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130

[Along the mead Europa walks]

Along the mead Europa walks
To choose the fairest of its gems,
Which plucking from their slender stalks,
She weaves in fragrant diadems.
Where ere the beautious virgin treads,
The common people of the field,
To kisse her feet bowing their heads,
Homage as to their Goddesse yield.
Twixt whom ambitious wars arise,
which to the Qeen shall first present
A gift Arabian spice outvies,
The votive offring of their scent.
When deathlesse Amaranth this strife,
Greedy by dying to decide,
Begs she would her green thread of life,
As loves fair destiny divide.
Pliant Acanthus now the Vine,
And Ivy enviously beholds,
Wishing her odorous arms might twine
About this Fair in such strict folds.

131

The Violet by her foot opprest,
Doth from that touch enamour'd rise,
But loosing strait what made her blest,
Hangs down her head, looks pale, and dies.
Clitia to new devotion won,
doth now her former faith deny,
Sees in her face a double Sun,
And glories in Apostasy.
The Gilliflower which mocks the skies,
(The meadows painted Rainbow) seeks
A brighter lustre from her eyes,
And richer scarlet from her cheeks.
The jocund flower de Luce appears,
Because neglected, discontent;
The Morning furnish'd her with tears,
Her sighs expiring odours vent.
Narcissus in her eyes once more,
Seems his own beauty to admire;
In water not so clear before,
As represented now in fire.
The Crocus who would gladly claim
A priviledge above the rest,
Begs with his triple tongue of flame,
To be transplanted to her breast.
The Hyacinth in whose pale leaves
The hand of Nature writ his fate,

132

With a glad smile his sigh deceives
In hopes to be more fortunate.
His head the drowsie Poppy rais'd,
Awak'd by this approaching morn,
And view'd her purple light amaz'd,
Though his (alasse) was but her scorn.
None of this aromatick croud,
But for their kinde death humbly call,
Courting her hand, like Martyrs proud,
By so divine a fate to fall.
The Royal Maid th'applause disdains
Of vulgar flowers, and onely chose
The bashful glory of the plains
Sweet daughter of the Spring, the Rose.
She like her self a Queen appears,
Rais'd on a verdant thorny throne,
Guarded by amorous winds, and wears
A purple Robe, a golden crown.