, to recompence the fatal pride Of such stern beauty, plac'd those + healing springs ; Which not more help, than that destruction brings. Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone, Į might, like ORPHE U s, with my

num'rous moan Melt to compassion : now, my trait'rous fong With thee conspires, to do the finger wrong: * Sir Pbilip Sidney.

+ Tunbridge Wells.


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