After the breakfast on her teat,
She takes her leave o'th' mournful neat, Who by her touch'd now prize their life, Worthy alone the hallow'd knife.
Into the neighb'ring wood she's gone, Whose roof defies the tell-tale sun, And locks out ev'ry prying beam; Close by the lips of a clear stream She sits and entertains her eye With the moist chrystal, and the fry With burnish'd-silver mail'd, whose oars Amazed still make to the shores;
What need she other bait or charm
But look or angle, but her arm?
The happy captive gladly ta'en,
Sues ever to be slave in vain,
Who instantly (confirm'd in's fears)
Hastes to his element of tears.
From hence her various windings rove
To a well-order'd stately grove;
This is the palace of the wood,
And court o'th' royal oak, where stood
The whole nobility, the pine,
Straight ash, tall fir, and wanton vine;
The proper cedar, and the rest;
Here she her deeper senses blest.
Admires great nature in this pile
Floor'd with green velvet camomile,
Garnish'd with gems of unset fruit,
Supplied still with a self recruit;
Her bosom wrought with pretty eyes
Of never-planted strawberries;
Where th' winged music of the air
Do richly feast, and for their fare
Each evening in a silent shade,
Bestow a grateful serenade.
Thus even tired with delight,
Sated in soul and appetite;
Full of the purple plum and pear,
The golden apple with the fair
Grape, that mirth fain would have taught her,
And nuts which cracking squirrels brought her;
She softly lays her weary limbs,
Whilst gentle slumber now begins
To draw the curtains of her eye;
When straight awaken'd with a cry
And bitter groan, again reposes,
Again a deep sigh interposes.
And now she hears a trembling voice;
Ah, can there ought on earth rejoice!
Why wears she this gay livery
Not black as her dark entrails be?
Can trees be green, and to the air
Thus prostitute their flowing hair?
Why do they sprout; not wither'd die?
Must cach thing live save wretched I?
Can days triumph in blue and red,
When both their light and life is fled?
Fly Joy on wings of popinjay's
To courts of fools, there as your plays
Die, laugh'd at and forgot; whilst all
That's good, mourns at this funeral.
Weep all ye Graces, and you sweet
Quire, that at the hill inspir'd meet:
Love put thy tapers out that we
And th' world may seem as blind as thee:
And be, since she is lost (ah, wound!)
Not heav'n itself by any found.
Now as prisoner new cast,
Who sleeps in chains that night his last,
Next morn is wak'd with a reprieve,
And from his trance, not dream, bid live;
Wonders (his sense not having scope)
Who speaks, his friend, or his false hope.
So Aramantha heard, but fear Dares not yet trust her tempting ear: And as again her arms o'th' ground Spread pillows for her head, a sound More dismal makes a swift divorce, And starts her thus-Rage, Rapine, Force! Ye blue-flam'd daughters o'th' abyss, Bring all your snakes, here let them hiss;
Let not a leaf its freshness keep;
Blast all their roots, and as you creep
And leave behind your deadly slime,
Poison the budding branch in's prime:
Waste the proud bowers of this grove,
That fiends may dwell in it, and move
As in their proper hell, whilst she
Above, laments this tragedy;
Yet pities not our fate. Oh fair
Vow-breaker, now betroth'd to th' air;
Why by these laws did we not die,
As live but one, Lucasta! why-
As he Lucasta, nam’d a groan,
Strangles the fainting passing tone;
But as she heard Lucasta, smiles
Possess her round, she's slipp'd meanwhiles
Behind the blind of a thick bush,
When each word tempting with a blush,
She gently thus bespake: "Sad swain,
If mates in woe do ease our pain,
Here's one full of that antic grief,
Which stifled would for ever live,
But told expires; pray then reveal
(To show our wound is half to heal)
What mortal nymph or deity
Bewail you thus ?-Whoe'er you be,
The shepherd sigh'd, my woes I crave
Smother'd in me, I in my grave;
Yet be in show or truth a saint,
Or fiend breathe Anthems, hear my plaint
For her and my breath's symphony,
Which now makes full the harmony
Above, and to whose voice the spheres
Listen, and call her music theirs;
This was I blest on earth with, so
As Druids amorous did grow
Jealous of both, for as one day
This star as yet but set in clay
By an embracing river lay,
They steep'd her in the hallowed brook,
Which from her human nature took,
And straight to heaven, with winged fear,
Thus ravish'd with her, ravish her."
The nymph replied, “This holy rape Became the gods, whose obscure shape They cloth'd with light, whilst ill you grieve Your better life should ever live,
And weep that she to whom you wish
What heav'n could give, has all its bliss ;
Calling her angel here, yet be
Sad at this true divinity:
She's for the altar not the skies,
Whom first you crown, then sacrifice.
Fond man thus to a precipice Aspires, 'till at the top his eyes
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