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On Captain Balnave's being dangerously sick of a Fever at the time he should have been married; inscribed to his Lady afterwards.
  
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On Captain Balnave's being dangerously sick of a Fever at the time he should have been married; inscribed to his Lady afterwards.

Hail, welcome here, Largotion fair,
To be the mother of an heir;

136

An helper meet, and social friend
To him that has your favour gain'd:
But thanks to Cupid, for his craft,
That at the white so aim'd his shaft,
So that the whizzing arrow flew
Unerring in its path to you;
Insensibly the feather'd dart
Pierc'd thro' your young and tender heart,
And caus'd an easy restless pain,
That made you night and day complain;
Yet not in words, but in your thought,
'Till providence Alexis brought.
But Cupid he had cunningly
Took up his lodging in your eye,
And at first sight he unawares
With's arrow pierc'd the son of Mars.
Then honest Hymen standing by
Resolv'd to fix the nuptial ty,
To ease you both of future pain,
That you no longer might complain.
But all the nymphs, with envy cry'd,
When your felicity they spy'd,
We've lost Alexis, certainly;
Let's smite him now that he may die,
That so our sister-nymph, as well
As we, the smart of loss may feel.
When Mars beheld such insolence,
Such vi'lence to pure innocence,
He straightway to Apollo ran;
Said, Brother, come and see this man;
The Naiades and the wood-nymphs hath
Destroy'd him almost unto death:
Our sons on earth their skill have lost;
Come cure him up, whate'er it cost:
Then shall libations offered be
To Hymen, and to you, and me:
The lovely pair will us invoke,
And make our sacred altars smoke.

137

Then soon Apollo did apply
For him a present remedy,
And cur'd him up; the happy swain
Was perfectly reliev'd of pain.
Then golden Hymen brought his robe,
At which your virgin-heart did throb
With vigorous and gay desire,
That Hymen's torch doth still inspire.
Then he your hands and heart did join,
Both bowing to the sacred shrine.
Enjoy now as much happiness
As I can wish, or you possess.
Thus, Madam, here my tale I end,
Not wishing it would you offend:
May be indeed I've said o'er meikle,
Yet no ill's meant by Sandy Nicol.