Poems, chiefly pastoral By John Cunningham. The second edition. With the Addition of several pastorals and other pieces |
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 | Poems, chiefly pastoral |  |
At day's early dawn a gay Butterfly spied
A budding young Rose, and he wish'd her his bride:
She blush'd when she heard him his passion declare,
And tenderly told him—he need not despair.
A budding young Rose, and he wish'd her his bride:
She blush'd when she heard him his passion declare,
And tenderly told him—he need not despair.
Their faith was soon plighted, as lovers will do,
He swore to be constant, she vow'd to be true.
He swore to be constant, she vow'd to be true.
It had not been prudent to deal with delay,
The bloom of a rose passes quickly away,
And the pride of a butterfly dies in a day.
The bloom of a rose passes quickly away,
And the pride of a butterfly dies in a day.
When wedded, away the wing'd gentleman hies,
From flow'ret to flow'ret he wantonly flies;
Nor did he revisit his bride, 'till the sun
Had less than one-fourth of his journey to run.
From flow'ret to flow'ret he wantonly flies;
Nor did he revisit his bride, 'till the sun
Had less than one-fourth of his journey to run.
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The Rose thus reproach'd him—‘Already so cold!
‘How feign'd, O you false one, the passion you told!
‘'Tis an age since you left me:” She meant a few hours;
But such we'll suppose the fond language of flowers:
‘I saw when you gave the base violet a kiss:
‘How—how could you stoop to a meanness like this?
‘Shall a low, little wretch, whom we Roses despise,
‘Find favour, O love! in my Butterfly's eyes?
‘On a tulip, quite tawdry, I saw your fond rape,
‘Nor yet could the pitiful primrose escape:
‘Dull daffodils too, were with ardour address'd,
‘And poppies, ill-scented, you kindly caress'd.”
‘How feign'd, O you false one, the passion you told!
‘'Tis an age since you left me:” She meant a few hours;
But such we'll suppose the fond language of flowers:
‘I saw when you gave the base violet a kiss:
‘How—how could you stoop to a meanness like this?
‘Shall a low, little wretch, whom we Roses despise,
‘Find favour, O love! in my Butterfly's eyes?
‘On a tulip, quite tawdry, I saw your fond rape,
‘Nor yet could the pitiful primrose escape:
‘Dull daffodils too, were with ardour address'd,
‘And poppies, ill-scented, you kindly caress'd.”
The coxcomb was piqu'd, and reply'd with a sneer,
‘That you're first to complain, I commend you, my dear!
‘But know, from your conduct my maxims I drew,
‘And if I'm inconstant, I copy from you.
‘That you're first to complain, I commend you, my dear!
‘But know, from your conduct my maxims I drew,
‘And if I'm inconstant, I copy from you.
‘I saw the boy Zephirus rifle your charms,
‘I saw how you simper'd and smil'd in his arms;
‘The honey-bee kiss'd you, you cannot disown,
‘You favour'd besides—O dishonour!—a drone;
‘Yet worse—'tis a crime that you must not deny,
‘Your sweets were made common, false Rose, to a fly.”
‘I saw how you simper'd and smil'd in his arms;
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‘You favour'd besides—O dishonour!—a drone;
‘Yet worse—'tis a crime that you must not deny,
‘Your sweets were made common, false Rose, to a fly.”
| Poems, chiefly pastoral | |