Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lovely dove, tell me, I pray,
Whence you wing your flight away,
Whence it is that now you fly,
Filling all the joyous sky
With a scent of ointments bright,
That you almost rain delight:
Who is he, for whom you go?
'Tis a care to me to know.

From Anacreon now I fly,
On a special embassy,
To the maid, Bathylla, sent,
With a lovely argument.
She in beauty goeth forth
The queen and lady of the earth.
And me t' Anacreon Venus sold
For a hymn, and not for gold:
And such a hymn hath not been seen;
And from that time have I been

As a slave in his affairs,
Bearing thus his gentle cares.
And now what letters do I carry!
But so long I must not tarry,
Oh what letters! and he says,
(Promise so our service pays;
But Anacreon's true to me;)
He for this will set me free.

Let him do so, 'tis all one;
I from him will not be gone:
Servant, I with him will stay:
For what use to me to stray
O'er the hills, and o'er the fields,
And whatever nature yields,
Sitting on the idle boughs,
And on rustic food carouse?
Now indeed sweet bread I eat,
Snatching from his hands the treat,
From the hands of Anacreon:
And his wine, too, is my own;

Whereof I am free to sup,
Being partner of his cup:
And, perhaps, I dance; and spread
A gentle wing above his head;
And, not without a kiss, retire
To sleep upon the golden lyre.

All you have, and now be gone:
By your seeking I am grown,
Stranger, but 'tis seldom so,
More loquacious than a crow.