University of Virginia Library


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Epig. 21. To my much honoured, and incomparable Friend, Mr. Theodor Loe Esquire, upon his request to me to pen a peculiar Poem of Oberon and his Queen.

Noble Sir, your Poet prayes
You'd teare from's head his wreath of Bayes,
And in its stead a Chaplet place
Of living flowers, t'would better grace
His aspect, now you'd have him sing,
Pucks treachery against his King.
Jelous Ob'ron when his Queen,
Dub'd him Cuckold on the green,
Conveigh me into yonder grove,
Where the broad fac'd Owle doth rove
With waving wings from tree to tree,
And the sweet Turtle mournfully
Chants her own Dirge, beneath an Oake
Which Sylvanus never strooke

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In anger, nor the Dryad's curst
Since the time it sprang up first,
Here seat me, and I'le sing to life,
Oberon's frenzy for his wife.