University of Virginia Library

Cephalus and Procris.

Two fleeting Months blest Cephalus had past,
Who now may grieve they did not longer last.
While he has Procris, swift each Minute flies,
They Count no time, who cannot Count their Joys.
Those pleasing hours, wing'd with their transports, flew,
When fair Aurora saw, and Lov'd him too.
Tho' on her Throne she had the Pow'r to sway,
The dewy confines of the Night, and Day.
He was her greatest Pride, her only care,
While deeper Blushes in her Cheeks appear,
And shew her shame, because she thinks him Dear,
On steep Hymettus she her Flames declar'd,
But happy Procris is to her prefer'd.
She had his Heart, she had his Soul before,
He gave her all he could, and wish'd to give her more.
This when Aurora knew, inrag'd she said,
Keep then your Procris, prize your Nuptial Bed.
But if I fate, or her proceedings know,
You soon will wish you had not Lov'd her so.
He leaves the Goddess, but her Words he bears,
Which rack his Mind with Thousand Anxious fears.
Sometimes he thinks she might his honour wrong,
And then concludes her Vertuous, tho' she's young.
Yet oft he doubts, where the surmize was vain,
And must himself be Author of his pain.
Chang'd by Aurora, a new form he wears,
And, as a stranger, at his House appears.
All there was silent, he could find no Crime,
As if with Procris all had mourn'd for him.
With all his Arts he does the cheat pursue,
And seem'd to fear that they were all too few.
At length he sees her, and amaz'd he stood,
New Beams of Beauty pierc'd her sorrow's Cloud.
Scarce from due Kisses could he there refrain,
And almost thought to grow himself again.
For him alone was all fair Procris care,
Absent to her, altho' she saw him there.
Oft he attempts her Chastity to try,
He asks her oft, who does as oft deny.
She yet does faithful to her Nuptials prove,
Nor dares ev'n fancy she can wrong her Love.
Presents he sends, and by the Gods he swears,
She must be his, for he is only hers.
Seduc'd by these, she knows not what to do,
Nor can she tell would she be Chast, or no,
Fears she is lost, for Oh! she finds it so.
Her Eyes with Tears, her Cheeks with Blushes fill'd,
She shews, by silence, she at length might yield.
Then, he inrag'd in his own form appear'd,
She saw her Lord, and as she saw, she fear'd.
He loudly storm'd, and like a Tempest flew,
She prest with shame; in silence, strait withdrew.
Ran to the Woods, nor would return again,
No Beast so Salvage; so abhorr'd, as Men.
He soon repents the mischiefs he has done,
And says himself the fault was all his own.
Forgives his Procris, who again return'd,
And owns, he, so, had for Aurora burn'd.
Their Love more firm, by being broken, grows,
They both resolve to keep their Nuptial vows,
He in a Wife was blest, and she a Spouse.
In their Chast Breasts so Just a Passion moves,
He priz'd her Bed above the Queen of Love's,
Nor would she change her Husband's ev'n for Jove's.
Now with his Dart he Traces o'er the plain,
And haunts the Forests, and the Woods again.
After his toil, he does to Shades repair,
Where the cool Vallies Breath refreshing air.
Come, Air, he cry'd, (as he was us'd to say)
O come, and Kiss my glowing heat away.
Oft did he call it with such Words as those,
And Court it so, while he more fiercely glows.
Some busy Fool heard all that he had said,
And told his Procris he had wrong'd her Bed.
She, Jealous she, was with the story mov'd,
And fears some Dryad, above her belov'd.
Condemns her Lord as most inconstant now,
She says he is, but yet she knows not how.
The following Day he does his game pursue,
And Courts the Air, as he was wont to do.
When a loud sigh among the Woods he hears,
Then strait a rustling, and in hast he stirs.
Throws his strong Dart at the imagin'd Beast,
And Wounds his Procris on the tender Breast.
Ay me! She cry'd; her Voice too well he knew,
And in distraction to her aid he flew;
Found her all Bloody with the wound he made,
Faint with the blow, and half already dead.
O live, said he, leave me not guilty here,
To smart for ever for the Wound you bear,
The Wound I gave that Breast I Love so Dear.
Dying, she cry'd, by all the Gods above,
By all the Gods that have a sense of Love.
By all the Pow'rs that have Command below,
To whose infernal Regions I must go,
By all the blest—by Procris, and by you.
I charge you, ne'er let your desires be mov'd,
Nor let lew'd Ayre be after me belov'd.
Just as she dy'd, he did her fate unfold,
And told it Mourning, since too late he told.