73. The lost Maidenhead.
1
As I went wandring o're the grounds,
Where fruitful Ceres hand appear'd,
Among the soul-enchanting sounds
Of feather'd Choristers, I heard
Clarinda making doleful moan,
Because her Maidenhead was gone.
2
Alas! (quoth she) the rose is fled,
That in my Azure veins did flow:
Ah pity me! my Maidenhead
Is lost, and now what shall I do?
Undone, undone, the woods proclaime;
My folly has betrai'd my fame.
3
The Gods (alas) will all combine
My sorrows to exasperate:
The blushing sun will cease to shine
On me. Oh cursed is my fate!
Undone, undone the mountains utter;
And angry heaven seems to mutter.
4
If Iove forbear to break my heart
In pieces by his bolts of thunder,
Yet will the chaste Diana's dart
Dash and divide me all in sunder.
Undone, undone, unhappy girl;
I've lost my Gem, my only Pearl.
5
But while she warbled out her wrong
By the bright vapors of her passion,
And mournful Dirges sadly song,
Serv'd up in cups of Execration:
An Eccho then repli'd and said,
Lament not for thy Maidenhead.
6
'Tis like proud flesh that hurts the wound,
If 'tis not clip't away in time;
Or like the swarfie scum that's found
In boyling pots: excessive slime,
Which if not scum'd when it doth rise,
Sinks in, and all within annoyes.
7
Yet if thy graces can but brook
The loss, but still thou dost implore it,
I'le give thee what another took;
If th' art content I will restore it.
Content I am, she answer'd then,
Restore it me thou happy man.
And then he gave it,
As she did crave.
8
The golden flower is now replanted
Within his native place again;
And fair Clarinda is not daunted,
Remembring no departed pain.
But since she found the loss so soft,
I fear she'l love to lose it oft.