Sylvæ, or, The second part of Poetical miscellanies

THE Twentieth IDYLLIUM OF THEOCRITUS.

PRoud Eunica, when I advanc'd to Kiss, Laugh'd loud, and cry'd, How ignorant he is! Alas poor Man! dare you, a wretched Swain, Lips such as these, and such a Mouth prophane? No: To prevent your rustick Freedom, know They're unacquainted yet with such as you: But your soft Lip, your Beard, your horny Fist, All charming, and all suing to be kist, Your matted Hair, and your smooth Chin invite, Conspire to make you Lovely to the sight.

Oh how you look, how prettily you play, How soft your Words, and what fine things you say! Yet, to prevent Infection, pray be gon, Your Neighbourhood, methinks, is dang'rous grown; Vanish, nor dare to touch me, Oh the Shame! He smells of the rank Goats from which he came! This said, with Indignation thrice she spit, Survey'd me with Disdain from Head to Feet; Then was fierce Rage, and conscious Beauty seen In all her Motions, and her haughty Meen. She pray'd, as if she some Contagion fear'd, Cast a disdainful Smile, and disappear'd. My boyling Blood sprang with my Rage, and spread O'er all my burning Face a fiery Red; So Roses blush, when night her kindly dew has shed. I rage, I curse the haughty 〈◊〉〈◊〉, that jeer'd My graceful Person, and my comely Beard.

Ye Shepherds, I conjure you, tell me true, Has any God cast my old Form anew? How am I chang'd? for once a matchless Grace Shone in the charming Features of my Face, Like creeping Ivy did my Beard o'er grow, And my long Hair in untaught Curles did flow, My Brows were black, and my large Forehead white, My sparkling Eyes shot forth a radiant Light; In sweetest Words did my soft Language flow, As Honey sweet, and soft as falling Snow; When with loud Notes I the shrill Pipe inspir'd, The list'ning Shepherds all my Skill admir'd; Me all the Virgins on our Mountains love, They praise my Beauty, and my flames approve. Such tho' I am, yet me, because a Swain, (How nice these Town-bred Women are, how vain!) Gay Eunica rejected with Disdain.

And she, it seems, has never heard, or read How Bacchus, now a God, a flock once fed. Venus her self did the Profession grace, By Love transform'd into a Countrey Lass, The Phrygian fields and woods her flames can tell, And how her much bewail'd Adonis fell. How oft on Latmos did the Moon descend From her bright Chariot to her Carian friend, And absent from the Sky whole Nights with him did spend? To shining in her Orb prefer her Love, Stoop and desert her glorious Seat above? And was not he a Shepherd? sure he was, Yet did not she disdain his low Embrace. The Gods great Mother too, and greater Iove, Their Majesty laid by, could Shepherds love: The Phrygian Groves, and conscious Ida know What She for Atys, he for Ganymed could do.

But prouder Eunica disdains alone What Gods, and greatest Goddesses have done: Fairer it seems by much, and greater she, Than Venus, Cynthia, or than Cybele. Oh my fair Venus, may you ne'er find one Worthy your Love, in Countrey, or in Town, But to a Virgin Bed condemn'd, for ever lye alone!