Monday, January 17, 2011

Eclogue IX Palaemon and Hippias

PAL. The hollow winds blow hoarsly; as they fly
They seem to plain, and ev'ry puff's a sigh.
Tears follow sighs, and now the rainy floods
In mournful streams descend from melting clouds.

HIP. Too well I know, tears are provok'd by sighs;
Grief swells the heaving breast; then upward flies,
And bursting vents it self thro' weeping eyes.
When Myra frowns, I sudden show'rs divine,
The clouds are hers, but all the drops are mine.


PAL. See'st thou yon beauteous arch, that now adorns
And gilds the watry clouds, whose bending horns
Suck up th'admiring sea? How bright a show?
What lively colours paint the shining bow?
But ah! how soon its waning glories fail,
While envious mists, and dusky shades prevail?
Such beauty is, so flux, so quickly gone;
Myra will soon be scorn'd, and hardly known;
When with wan lips her eyes look faint, and dead,
And all the Cupids of her cheeks are fled.

HIP. No kind amusement can my thoughts remove:
My soul is fix'd, and all the theme is love.
Her rising cheeks set round with flowing hair
Like the bright moon in dewy nights appear,
When circling halo's guard her from the sight
Of meaner stars, and shine with borrow'd light.
Her lips, that dear, soft, pouting juicy pair
(Whose breathings sweet as eastern breezes are)
Invite to love, and yet deny the bliss,
Kisses invite, but they refuse to kiss.

PAL. Ungrateful love born of a beauteous face,
It's parent rudely kills, spoils ev'ry grace,
And sullies youthful bloom with a too kind embrace.
When once the Nymph yields up her envy'd charms
All to be rifled in the Triton's arms,
She grows unweildy, and her cheeks look pale;
So flow'rs by handling fade, so all their colours fail.

HIP. Since beauty fades, why should the Nymph be coy?
Snatch then with eager hast the fleeting joy.
In spite of wrinkled age, and eating time
Still shall I know that beauty once was mine.
When action's past, I'll on reflection live,
And the remembrance shall the bliss revive;
Such, luscious food will ever leave a tast.
Fate cannot reach the pleasure that is past.

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