The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) excluding Seneca and Manilius Introduced and Annotated by F. J. Van Beeck |
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 | The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) |  |
The Shepheard.
Fair
Eunica I sweetly would have kist,
But was with scorn, and this reproach dismist.
Hence! what? a Shepheard, and yet hope from Me
For such a Grace? We kiss no Clowns, saith she.
My Lips I would not with a kiss so vile
As thine, so much as in a Dream defile.
Lord! how thou look'st? how like a Lubber sport'st?
What fine discourse thou hast? how sweetly court'st?
How soft thy Beard is? and how neat thy Hair?
Thy Lips like sick mens blush, and thy hands are
White as an Ethiops: fogh! thou stink'st, out, quick,
Carrion! be gone; lest thy smell make me sick.
Then in her Brest thrice spitting, me a skew
(Mumbling t'her self) from Head to foot doth view.
Such Pride in her self-flatter'd Beauty takes,
Whilst in Derision Mouths at Me she makes.
But was with scorn, and this reproach dismist.
Hence! what? a Shepheard, and yet hope from Me
For such a Grace? We kiss no Clowns, saith she.
My Lips I would not with a kiss so vile
As thine, so much as in a Dream defile.
Lord! how thou look'st? how like a Lubber sport'st?
What fine discourse thou hast? how sweetly court'st?
64
Thy Lips like sick mens blush, and thy hands are
White as an Ethiops: fogh! thou stink'st, out, quick,
Carrion! be gone; lest thy smell make me sick.
Then in her Brest thrice spitting, me a skew
(Mumbling t'her self) from Head to foot doth view.
Such Pride in her self-flatter'd Beauty takes,
Whilst in Derision Mouths at Me she makes.
This scorn my bloud inflam'd, and red I grew
With anger, like a Rose new bath'd in Dew.
She went her way, and left me vext, to see
I should by such a Huswife slighted be.
With anger, like a Rose new bath'd in Dew.
She went her way, and left me vext, to see
I should by such a Huswife slighted be.
Say Shepheards! am I not a handsome Lad?
Or hath some God transform'd, and lately made
M'another Man? for once I'd a good face:
And that (as Ivy Trees) my Beard did grace;
My Locks like Smallage 'bout my Temples twin'd;
And my white Front 'bove my black Eye-brows shin'd.
My Eyes more lovely than Minerva's were,
Than Curds my Lips more soft, and sweeter far
My Words than Honey: play too, would you knew't,
I sweetly can, on Pipe, Shalm, Reed, and Flute.
There's not a Country Lass but likes, as passes,
And loves me too: all but your City Lasses;
Who, 'cause a Shepheard, me without regard
(Forsooth!) pass by, alas! they never heard
How Bacchus on the Plains did Oxen tend,
And Venus to a Shepheards Love did bend,
And his fat Flocks on Phrygian Mountains kept,
Or lov'd in Woods, and for Adonis wept.
VVhat was Endymion but a Shepheard? whom
The Moon affected, and from Heaven would come
To lye whole Nights on Latmus with the Boy.
A Shepheard (Rhea) too was once thy Joy:
And oh, how many scapes Jove didst thou make
From Juno's Bed for a young Shepheard's sake?
But Eunica alone doth Swains despise,
And 'bove those Goddesses her self doth prize.
Venus no more thou with thy Love may'st keep
In Town, or Hill; alone thou now must sleep.
Or hath some God transform'd, and lately made
M'another Man? for once I'd a good face:
And that (as Ivy Trees) my Beard did grace;
My Locks like Smallage 'bout my Temples twin'd;
And my white Front 'bove my black Eye-brows shin'd.
My Eyes more lovely than Minerva's were,
Than Curds my Lips more soft, and sweeter far
My Words than Honey: play too, would you knew't,
I sweetly can, on Pipe, Shalm, Reed, and Flute.
There's not a Country Lass but likes, as passes,
And loves me too: all but your City Lasses;
Who, 'cause a Shepheard, me without regard
(Forsooth!) pass by, alas! they never heard
How Bacchus on the Plains did Oxen tend,
And Venus to a Shepheards Love did bend,
And his fat Flocks on Phrygian Mountains kept,
Or lov'd in Woods, and for Adonis wept.
VVhat was Endymion but a Shepheard? whom
The Moon affected, and from Heaven would come
To lye whole Nights on Latmus with the Boy.
A Shepheard (Rhea) too was once thy Joy:
And oh, how many scapes Jove didst thou make
From Juno's Bed for a young Shepheard's sake?
But Eunica alone doth Swains despise,
And 'bove those Goddesses her self doth prize.
Venus no more thou with thy Love may'st keep
In Town, or Hill; alone thou now must sleep.
| The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) | |