Such was I, if the glass be true,
If true the crystal flood.
4 In colours of this glorious kind1
Apelles painted me;
My hair thus flowing with the wind,
Sprung from my native sea.
5 Like this,2 disordered, wild, forlorn,
Big with ten thousand fears,
Thee, my Adonis, did I mourn,
Even beautiful in tears.
6 But, viewing Myra placed apart,
I fear, says she, I fear,
Apelles, that Sir Godfrey's art
Has far surpassed thine here.
7 Or I, a goddess of the skies,
By Myra am outdone,
And must resign to her the prize,
The apple which I won.
8 But, soon as she had Myra seen,
Majestically fair,
The sparkling eye, the look serene,
The gay and easy air;
9 With fiery emulation filled,
The wondering goddess cried,
Apelles must to Kneller yield,
Or Venus must to Hyde.
1 Lady Salisbury.-- Lady Jane, sister to the Duke of Douglas; afterwards married to Sir John Stewart.
IMITATED, FROM THE FIRST BOOK OF OVID'S
'Nympha, precor, Penei, mane.'
ABATE, fair fugitive, abate thy speed,
Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head
With kind regard a panting lover view;
Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I'll pursue:
Pathless, alas! and rugged is the ground,
Some stone may hurt thee, or some thorn
DAPHNE. (Aside.)
This care is for himself, as sure as death!
One mile has put the fellow out of breath;
He'll never do, I'll lead him t'other round;
Washy he is, perhaps not over sound.
You fly, alas! not knowing whom you fly;
Nor ill-bred swain, nor rusty clown, am I:
I Claros isle and Tenedos command.
I would not leave my native land.
What is to come, by certain arts I know.
Pish! Partridge' has as fair pretence as you.
1 An almanack maker and astrologer at the beginning of the present (eighteenth) century. See Swift's Miscellanies.
That may be counterfeit, a Spanish wig.
Who cares for all that bush of curling hair,
Whilst your smooth chin is so extremely bare?
That never shall be Daphne's choice:
Syphacio had an admirable voice.
Of every herb I tell the mystic power;
To certain health the patient I restore;
Sent for, caressed-
-Ours is a wholesome air;
You'd better go to town, and practise there;
For me, I've no obstructions to remove;
I'm pretty well; I thank your father Jove:
And physic is a weak ally to love.
For learning famed, fine verses I compose.
So do your brother quacks and brother beaux.
Memorials only, and reviews, write prose.
From the bent yew I send the pointed reed,
Sure of its aim, and fatal in its speed.
Then leaving me, whom sure you would not kill! 38
In yonder thicket exercise your skill:
Shoot there at beasts; but for the human heart,
Your cousin Cupid has the only dart.
Yet turn, O beauteous maid! yet deign to hear
A love-sick deity's impetuous prayer;
O let me woo thee as thou wouldst be wooed!
First, therefore, be not so extremely rude.
Tear not the hedges down, nor tread the clover,
Like an hobgoblin, rather than a lover.
Next, to my father's grotto sometimes come;
At ebbing-tide he always is at home.
Read the Courant with him, and let him know
A little politics, how matters go
Upon his brother rivers, Rhine or Po.
As any maid or footman comes or goes,
Pull off your hat, and ask how Daphne does:
These sort of folks will to each other tell,
That you respect me; that, you know, looks well.
Then, if you are, as you pretend, the god
That rules the day, and much upon the road,
You'll find a hundred trifles in your way,
That you may bring one home from Africa:
Some little rarity, some bird, or beast;
And now and then a jewel from the east;
A lacquered cabinet, some china ware,
You have them mighty cheap at Pekin fair!
Next, nota bene, you shall never rove,
Nor take example by your father Jove.
Last, for the ease and comfort of
Make me your (Lord! what startles you?) your wife.
I'm now (they say) sixteen, or something more;
We mortals seldom live above fourscore:
Fourscore; you're good at numbers, let us see,
Seventeen suppose, remaining sixty-three;
Ay, in that span of time you'll bury me.
Mean time, if you have tumult, noise, and strife,
(Things not abhorrent to a married life!)
They'll quickly end, you see; what signify
A few odd years to you that never die!
And, after all, you're half your time away,
You know your business takes you up all day;
And, coming late to bed, you need not fear,
Whatever noise I make, you'll sleep, my dear!
Or, if a winter-evening should be long,
Even read your physic-book, or make a song.
Your steeds, your wife, diachalon, and rhyme,
May take up any honest godhead's time.
Thus, as you like it, you may love again,
And let another Daphne have her reign.
Now love, or leave, my dear; retreat, or follow:
I Daphne (this premised) take thee Apollo.
And may I split into ten thousand trees,
If I give up on other terms than these!
She said; but what the amorous god replied
(So fate ordained) is to our search denied;
By rats, alas! the manuscript is eat,
O cruel banquet! which we all regret.
Bavius, thy labours must this work restore;
May thy good-will be equal to thy power!
|