Classic Poem

Thus sweetly sad of old, the Cyclops strove
To soften his uneasie hours of Love.
Then when hot Youth urg'd him to fierce desire,
And Galatea 's eyes kindled the raging fire,
His was no common Flame, nor could he move
In the old Arts, and beaten Paths of Love;
Nor Flowers, nor Fruits sent to oblige the Fair,
Nor more to please, curl'd his neglected Hair.
His was all Rage, all Madness; To his Mind
No other Cares their wonted entrance find.
Oft from the Feild his Flock return'd alone
Unheeded, unobserv'd: He on some stone,
Or craggy Cliff, to the deaf Winds and Sea
Accusing Galatea 's Cruelty;
Till Night from the first dawn of opening Day,
Consumes with inward heat, and melts away.
Yet then a Cure, the onely Cure he found,
And thus apply'd it to the bleeding Wound;
From a steep Rock, from whence he might survey
The Floud, (the Bed where his lov'd Sea-Nymph lay,)
His drooping head with Sorrow bent he hung,
And thus his griefs calm'd with his mournfull Song:
Fair Galatea , why is all my Pain
Rewarded thus? soft Love with sharp disdain?
Fairer than falling Snow or rising Light,
Soft to the touch as charming to the sight;
Sprightly as unyoak'd Heifers, on whose head
The tender Crescents but begin to spread;
Yet cruel You to harshness more encline,
Than unripe Grapes pluck'd from the savage Vine.
Soon as my heavy Eyelid's seal'd with sleep,
Hither you come out from the foaming deep;
But when Sleep leaves me, you together fly,
And vanish swiftly from my opening Eye,
Swift as young Lambs when the fierce Wolf they spy.
I well remember the first fatal day
That made my Heart your Beauty's easie prey, [. . .]