 | The Poems of Ambrose Philips |  |
77
THE STRAY NYMPH
Cease your musick, gentle swains:
Saw ye Delia cross the plains?
Every thicket, every grove,
Have I ranged, to find my love:
A kid, a lamb, my flock, I give,
Tell me only doth she live.
Saw ye Delia cross the plains?
Every thicket, every grove,
Have I ranged, to find my love:
A kid, a lamb, my flock, I give,
Tell me only doth she live.
White her skin as mountain-snow;
In her cheek the roses blow:
And her eye is brighter far
Than the beamy morning star.
When her ruddy lip ye view,
'Tis a berry moist with dew:
And her breath, Oh 'tis a gale
Passing o'er a fragant vale,
Passing, when a friendly shower
Freshens every herb and flower.
Wide her bosom opens, gay
As the primrose-dell in May,
Sweet as violet-borders growing
Over fountains ever-flowing.
Like the tendrels of the vine,
Do her auburn tresses twine,
Glossy ringlets all behind
Streaming buxom to the wind,
When along the lawn she bounds,
Light, as hind before the hounds:
And the youthful ring she fires,
Hopeless in their fond desires,
As her flitting feet advance,
Wanton in the winding dance.
In her cheek the roses blow:
And her eye is brighter far
Than the beamy morning star.
When her ruddy lip ye view,
'Tis a berry moist with dew:
And her breath, Oh 'tis a gale
Passing o'er a fragant vale,
Passing, when a friendly shower
Freshens every herb and flower.
Wide her bosom opens, gay
As the primrose-dell in May,
Sweet as violet-borders growing
Over fountains ever-flowing.
Like the tendrels of the vine,
Do her auburn tresses twine,
Glossy ringlets all behind
Streaming buxom to the wind,
When along the lawn she bounds,
Light, as hind before the hounds:
And the youthful ring she fires,
Hopeless in their fond desires,
As her flitting feet advance,
Wanton in the winding dance.
Tell me, shepherds, have ye seen
My delight, my love, my queen?
My delight, my love, my queen?
| The Poems of Ambrose Philips | |