Damon. Pan met me. The other day Clorinda. What did great Pan say? Damon. Words that transcend poor shepherd's skill; But he e'er since my songs does fill, And his name swells my slender oat. Clorinda. Sweet must Pan sound in Damon's note. Caves echo, and the fountains ring. For all the world is our Pan's quire. CXIII. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THYRSIS AND DORINDA. Dorinda. WHEN death shall snatch us from these kids, And shut up our divided lids, Tell me, Thyrsis, prythee do, Thyrsis. To the Elysium. Dorinda. O where is 't? Thyrsis. A chaste soul never can miss 't. Dorinda. I know no way but one; our home Is our Elysium. Thyrsis. Cast thine eye to yonder sky, There the milky way doth lie; 'Tis a sure, but rugged way, That leads to everlasting day. Dorinda. There birds may nest, but how can I, That have no wings and cannot fly? Thyrsis. Do not sigh, fair nymph, for fire Hath no wings, yet doth aspire Heaven's the centre of the soul. Dorinda. But in Elysium how do they Thyrsis. O! there's neither hope nor fear, By silent thinking, antedate! I prythee let us spend our time to come, Thyrsis. Then I'll go on: there sheep are full Of softest grass, and softest wool; There birds sing concerts, garlands grow, Cool winds do whisper, springs do flow And day is ever but begun; And every nymph's a queen of May Dorinda. Ah, me! ah, me! Thyrsis. Dorinda, why dost cry? Dorinda. I'm sick, I'm sick, and fain would die. Thyrsis. Convince me now that this is true By bidding, with me, all adieu. Dorinda. I cannot live without thee, I Will for thee, much more with thee, die. Thyrsis. Then let us give Corellia charge o' the sheep. And thou and I'll pick poppies and them steep In wine, and drink on 't even till we weep, So shall we smoothly pass away in sleep. CXIV. DAMON THE MOWER. HARK how the mower Damon sung, While everything did seem to paint Oh what unusual heats are here, Which thus our sun-burn'd meadows fear! The grasshopper its pipe gives o'er, And hamstring'd frogs can dance no more; But in the brook the green frog wades, And grasshoppers seek out the shades; Only the snake, that kept within, Now glitters in its second skin. This heat the sun could never raise, Nor dog-star so inflame the days; Which burns the fields and mower both; Not July causeth these extremes, But Juliana's scorching beams Tell me where I may pass the fires Of the hot day, or hot desires; To what cool cave shall I descend, When remedies themselves complain; No moisture but my tears do rest, How long wilt thou, fair shepherdess, I am the mower Damon, known And, if at noon my toil me heat, What though the piping shepherd stock The plains with an unnumber'd flock, This scythe of mine discovers wide More ground than all his sheep do hide. With this the golden fleece I shear Of all these closes every year, And though in wool more poor than they, Nor am I so deform'd to sight, And when I tune myself to sing, How happy might I still have mow'd, And with my scythe cut down the grass, While thus he drew his elbow round, And, with his whistling scythe, does cut Alas! said he, those hurts are slight CXV. THE MOWER TO THE GLOW-WORMS. E living lamps, by whose dear light YE The nightingale does sit so late, Her matchless songs does meditate; |