A TALE out of Anacreon.
At dead low ebb of night
At dead low ebb of night, when none but Great Charles Wayn was driven
on; When Mortals strict cessation keep, to re-recruit themselves with sleep; 'Twas then a Boy
knockt at my gate. Who's there, said I, that calls so late? O let me In! he soon reply'd, I am a
Childe; and then he cry'd, I wander without guide or light, lost in this wet, blind, Moonless night.
In pity then I rose, and straight unbarr'd my dore, and sprang a light: Behold, It was a Lovely
Boy, a sweeter sight ne're bless'd mine Eye: I view'd him round, and saw strange things; a
Bow, a Quiver, and two Wings; I led him to the fire, and then I dry'd and, chaf'd his
hands with mine: I gently press'd his tresses, curles, which new faln rain had hung with perls:
At last, when warm'd, the Yonker said, Alas my Bow! I am afraid the string is wet, 'Pray (Sir) let's
try; let's try my Bow. Do, do, said I. He bent it; Shot so quick and smart, as though my
liver reach'd my heart. Then in a trice he took his flight, and laughing said; My Bow is right, it is
O 'tis! For as he spoke, 'twas not his Bow, but my Heart is broke.
