Sylvæ, or, The second part of Poetical miscellanies

AITHΣ. OR THE Twelfth IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

SCarce three whole days, my lovely Youth, had past Since thou and I met here, and parted last. And yet, so sluggishly the Minutes slew, I thought it Ages till we met anew. Gay Youth and Vigour were already sled, Already envious Time began to shed A snowy White around my drooping Head. As to Spring's Bravery rugged Winter yields, The hoary Mountains to the smiling Fields;

As by the faithful Shepherd new-yean'd Lambs Are much less valu'd than their fleecy Damms; As to wild Plumbs the Damson is preferr'd; As nimble Does out-strip the duller Herd; As Maids seem fairer in their blooming Pride, Then those who Hymen's Joys have often try'd; As Philomel, when warbling forth her Love, Excells the feather'd Quire of ev'ry tuneful Grove: So much dost thou all other Youths excell, They Speak not, Look not, Love not half so well! Sweeter thy Face! more ravishing thy Charms! No Guest so welcom to my longing Arms! When first I view'd those much lov'd Eyes of thine▪ At distance and from far encount'ring mine, I ran, I flew, to meet th'expected Boy With all the transports of unruly Joy.

Not with such eager haste, such fond Desires, The Traveller, when scorch'd by Syrian Fires, To some well-spreading Beache's shade retires. O! that some God would equal Flames impart! And spread a mutual warmth thro' either Heart! 'Till men should quote our names for loving well; And age to age the pleasing Story tell. Two men there were (cry's some well meaning tongue) Whose friendship equal on Love's Ballance hung: (Espnilus one, Aïtes t'other name, Both surely fix'd in the Records of Fame) Of honest ancient make and heav'nly mould, Such as in good King Saturn's dayes of old Flourish'd, and stamp'd the Age's name with Gold. Grant, mighty Iove, that after many a day, While we amidst th' Elysian Valleys stray, Some welcom Ghost may this glad Message say,

Your Loves, the copious theme of ev'ry tongue, Ev'n now with lasting Praise are daily sung; Admir'd by all, but chiefly by the Young. But Pray'rs are vain! the ruling Pow'rs on high, Whate'er I ask, can grant or can deny. In the mean time thee my due Songs shall praise, Thee the glad matter of my tuneful lays: Nor shall the well meant Verse a tell-tale Blister raise. Nay shou'd you chide, I'll catch the pleasing sound, Since the same Mouth that made, can heal the wound. Ye Megarensians, who from Nisa's Shoar Plow up the Sea with many a well-tim'd Oar, May all your Labours glad Success attend: You, who to Diocles, that generous Friend, Due Honours, and becoming Reverence pay, When rowling Years bring on the happy Day. Then round his Tomb the crowded Youth resort, With Lips well sitted for the wanton Sport:

And he, whose pointed Kiss is sweetest found, Returns with Laurels, and fresh Garlands crown'd. Happy the Boy that bears the Prize away! Happy, I grant: but O far happier they, Who, from the Seats of their much envy'd Bliss, Receiv'd the Tribute of each wanton Kiss! Surely to Ganymed their Pray'rs are made, That, while the am'rous Strife is warmly plaid, He would their Lips with equal Virtues guide To those which in the faithful Stone reside: Whose touch apply'd, the Artist can explore The baser Mettal from the shining Ore.