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The humble fhrubs and bushes hide the grass,
Here laurel, rosemary, here myrtle was :
Here grew thick box, and tam'rifk, that excels,
And made a mere confufion of sweet smells:
The triffoly, the pine; and on this heath
Stands many a plant that feels cold Zephyr's breath.
Here the young Cephalus, tir'd in the chace,
Us'd his repofe and reft alone t' embrace;
And where he fat, thefe words he would repeat,
Come air, fweet air, come cool my mighty heat!
Come, gentle air, I never will forfake thee,
I'll hug thee thus, and in my bofom take thee."
Some double duteous tell-tale hapt to hear this,
And to his jealous wife doth ftraitway bear this;
Which Procris hearing, and withal the name
Of air, sweet air, which he did oft proclaim,
She ftands confounded, and amaz'd with grief,
By giving this fond tale too found belief.
And looks, as do the trees by winter nipt,
Whom froft and cold of fruit and leaves half ftript.
She bends like corveil, when too rank it grows,
Or when the ripe fruits clog the quince-tree boughs.
But when he comes t' herself, fhe tears
Her garments, eyes, her cheeks, and hairs;
And then the ftarts, and to her feet applies her,
Then to the wood (ftark wood) in rage the hies her.
Approaching fomewhat near, her fervants they
By her appointment in a valley ftay;

While fhe alone, with creeping paces, fteals
To take the ftrumpet, whom her lord conceals.
What mean'ft thou, Procris, in these groves to hide


What rage of love doth to this madness guide thee? Thou hop'ft the air he calls, in all her bravery, Will ftrait approach, and thou fhalt fee their knavery.

And now again it irks her to be there,

For fuch a killing fight her heart will tear.

No truce can with her troubled thoughts difpenfe,
She would not now be there, nor yet be thence.
Behold the place her jealous mind foretels,
Here do they use to meet, and no where else :
The grafs is laid, and fee their true impreffion,
Even here they lay! aye, here was their tranfgreffion.
A body's print fhe faw, it was his feat,

Which makes her faint heart 'gainft her ribs to beat.
Phoebus the lofty eaftern hill had fcal'd,

And all moift vapours from the earth exhal'd.
Now in his noon-tide point he fhineth bright,
It was the middle hour, 'twixt noon and night.
Behold young Cephalus draws to the place,
And with the fountain-water sprinks his face.
Procris is hid, upon the grafs he lies,

And come sweet Zephyr, come sweet air he cries.
She fees her error now from where he ftood,
Her mind returns to her, and her fresh blood;
Among the fhrubs and briars fhe moves and ruftles,
And the injurious boughs away fhe juftles,
Intending, as he lay there to repofe him,
Nimbly to run, and in her arms inclofe him.
He quickly cafts his eye upon the bush,
Thinking therein fome favage beast did rush;
His bow he bends, and a keen fhaft he draws:
Unhappy man, what doft thou? stay, and paufe,
It is no brute beaft thou would'ft 'reave of life;
O! man unhappy! thou haft flain thy wife!
O heaven! the cries, O help me! I am flain;
Still doth thy arrow in my wound remain.
Yet tho' by timeless fate my bones here lie,
It glads me moft, that I no cuck-quean die.

Her breath (thus in the arms the most affected)
She breathes into the air (before fufpected)
The whilft he lifts her body from the ground,
And with his tears doth wash her bleeding wound.

Cupid's Treachery.

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep;
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly fteep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground:
Which borrow'd from his holy fire of love,
A datelefs lively heat ftill to endure,

And grew a feething bath, which yet men prove
Against ftrange maladies a fovereign cure.
But at my miftrefs' eyes love's brand new fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breaft;
I fick withal the help of bath defired,
And thither hied a fad diftemper'd gueft:

But found no cure, the bath for my help lies,
When Cupid got new fire, my miftrefs' eyes.

The little love-god lying once afleep,

Laid by his fide his heart in flaming brand,
Whilft many nymphs that vow'd chafte life to keep,
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand,
The faire votary took up that fire,

Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And fo the general of hot defire

Was fleeping, by a virgin hand difarm'd.
This brand the quenched in a cool well by,
Which from love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy

For men difeas'd; but I, my miftrefs' thrall,

Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

That Menelaus was the Caufe of his own Wrongs.

When Menelaus from his house is gone,
Poor Helen is afraid to lie alone


And to allay these fears (lodg'd in her breast)
In her warm bofom fhe receives her gueft.
What madness was this, Menelaus, tay?
Thou art abroad, whilft in thy houfe doth ftay,
Under the self-fame roof, thy gueft, and love:
Madman unto the hawk thou trufts the dove.
And who but fuch a gull, would give to keep
Unto the mountain-wolf, full folds of fheep?
Helen is blamelefs, fo is Paris too,

And did what thou, or I myself would do.
The fault is thine, I tell thee to thy face,
By limiting thefe lovers, time and place..
From thee the feeds of all thy wrongs are grown,
Whofe counfels have they follow'd but thine own?
Alack! what should they do? abroad thou art,
At home thou leav'ft thy gueft to play thy part.
To lie alone, the poor queen is afraid,
In the next room an amorous stranger staid;
Her arms are ope t' embrace him, he falls in:
And, Paris, I acquit thee of the fin.

And in another Place fomewhat refembling this.

Oreftes liked, but not loved dearly
Hermione, till he had loft her clearly.
Sad Menelaus! why doft thou lament
Thy late mishap? I prithee be content.


Thou know'ft the amorous Helen fair and sweet;
And yet without her didst thou fail to Crete.
And thou waft blithe, and merry all the way;
But when thou faw'ft fhe was the Trojan's prey,
Then waft thou mad for her, and for thy life,
Thou canst not now one minute want thy wife.
So ftout Achilles, when his lovely bride,
Brifeis, was difpos'd to great Atride,
Nor was he vainly mov'd, Atrides too.
Offer'd no more, than he of force muft do.
I should have done as much, to fet her free;
Yet I (Heaven knows) am not fo wife as he.

Vulcan was Jupiter's Smith, an excellent Workman, on whom the Poets father many rare Works, among which I find this one.

Mars and Venus.

This tale is blaz'd thro' Heaven, how once un'ware,
Venus and Mars were took in Vulcan's fnare.

The god of war doth in his brow discover
The perfect and true pattern of a lover.
Nor could the goddefs Venus be fo cruel
To deny Mars (foft kindness is a jewel
In any woman, and becomes her well)

In this the queen of love doth most excel. [flouted
(Oh Heaven!) how often have they mockt and
The fmith's polt-foot (whilft nothing he mifdoubted.)
Made jefts of him, and his begrimed trade;
And his fmoog'd vifage, black with coal-duft made.
Mars, tickled with loud laughter, when he faw
Venus like Vulcan limp, to halt and draw

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