University of Virginia Library

To GALATEA Sailing. Ode XXVII.

Let impious Ones foul-singing Parra's sign
In journey lead, pregnant Bitch-Fox combine;
Or tawny Wolf from fields of Lanuvine:
Or let some winding Snake, doth crossing scar
Their Charret-horse, from journey them debar:
I doubt not thee, Good my presagings are
Before that rain-divining Bird does go
To th' standing Fens, that boading-voiced Crow
I'l from Sun-rise invoke good Omens show.
Maist thou where-ere blest, Galatea, prove,
Though gone from hence, live mindful of our Love;
Nor left-hand Raven, Pye from going move.
But seest? what stormy Noise ORION sends,
Nigh-set? what th' Adrian Port grown black portends.
I know, how clear Iapix Wind offends.
Let Wives of Foes those secret Workings feel
Of rising Kya, Seas dark, enchafed still;
Whilst batter'd Banks doe seem to tremble, Reel.
Thus bold EUROPA trusts her Snowy side
To th' false enamour'd Bull, pale-cheek'd did ride,
When Seas with Whales and bull's false arts descry'd.
Whom, choosing Flow'rs i'th' field the Nimphs to crown
As challeng'd debt, by Night (when clearer grown)
She back'd, nought viewing but Stars and Waves alone.
Return'd to Crete, of hundred Cities Fame,
She frantick cry'd; O Fathers slighted Name,
And Daughters piety! quench'd Vertue's flame!
Whither now brought? One Death's too small to dye
For Virgin's Crime; bad fact with waking eye
Dost mourn, deplore? or cheats fond Phantasie?
Elizian dream? else pure, unstain'd; as though
'Twere finer on smooth vastest Waves to goe,
Then crop fresh Flow'rs in painted Meads below.
O would some Man that vilest Beast from Fate
Yield to my Rage, some sharp edg'd Sword should bait
That Bull, and rend his Horns belov'd of late.
Past shame, my Fathers houshold-gods I fly,
Past shame yet live; some gentler Deity
(If hears) 'mongst Lions wandring let me die.
Ere Leanness foul doth starving wast, abuse
My yet plump Cheeks, and drink their youthful Juice,
Whilst tender Prey, and fair let Tigers bruise.
EUROPA loath'd! thy Father still does check,
Unseen; why dy'st thou not? Go stretch thy Neck
On yonder Ash, thy Girdle waits at beck.
Or would sharp Rocks delight, Death's swifter kind?
Go, cast thee down to th' whirling stormy Wind;
Unless some Handmaids Task could please thy Mind;
A Princess spin, serve barbarous Mistress so;
Foul Strumpet turn'd. VENUS o're-heard her Woe,
And laugh'd, her Boy set by with unbent Bow.
Till cloy'd with Mirth enough, said Fy; in jeer;
Leave these fond Brauls, that loathed Bull (where-ere)
Shall strait present his Horns for you to tear.
Know'st not th' art Wife to strongest JOVE? for shame
Quit Sobs, Complaints, to thy grand Fortune frame;
The World's first part proves called by thy Name.