 | Bersaba |  |
Thus spoke the God. At this inrag'd he grew,
And from the Top of Judah's Temple flew.
A Golden Bow he on his Shoulders wore,
A Quiver full of pointed Deaths he bore.
Then spreading round his Eye, unseen, at last
He view'd the fair Bersaba, as he past.
Tho' Sacred Judah's Beauties were Divine,
The fair Bersaba, like the Moon, did shine
Among th' inferiour Stars: So beauteous she;
But, ripe for Man, now might a Mother be.
Ev'n Love himself admir'd her won'drous shape,
And she might well fear an Immortal Rape.
With Gods and Goddesses she might compare,
For Gods and Goddesses were not so fair,
No spot, no blemish in her Face was seen,
Clear as the Morn, and as the Sky, Serene.
So bright, so goodly her Complexion shone,
As if some Angel drew it by his own.
And in her Eyes did thousand Graces play,
Like sparkling Stars that gild the Milky Way.
Here pointed Flames with cheerful Light did strive,
Able to Murder Mortals and revive.
But ah! What Pencil can describe, or show
The radiant Honours of her spacious Brow?
Here on her Neck in Curls soft Tresses rol'd,
Her Neck, like Iv'ry, and her Hair, like Gold.
Smooth, but more warm than Ice, her Breasts did show,
Whiter than Marble, but more soft than Snow.
The God admir'd the Virtues of her Face,
Beauty contending with Majestick Grace.
I'll cast, said he, my useless Bow away,
There will I sit, there I delight to play.
My Arms no more shall wound unguarded Hearts,
Far hence my Quiver and my idle Darts.
Under the shadow of her bending Brow
I'll place my self, and use it for my Bow,
Whilst ev'ry glance proceeding from her Eye,
My want of pointed Arrows shall supply.
Thence will I shoot, some Martial Hero tame,
I'll use my Skill, and they shall use their Flame.
And from the Top of Judah's Temple flew.
A Golden Bow he on his Shoulders wore,
A Quiver full of pointed Deaths he bore.
3
He view'd the fair Bersaba, as he past.
Tho' Sacred Judah's Beauties were Divine,
The fair Bersaba, like the Moon, did shine
Among th' inferiour Stars: So beauteous she;
But, ripe for Man, now might a Mother be.
Ev'n Love himself admir'd her won'drous shape,
And she might well fear an Immortal Rape.
With Gods and Goddesses she might compare,
For Gods and Goddesses were not so fair,
No spot, no blemish in her Face was seen,
Clear as the Morn, and as the Sky, Serene.
So bright, so goodly her Complexion shone,
As if some Angel drew it by his own.
And in her Eyes did thousand Graces play,
Like sparkling Stars that gild the Milky Way.
Here pointed Flames with cheerful Light did strive,
Able to Murder Mortals and revive.
But ah! What Pencil can describe, or show
The radiant Honours of her spacious Brow?
Here on her Neck in Curls soft Tresses rol'd,
Her Neck, like Iv'ry, and her Hair, like Gold.
Smooth, but more warm than Ice, her Breasts did show,
Whiter than Marble, but more soft than Snow.
The God admir'd the Virtues of her Face,
Beauty contending with Majestick Grace.
I'll cast, said he, my useless Bow away,
There will I sit, there I delight to play.
My Arms no more shall wound unguarded Hearts,
Far hence my Quiver and my idle Darts.
Under the shadow of her bending Brow
I'll place my self, and use it for my Bow,
Whilst ev'ry glance proceeding from her Eye,
My want of pointed Arrows shall supply.
4
I'll use my Skill, and they shall use their Flame.
| Bersaba | |