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EUNICA;
OR, THE NEATHERD.
FROM THEOCRITUS: IDYLL. XX.
Lord! when to kiss the city-maid I tried,
How proud she look'd; and flouted me, and cried,
‘Away, thou rustic! nor my lips profane—
‘Dost think I ever learnt to kiss a swain?
‘No—I delight in city-lips alone—
‘Thou should'st not kiss me in a dream—begone.
‘No—Caitiff—hands so tawny—lips so thick—
‘And such a smell! Begone! for I am sick!’
She spoke—and spitting thrice, the saucy slut
Titter'd, and ey'd me o'er from head to foot;
And frown'd, and winc'd about to shew her shape,
And laugh'd aloud, and mutter'd—‘What an ape!’
Wild as she flung away, I speechless stood:
In anger boil'd the current of my blood!
Quick to my face the flushing crimson flew,
And like a rose I look'd o'ercharg'd with dew!
Still—still resentment in my breast I bear—
That she should scorn a youth so passing fair!
How proud she look'd; and flouted me, and cried,
‘Away, thou rustic! nor my lips profane—
‘Dost think I ever learnt to kiss a swain?
‘No—I delight in city-lips alone—
‘Thou should'st not kiss me in a dream—begone.
‘No—Caitiff—hands so tawny—lips so thick—
‘And such a smell! Begone! for I am sick!’
She spoke—and spitting thrice, the saucy slut
Titter'd, and ey'd me o'er from head to foot;
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And laugh'd aloud, and mutter'd—‘What an ape!’
Wild as she flung away, I speechless stood:
In anger boil'd the current of my blood!
Quick to my face the flushing crimson flew,
And like a rose I look'd o'ercharg'd with dew!
Still—still resentment in my breast I bear—
That she should scorn a youth so passing fair!
But say, my comrade-swains, and tell me truth—
Am not I bright in all the bloom of youth?
Or else what god hath fashion'd me anew?
Erst my fair form shone lovely to the view!
My beard, soft spread, like clasping ivy, clung;
My locks, like parsley, down my temples hung!
White o'er my sable eye-brows—snowy-white—
My open forehead seem'd one lustrous light!
My eyes, a living azure as they stream'd,
Than bright Minerva's more divinely beam'd.
My lips, like cream, with dulcet sounds replete,
Dropp'd music than the honey-comb more sweet;
And all enchanting flow'd the liquid note,
Or from my pipe, or flute, or Dorian oat!
The girls upon the hills confess my charms,
And, sighing, long to clasp me in their arms!
But for this flirt—so tinctur'd with the town—
Who scorns, forsooth, the proffers of a clown;
She never knew that Bacchus, tho' divine,
Pastur'd, amidst the vales, his lowing kine;
That Venus ev'n to cits a swain preferr'd,
And help'd him, on the hill, to feed his herd;
Or, fir'd by fair Adonis, that in groves
The Paphian Queen enjoy'd and mourn'd her loves.
Am not I bright in all the bloom of youth?
Or else what god hath fashion'd me anew?
Erst my fair form shone lovely to the view!
My beard, soft spread, like clasping ivy, clung;
My locks, like parsley, down my temples hung!
146
My open forehead seem'd one lustrous light!
My eyes, a living azure as they stream'd,
Than bright Minerva's more divinely beam'd.
147
Dropp'd music than the honey-comb more sweet;
And all enchanting flow'd the liquid note,
Or from my pipe, or flute, or Dorian oat!
The girls upon the hills confess my charms,
And, sighing, long to clasp me in their arms!
But for this flirt—so tinctur'd with the town—
Who scorns, forsooth, the proffers of a clown;
She never knew that Bacchus, tho' divine,
Pastur'd, amidst the vales, his lowing kine;
That Venus ev'n to cits a swain preferr'd,
And help'd him, on the hill, to feed his herd;
Or, fir'd by fair Adonis, that in groves
The Paphian Queen enjoy'd and mourn'd her loves.
And was not sweet Endymion's self a swain—
Whom Luna lov'd, descending to the plain,
Whilst for the Latmian lawn she left her sphere?
And did not Rhea hold a herdsman dear?
Nay—'twas thy will thro' woodland haunts to rove
Ev'n for a little herdsboy, Father Jove!
Whom Luna lov'd, descending to the plain,
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And did not Rhea hold a herdsman dear?
Nay—'twas thy will thro' woodland haunts to rove
Ev'n for a little herdsboy, Father Jove!
And yet a neatherd's love Eunica thinks
Beneath her notice—the conceited minx!
And vaunts her graceful air—unmatch'd, I ween,
By Rhea, Cynthia, or the Cyprian Queen!
Bewitching beauty! Tho', besure, we see
A second Cytherea bloom in thee,
O may'st thou sigh, for aye—and sigh in vain—
To kiss thy lover of the town again!
Despis'd by every cit, be thine to prove
The hill's rude breezes for a herdsman's love;
But may the rustic's scorn thy crime atone,
And slighted, may'st thou sleep all night—alone!
Beneath her notice—the conceited minx!
And vaunts her graceful air—unmatch'd, I ween,
By Rhea, Cynthia, or the Cyprian Queen!
Bewitching beauty! Tho', besure, we see
A second Cytherea bloom in thee,
O may'st thou sigh, for aye—and sigh in vain—
To kiss thy lover of the town again!
Despis'd by every cit, be thine to prove
The hill's rude breezes for a herdsman's love;
But may the rustic's scorn thy crime atone,
And slighted, may'st thou sleep all night—alone!
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