University of Virginia Library

O Short, no Herb, no Salve was ever found
To ease a Lover's heart, or heal his wound;
No Medicine this prevailing Ill subdues,
None, but the Charms of the condoling Muse:
Sweet to the Sense, and easie to the Mind
The Cure, but hard, but very hard to find.
This you well know, and surely none so well,
Who both in Physick's sacred Art excel,
And in Wit's Orb among the brightest shine,
The love of Phœbus, and the tuneful Nine.

Thus sweetly sad of old, the Cyclops strove
To soften his uneasie hours of Love.
Then when hot Youth urg'd him to fierce desire,
And Galatea's Eyes kindled the raging fire,
His was no common Flame, nor could he move
In the old Arts, and beaten Paths of Love;
Nor Flowers nor Fruits sent to oblige the Fair,
Nor more to please, curl'd his neglected Hair;
His was all Rage, all Madness; to his Mind
No other Cares their wonted Entrance find.
Oft from the Field his Flock return'd alone
Unheeded, unobserv'd: he on some Stone,
Or craggy Cliff, to the deaf Winds and Sea
Accusing Galatea's Cruelty;
Till Night from the first dawn of opening day,
Consumes with inward heat, and melts away.
Yet then a Cure, the only Cure he found,
And thus apply'd it to the bleeding Wound;
From a steep Rock, from whence he might survey
The Flood, (the Bed where his lov'd Sea-Nymph lay,)
His drooping head with sorrow bent he hung,
And thus his griefs calm'd with his mournful Song.
Fair Galatea, why is all my Pain
Rewarded thus? soft Love with sharp Disdain?
Fairer than falling Snow or rising Light,
Soft to the touch as charming to the sight;
Sprightly as unyok'd Heifers, on whose head
The tender Crescents but begin to spread;
Yet cruel you to harshness more incline,
Than unripe Grapes pluck'd from the savage Vine.
Soon as my heavy Eye-lid's seal'd with sleep,
Hither you come out from the foaming deep.
But when sleep leaves me, you together fly,
And vanish swiftly from my opening Eye,
Swift as young Lambs when the fierce Wolf they spy.
I well remember the first fatal day
That made my Heart your Beauty's easie Prey,
'Twas when the Flood you, with my Mother, left,
Of all its Brightness, all its Pride bereft,
To gather Flowers from the steep Mountain's Top;
Of the high Office proud, I led you up;
To Hyacinths, and Roses did you bring,
And shew'd you all the Treasures of the Spring.
But from that hour my Soul has known no rest,
Soft Peace is banish'd from my tortur'd Breast,
I rage, I burn. Yet still regardless you
Not the least sign of melting pity shew:
No; by the Gods that shall revenge my pain!
No; you, the more I love, the more disdain.
Ah! Nymph, by every Grace adorn'd, I know
Why you despise and fly the Cyclops so;
Because a shaggy Brow from side to side,
Stretch'd in a line, does my large Forehead hide;
And under that one only Eye does shine,
And my flat Nose to my big Lips does joyn.
Such tho' I am, yet know, a Thousand Sheep,
The pride of the Sicilian Hills, I keep;
With sweetest Milk they fill my flowing Pails,
And my vast stock of Cheeses never fails;
In Summer's heat, or Winter's sharpest cold,
My loaded Shelves groan with the weight they hold.
With such soft Notes I the shrill Pipe inspire,
That every list'ning Cyclops does admire;
While with it often I all Night proclaim
Thy powerful Charms, and my successless Flame.
For thee twelve Does all big with Fawn, I feed,
And four Bear-Cubs, tame to thy hand, I breed.
Ah! come, to me, fair Nymph, and you shall find
These are the smallest Gifts for thee design'd.
Ah! come, and leave the angry Waves to roar,
And break themselves against the sounding shoar.
How much more pleasant would thy slumbers be
In the retir'd and peaceful Cave with me?
There the streight Cypress and green Laurel join,
And creeping Ivy clasps the cluster'd Vine;
There fresh, cool Rills, from Ætna's purest Snow,
Dissolv'd into Ambrosial Liquor, flow.
Who the wild Waves, and brackish Sea could chuse,
And these still Shades, and these sweet Streams refuse?
But if you fear that I, o'er-grown with Hair,
Without a Fire defie the Winter Air,
Know I have mighty Stores of Wood, and know
Perpetual Fires on my bright Hearth do glow.
My Soul, my Life it self should burn for thee,
And this one-Eye, as dear as Life to me.
Why was not I with Fins, like Fishes, made,
That I, like them, might in the Deep have play'd?
Then would I dive beneath the yielding Tide,
And kiss your Hand, if you your Lips deny'd.
To thee I'd Lillies and red Poppies bear,
And Flowers that crown each Season of the Year.
But I'm resolv'd I'll learn to swim and dive
Of the next Stranger that does here arrive,
That th'undiscover'd Pleasures I may know
Which you enjoy in the deep Flood below.
Come forth, O Nymph, and coming forth forget,
Like me that on this Rock unmindful sit,
(Of all things else unmindful but of thee)
Home to return forget, and live with me.
With me the sweet and pleasing Labour chuse,
To feed the Flock, and milk the burthen'd Ewes,
To press the Cheese, and the sharp Runnet to infuse.
My Mother does unkindly use her Son,
By her neglect the Cyclops is undone;
For me she never labours to prevail,
Nor whispers in your Ear my Am'rous Tale.
No; tho' she knows I languish every Day,
And sees my Body waste, and Strength decay.
But I more Ills than what I feel will feign,
And of my Head, and of my Feet complain;
That, in her Breast if any Pity lye,
She may be sad, and griev'd, as well as I.

O Cyclops, Cyclops, where's thy Reason fled?
If your young Lambs with new pluckt boughs you fed,
And watch'd your Flock, would you not seem more wise?
Milk what is next, pursue not that which flies.
Perhaps you may, since this proves so unkind,
Another fairer Galatea find.
Me many Virgins as I pass invite
To waste with them in Love's soft Sports the Night,
And if I but incline my listning Ear,
New Joys, new Smiles in all their Looks appear.
Thus we, it seems, can be belov'd; and we,
It seems, are somebody as well as she.

Thus did the Cyclops fan his raging fire,
And sooth'd with gentle Verse his fierce Desire.
Thus pass'd his Hours with more delight and ease,
Than if the Riches of the World were his.