Had Dorothea liv'd when mortals made
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade
Had held an altar to her pow'r that gave
The peace and glory which these alleys have;
Einbroider'd so with flowers where she stood,
That it became a garden of a wood.
Her presence has such more than human grace,
That it can civilize the rudest place ;
And beauty too, and order, can impart,
Where Nature ne'er intended it nor art.
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre.
If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbours crowd ;
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like some well-marshall’d and obsequious band.
Amphion so made stones and timber leap
Into fair figures from a confus'd heap:
And in the symmetry' of her parts.is found
A pow'r like that of harmony in sound.

Ye lofty beeches! tell this matchless dame,
That if together ye fed all one fiame,
It could not equalize the hundredth part
Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart !-
Go, boy, and carve this passion on the bark
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sidney's birth ; when such benign,
Such more than mortal-making stars did shine,
That there they cannot but for ever prove
The monument and pledge of humble love ;
His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher,
Than for a pardon that he dares admire.



No wonder Sleep from careful lovers flies,
To bathe himself in Sacharissa's eyes.
As fair Astræa once from earth to heav'n,
By strife and loud impiety was driv'n;
So with our plaints offended, and our tears,
Wise Somnus to that paradise repairs;
Waits on her will, and wretches does forsake,
To court the nymph for whom those wretches wake.
More proud than Phæbus of his throne of gold,
Is the soft god those softer limbs to hold ;
Nor would exchange with Jove, to hide the skies
In dark’ning clouds, the pow'r to close her eyes ;
Eyes which so far all other lights control,
They warm our mortal parts, but these our soul !

Let her free spirit, whose unconquer'd breast
Holds such deep quiet and untroubled rest,
Know that though Venus and her son should spare

rebel heart, and never teach her care, Yet Hymen may in force his vigils keep, And for another's joy suspend her sleep.


MISREPORT OF HER BEING PAINTED. As when a sort of wolves infest the night With their wild howlings at fair Cynthia's light, The noise may chase sweet slumber from our eyes, But never reach the mistress of the skies


So with the news of Sacharissa's wrongs,
Her vexed servants blame those envious tongues ;
Call Love to witness that no painted fire
Can scorch men so, or kindle such desire;
While, unconcerned, she seems mov'd no more
With this new malice than our loves before;
But from the height of her great mind looks down
On both our passions without smile or frown.
So little care of what is done below
Hath the bright dame whom Heav'n affecteth so !
Paints her, 'tis true, with the same hand which

Like glorious colours through the flowery meads,
When lavish Nature, with her best attire,

Clothes the gay spring, the season of desire.
| Paints her, 'tis true, and does her cheek adorn

With the same art wherewith she paints the morn;
With the same art wherewith she gildeth so
Those painted clouds which form Thaumantias' bow.



As in old chaos (Heav'n with earth confus'd,
And stars with rocks together crush'd and bruis'd)
The sun his light no further could extend
Than the next hill, which on his shoulders lean'd;
So in this throng bright Sacharissa far'd,
Oppress'd by those who strove to be her guard;
As ships, though never so obsequious, fall
Foul in a tempest on their admiral.

A greater favour this disorder brought
Unto her servants than their awful thought
Durst entertain, when thus compellid they prest
The yielding marble of her snowy breast.
While love insults, disguised in the cloud
And welcome force of that unruly crowd.
So the’amorous tree, while yet the air is calm,
Just distance keeps from his desired palm ;
But when the wind her ravish'd branches throws
Into his arms, and mingles all their boughs,
Though loth he seems her tender leaves to press,
More loth he is that friendly storin should cease,
From whose rude bounty he the double use
At once receives, of pleasure and excuse.




Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train, Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain : Like Phæbus sung the no less amorous boy ; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy! With numbers he the flying nymph pursues, With numbers such as Phæbus' self might use ! Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, O’er craggy mountains, and through flowery meads; Invok'd to testify the lover's care, Or form some image of bis cruel fair. Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer, O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,

Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all bis charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain :
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phæbus thus, acquiring unsonght praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill’d his arms with bays.

FABULA PHBI ET DAPHNES. ARCADIÆ juvenis Thyrsis, Phæbique sacerdos, Ingenti frustra Sacharissæ ardebat amore. Haud Deus ipse olim Daphni majora canebat; Nec fuit asperior Daphne, nec pulchrior illâ : Carminibus Phæbo dignis premit ille fugacem Per rupes, per saxa, volans per florida vates Pascua : formosam nunc his componere nympham, Nunc illis crudelem insanâ mente solebat. Audiit illa procul miserum, cytharamque sonantem; Audiit, at nullis respexit mota querelis ! Ne tamen omnino canerct desertus, ad alta Sidera perculsi referunt nova carmina montes. Sic, non quæsitis cumulatus laudibus, olim Elapsâ reperit Daphne sua laurea Phæbus.

While in this park I sing, the listening deer
Attend my passion, and forget to fear.
When to the beeches I report my flame,
They bow their heads, as if they felt the same.

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