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While he who shot so keen a dart,
The god of stratagem and art,
Awed haply by his graceful mien,
Fraught him with wiles the fair to win.
Thus while at Dian's hallow'd fane
Cydippe join'd the maiden train,
Towards her attendant's feet he roll'd
(Inscribed with characters of gold)
An apple of Cydonian stem :

(Love's garden raised the budding gem.)
The girl immediate seized the prize,
Admired its colour and its size:

Much wond'ring from what virgin's zone
So fair a pris'ner could have flown.
""Tis sure," said she, "a fruit divine;
But then, what means this mystic line?
Cydippe, see, just now I found

This apple; view how large, how round:
See how it shames the rose's bloom,
And smell its exquisite perfume.
And, dearest mistress, tell me, pray,
The meaning which these words convey?"
The blushing fruit Cydippe eyed,
Then read th' inscription on its side.-
"By chaste Diana's sacred head,
I swear I will Acontius wed."
Thus vowed she at the hallow'd shrine,
Though rashly, though without design;
And utter'd not, for modest dread,
The last emphatic word, to wed:
Which but to hear, much more to speak,❤
With blushes paints a virgin's cheek.
"Ah!” cries the half-distracted fair,
"Diana sure has heard me swear:
Yes, favour'd youth, without dispute
She has assented to thy suit."

He the meanwhile from day to day
In ceaseless anguish pined away.
His tears usurp'd the place of sleep
For shame forbade all day to weep.

Which but to hear, &c.]

Nomine conjugii dicto, confusa pudore
Sensi me totis erubuisse genis.

OVID

3

Sickly and thin his body grew:

His cheeks had lost their ruddy hue.
Thousand pretences would he feign,
To loiter on the lonely plain;
Striving most eagerly to fly

The keenness of his father's eye.

Oft with the morn's first beam he'd leave
His tear bathed couch; and to deceive
His friend's concern, some untouch'd book,
As studious bent, the lover took :

Then to the grove, the peaceful grove,
Where silence yields full scope to love.
Thus from their hard attention freed.
He wept unsought, yet seem'd to read.
Thither if chance his father drew,
And bared the wand'rer to his view,
Knowledge he thought the stripling's aim,
A laudable desire for fame;

And every sigh his sorrow brought,
The old man construed into thought;
Or if he wept as tears would flow-
He only wept at others' woe.

Still too, when pleasant evening came,
And others sought the frolic game,
Still was his wont to shun the feast,
To feign that angling pleased him best;
Then busy with his rod and hook,
He sought some solitary brook.
But ye were safe, ye finny brood,
And safely stemm'd your native flood,
Secure around his float to glide,
And dash th' unbaited hook aside.

Yet still 'twas solitude! and he
Must give his solitude a plea:
Besides, the posture pleased, for grief:
In humblest postures finds relief :

True love the suppliant's bend will please,

And sorrow unrestrain'd is ease.

His friends, who found he fled the town,
Concluded him a farmer grown;
And call'd him, in derision pleasant,
Laertes, or the new-made peasant.—

But he, sad lover, little made
The vines his care, or plied the spade;
Little he cared how sped the bower,
And little mark'd the drooping flower,
But wand'ring through the bushy brake,
Thus in bewilder'd accents spake :
"Oh! that each pine, and spreading beech,
Were blest with reason and with speech!
So might they evermore declare
Cydippe fairest of the fair.

At least, ye thickets, will I mark
Her lovely name upon your bark.
O dear inspirer of my pain,

Let not thy oath be sworn in vain :
Let not the goddess find that thou
Hast dared to falsify a vow.

With vengeance every crime she threats,
But never perjury forgets.-

Yet, not on thee the fatal meed;

'Tis I, who caused thy crime, should bleed.

On me then, Dian, vent thine ire,
And let her crime with me expire.

But tell me, lofty groves, oh tell,

Ye seats where feather'd warblers dwell,
Can Love your knotty bosoms reach,
And burns the cypress for the beech?
Ah no-ye never feel the smart ;
Ne'er Cupid pierced that stubborn heart.
Think ye your worthless leaves, ye trees,
His mighty anger could appease?
No-silly woods; his ample fire
Above your branches would aspire;
Upon the very trunk would prey,
And burn your hardest root away."

Meantime, a happier lover's arms
Prepared to clasp Cydippe's charms.
Already had the virgin throng
Attuned their Hymeneal song-
"Strike ye now the golden lyre,

Modulate the vocal choir"

But hark!-what horrid shrieks arise?

Cydippe faints-Cydippe dies.

The bridal pomp, alas! is fled;
Funereal sounds are heard instead.
Yet soft-she lives-she breathes again,
"Louder raise the nuptial strain."
A second time the fever burns:
A second time her health returns.
Again the marriage torches blaze;
Again Cydippe's bloom decays.
No longer will her sire await
The fourth avenging stroke of Fate;
But of the Pythian shrine demands,
What god opposed the nuptial bands?
Phoebus at once revealed the truth,
The vow, the apple, and the youth.-
Told him, her oath the maid must keep,
Or ne'er would Dian's vengeance sleep.
Then added thus the god, "Whene'er
Acontius gains the blooming fair,
Not silver shall be join'd with lead,
But gold the purest gold shall wed."
So spoke the shrine divinely skill'd-
Cydippe soon her vow fulfilled:
No clouds of sickness intervene
To darken the delightful scene.-
Whilst striking with directive hand,
A virgin led the choral band;
Attentive to each warbling throat,
She chided each discordant note.
Others their hands applausive beat,
Like cymbals sounding as they meet.

But ill Acontius brook'd their noise-
He sigh'd for more substantial joys.
Ne'er had he seen so long a day:
Night never pass'd so quick away.
The sun had gain'd its summit, ere
Acontius left the rifled fair:

But first her cheeks he kiss'd, whilst she
Dissembled sleep through modesty ;-
But well her tell-tale blushes spake
The conscious nymph was still awake.
Alone at length, she raised her head,
And blushing view'd the bridal bed;
Then with chaste rapture, hanging o'er
The place Acontius press'd before,

"Protect, ye powers divine," she said,
"Protect the wife, who led the maid;
And oh! be doubly kind to him
Who must be now Cydippe's theme.
And thou, chaste Hymen, who dost guide
The steps of each untainted bride,
Teach me what fits I should be taught,
Nor let me wander e'en in thought.
So may your altars ever burn,

So may each day like this return;
And every night."-Speak, trifler, speak;
Whence virgin blushes on thy cheek ?—
"And every night"-she hung her head-
Be crown'd like this,-she would have said
EPISTLE XI.* THE ARTFUL MAID.

PHILOSTRATUS TO EUAGORAS.

A LADY thus her maid address'd-
"" Like you the beauteous youth
On whom I dote, in whom I'm blest?
I charge you tell me truth.

"Or is't my love that paints him fair,

And all my fancy warms?

For lovers oft deceived are,
And prize ideal charms.

"But say, the swain whom I admire,
Do other women praise ?
Do they behold him with desire,
Or view with scornful gaze?"

The girl replied, who saw her cue,
Deep learn'd in flattery's lore,
"They all his beauty praise with you,
With you they all adore.

"Behold,' they cry, 'that form divine

The sculptor's art should trace,

To bid the bust of Hermes shinet

With every manly grace.'

Epistle XI. A lady inquires whether the man she loved was really beautiful: her maid flatters, and assures her of it.

To bid the bust, &c] The ancient sculptors used to copy the face of Hermes, or Mercury, from that of Alcibiades, who was reckoned the most beautiful model: "but now," says the maid, "women think your lover superior to him."

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