To fee the King caught with this wile, With one another jefting: And to the Fayrie Court they went, The Quest of CYNTHIA. WHAT By the fame Hand. HAT time the Groves were clad in green, And that the fleek-hair'd Nymphs were seen, Forth rov'd I by the fliding Rills When me upon my Queft to bring, The Birds ftrove which fhould fweetlieft fing, Long wandring in the Woods (faid 1) At length upon a lofty Firr, It was my chance to find, Where that dear name moft due to her, Which whilft with wonder I beheld, The Bees their honey brought, And up the carved letters fill'd, As they with Gold were wrought. And near that Tree's more fpacious root, The shape of her most dainty foot Which fuck there like a curious Seal, Befides, the flowers which it had press'd, More fresh and lovely than the reft, The clear drops in the steps that stood, Of that delicious Girl, The Nymphs amongst their dainty food, Drunk for diffolved Pearl. The yielding fand, where fhe had trod, By When on upon my wayless walk, I ask'd fome Lillies, why fo white I ask'd a nodding Violet, why It told me Cynthia late paft by, A Bed of Rofes faw I there, I of a Shrub of those enquir'd, As the bafe Hemlock were we fuch, Since when thofe Frofts that Winter brings Renew us like the Teeming Springs, At length I on a Fountain light, When I demanded of that Well, It told me it was Cynthia's own, That curious Nymph had oft been known Since when that Water had the Power Loft Maiden-heads to restore, And make one Twenty in an hour, Of Efons Age before: And told me that the bottom clear, Of feed-pearl, e'er fhe bath'd her there, When chance me to an Arbor led, Whereas I might behold The place which he had chofen out, Had they come down, the Gods no doubt The Wealthy Spring yet never bore The Birch, the Myrtle, and the Bay, Where the like Venus doth appear, Upon a Rofie Bed; As Lillies the foft Pillows were, Heav'n on her shape fuch coft beftow'd, No limb of hers but might have made The BODE The Flies by chance mesht in her hair, The meaneft weed the Soil there bare,' That it with Woodbind durft compare, The Dew which on the tender Grafs The fhades with sweets that fill'd. The Winds were husht, no leaf fo fmall Whilft tuning to the Waters fall, Where the too quickly me efpies, A thousand Cupids from her Eyes Into thefe fecret fhades (cry'd fhe) To enter, confecrate to me, THE Thofe Words (the faid) I can pronounce Thee, which the Hunter had who once Bright Nymph, again I thus reply, This cannot me affright: |