Anacreon :: :: University of Virginia Library

VVhen cheerful Spring smil'd on the Flowers,
Acanthus, hapless youth, essay'd
By tears, to bend th'ungentle powers:
Still waters which his flame betray'd.
So void of sence, as if the stone
In which he lay, and he, were one.

When by those briny streams, his eyes
Had given his heart a little vent,
He then his sickly voice unties,
His deep misfortunes to lament:
And thinking none else heard his plaints,
To Heav'n and Earth his grief thus paints.

Sun, wheresoe're thou dost dispence
To wondring Mortals, life, and light;
Hast thou found any influence,
But Sylvia's, then thy own more bright.
In all thy course didst thou e're see
One fair like Her, one crost like Me:

Ere since I serv'd her first, Heav'n knows!
I duly offer'd sighs and tears:

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But she, alas! contemns my woes,
The bondage of so many years:
Nor will (unkinde!) vouchsafe to turn
Her eyes though but to see my urn.

Ah cruel, whose relentless minde
vainly my piteous cries invade;
By service proud, by Love unkinde,
And by my sorrows scornful made;
Not that thou pity, onely view
Him, whom thou doom'st to death, I sue.

The stock I own, not makes me less
Clouded with meanness, or disgrace;
For, without boast, I may profess
The glory of a spotless race:
My Father in his tender age,
Withstood the Bear, and Lions rage.

A cloud of ravenous beasts once fell
Upon our fold, to lay it wast;
When he the tempest did dispel
With his victorious arm, at last
Fighting to set Pans altars free,
By death gain'd Immortality.

And in his forward steps I tread;
Where Honour me his Image cals:
No face of danger do I dread,
Death in no shape my soul appals:
I never yet met Enemy,
But I could master, except Thee.

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The other day, in yonder den
Which with my woes doth oft resound,
Seeking a Lamb strai'd from our Pen,
A litter of Tigers I found,
The Dam that chac'd me did I slay,
And the young Orphans brought away.

One that's left, for Thee I keep:
Whose courage sparkles in his eye:
And though scarce old enough to creep,
From none will suffer injury;
Yet will to me his Master bow:
Nor half so savage is as Thou.

Yet courage heightned by success
Thou mightst account an empty boast,
If the deep skill which I profess,
Had with my liberty been lost.
The power of simples I reveal,
And all pains but my own, can heal.

Thousands of Lovers can I show
That change Loves laws for those of Flora,
Which in my painted Garden grow,
Washt with the tears of fair Aurora;
Oh might I live in that disguise,
So I were water'd by thy eyes!

There yellow Clitia shalt thou finde
Retaining still her jealous look;
And that stout Greek, whose warlike mind
An unjust sentence could not brook:
Adonis, Narcissus full blown,
That Venus Martyr, this his own.

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And as the vertues that they hide,
Their stories too I can disclose;
How Juno's Milk the Lilly died,
And Cytherea's Blood the Rose;
Whose full buds swell with humble pride,
To be by thy fair Cheek outvi'd.

Thousands of trees thou shalt see there,
With grateful Earths ripe presents fraught,
And on the ruggid coats they wear,
Have I thy Name and Motto wrought:
The luscious Plum, the purple Berry,
Guilt Apricock, and juicy Cherry.

There Jesmine Groves will thee invite,
Though the Suns entrance they refuse:
In which sweet lab'rinth of delight,
Thou willingly thy self shalt lose,
As in thy hairs more od'rous maze,
My ravish'd soul entangled strayes.

But foolishly I glory in
My Trees, though they of fruit be full:
Or by my flocks esteem would win,
Though they abound in Milk and Wool.
How can I call these riches mine,
When ev'n my self, alass! am thine?

When the bright Regent of the day
Begins to guild the smiling East,

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Or in his saffron night-array
Hastens in Thetis lap to rest;
My early griefs rise with the light,
Encreasing with the shades of Night.

For when the black Queen, crown'd with Stars,
The Suns retiring beams supplies,
Though slumber all the sharpest cares
Of others, in soft fetters ties;
Yet I perpetual vigils keep,
Shun'd equally by Death, and Sleep.

The onely comfort I'm allow'd
Is in thy Picture, taken late
By one of whom the Art is proud,
Judge then how hapless is my state,
Who for the wound the substance made
Must of the shadow seek for aid.

The other day, this sacred Charm;
With dew devotion I drew forth;
My soul 'gainst ill advice to arm,
And vindicate thy sacred worth:
Mirtillo's Mother, pitying me,
Inveigh'd against thy cruelty.

She told me that my humble smart
Had rais'd thy pride to this excess;
And that thy unrelenting heart
Would own more flame, if mine had lesse;
Coy Lovers, coyness best defeat,
Who win most ground when they retreat.

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And if no Art could win thy love,
She counsel'd me to seek another:
Some lesse ungentle fair to prove,
And in a new, my old flame smother.
That other Beauties I might finde,
If not so fair, yet far more kinde.

Cloris, said I, it is too true,
A cruel passion I maintain:
And time its vigour doth renew,
Feeding my grief, and her disdain:
Yet so affect what I endure,
Death I would chuse, before the Cure.

So much I doat upon my chains,
And the dear prison I am in;
That my own hand the wall maintains,
Lest Reason should admittance win.
Nor could she with more pride confine,
Then I my freedom did resigne.

To my last breath I shun release,
More with her cruelty contented;
Nor shall my zealous faith decrease,
To see my martyrdom augmented.
The best of Joyes, we should not buy
But with the worst of misery.

Acanthus, breathing forth these woes,
Heard something rustle in the bush,
And hastily (surpriz'd) arose,
His bashful cheek stain'd with a blush:
For Daphnis unawares appear'd,
Who all his passion overheard.