Classic Poem

I

O N a clear rivers flowrie side,
When earth was in her gawdie pride,
Defended by the pleasant shade,
Which a close-crowded Grot had made,
Where the cold clay with flowers strew'd
Made up a pleasing solitude,
'Twas there I did my glorious Nymph surprize,
There stole my Passion from her killing eies.

II

The happy Object of her eye
Was Sidney's living Arcadie;
Whose amorous tale had so betray'd
Desire in this all-lovely Mayd,
That whilst her cheek a blush did warm,
I read Loves storie in her form;
And of the Sisters the united grace,
Pamela's vigour in Philoclea's face.

III

As on the brink this Nymph did sit,
(Ah! who can such a Nymph forget?)
The flouds straight dispossest their foam,
Proud so her mirrour to become,
And ran into a twirling maze,
On her by that delay to gaze.
And, as they past, by streams succeeding force,
In losing her, murmur'd t' obey their cours.

IV

Shee read not long, but clos'd the book,
And up her silent lute shee took,
Perchance to charm each wanton thought,
Youth, or her reading had begot:
The hollow carcas echo'd such
Airs, as had birth from Orpheus' touch:
And every snowy finger, as shee play'd
Danct to the Musick, that themselves had made.

V

At last shee ceas'd: her odorous bed
With her enticing limbs shee spread,
With limbs so excellent, I cou'd
No more resist my factious bloud:
But there, oh! there I caught the Dame,
And boldly urg'd to her my flame;
I kist: when her ripe lips, at every touch,
Swell'd up to meet, what shee would shun so much.

VI

I kist, and play'd in her bright eies,
Discourst, as is the Lovers guise;
Call'd her the Authresse of my woe,
The Nymph was kinde, but would not do:
Faith, shee was kinde, which made mee bold,
Grow hot, as her denialls cold.
But oh! at last I parted, wounded more
With her soft pitie, than her eies before.