The idylliums of Moschus and Bion Translated from the Greek. With annotations. To which is prefixed, An Account of their Lives; with some Remarks on their Works; and some Observations upon Pastoral. By Mr. Cooke |
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Idyllium I. The Fugitive Love.
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 | The idylliums of Moschus and Bion |  |
Idyllium I. The Fugitive Love.
A wanton
Cupid once from Venus run,
The Goddess miss'd him, and she thus begun:
The Goddess miss'd him, and she thus begun:
If any One a wand'ring Love should see,
He's mine, the little Urchin stray'd from me.
A sweet Reward will bounteous Venus give,
The Swain that shall restore her Fugitive:
A Kiss; nay, not alone a single Kiss,
She'll pay the Tydings with a greater Bliss.
So many Marks the Wanton will betray,
From Twenty, you may take the Right away.
Not white his Body, thro' the whole is spread,
Something resembling Fire, a glowing Red.
Flames, cruel Flames, from both his Eyeballs dart;
Fair are his Words, deceitful is his Heart!
With nought but Lies his flatt'ring Lips are hung;
Sweet honey Words flow from his soothing Tongue.
He in his Rage severe would all destroy,
Such the Resentment of the 'vengeful Boy!
Curl'd are his Locks, White as the falling Snow;
Nothing but Frowns sit on his angry Brow.
Small are his Hands; but far can throw a Dart;
He sometimes strikes th'infernal Monarch's Heart.
His Body's always naked to the Wind,
But close he keeps the Secrets of his Mind.
Swift as a Bird he flies, now here, now there,
And Man he wounds, nor spares the charming Fair.
A little Bow, and Arrow's in his Hand;
Tho' small, the Gods cannot their Force withstand.
A Quiver full of bitter Shafts he bears,
With which to wound his Mother oft' he dares:
They're cruel all, with greater Heat they burn,
Than the hot Rays of the Meridian Sun:
His little Torches Phœbus self annoy,
E'en Phœbus self is subject to the Boy.
Take him, and pity not his Tears that fall;
Or if he smiles, let not his Smiles prevail;
But bind him, bring him, they're deceitful all:
Or if he'd kiss, from his Embraces turn;
His Lips are Poyson, the Infection shun.
If he his Arms present, 'tis not for Love;
Refuse, they're ting'd with Fire, they will fallacious prove.
He's mine, the little Urchin stray'd from me.
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The Swain that shall restore her Fugitive:
A Kiss; nay, not alone a single Kiss,
She'll pay the Tydings with a greater Bliss.
So many Marks the Wanton will betray,
From Twenty, you may take the Right away.
Not white his Body, thro' the whole is spread,
Something resembling Fire, a glowing Red.
Flames, cruel Flames, from both his Eyeballs dart;
Fair are his Words, deceitful is his Heart!
With nought but Lies his flatt'ring Lips are hung;
Sweet honey Words flow from his soothing Tongue.
He in his Rage severe would all destroy,
Such the Resentment of the 'vengeful Boy!
Curl'd are his Locks, White as the falling Snow;
Nothing but Frowns sit on his angry Brow.
Small are his Hands; but far can throw a Dart;
He sometimes strikes th'infernal Monarch's Heart.
His Body's always naked to the Wind,
But close he keeps the Secrets of his Mind.
19
And Man he wounds, nor spares the charming Fair.
A little Bow, and Arrow's in his Hand;
Tho' small, the Gods cannot their Force withstand.
A Quiver full of bitter Shafts he bears,
With which to wound his Mother oft' he dares:
They're cruel all, with greater Heat they burn,
Than the hot Rays of the Meridian Sun:
His little Torches Phœbus self annoy,
E'en Phœbus self is subject to the Boy.
Take him, and pity not his Tears that fall;
Or if he smiles, let not his Smiles prevail;
But bind him, bring him, they're deceitful all:
Or if he'd kiss, from his Embraces turn;
His Lips are Poyson, the Infection shun.
If he his Arms present, 'tis not for Love;
Refuse, they're ting'd with Fire, they will fallacious prove.
| The idylliums of Moschus and Bion | |