Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne
Elizabethan MiscellaniesFrom Davisons Poetical Rapsody: A Fiction: How Cupid Made a Nymph Wound Herself with His Arrows (Anonymous, but attributed to A. W.)
I
That went to seek a strayed sheep,
Within a thicket on the plain,
Espied a dainty Nymph asleep.
Her careless arms abroad were cast,
Her quiver had her pillow’s place,
Her breast lay bare to every blast.
Nought durst he do, nought durst he say,
When chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the God of Love that way.
Whom if she wak’d, he durst not see,
Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended be.
And puts his own into their place;
Nor dares he any longer stay,
But ere she wakes, hies thence apace.
And spies the shepherd standing by;
Her bended bow in haste she takes,
And at the simple swain let fly.
That to the ground he fell with pain;
Yet up again forthwith he start,
And to the Nymph he ran amain.
She shot, and shot, but all in vain;
The more his wounds, the more his might;
Love yieldeth strength in midst of pain.
She blames her hands, she blames her skill;
The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
And try them on herself she will.
Each little touch will prick the heart;
Alas! thou knowest not Cupid’s craft,
Revenge is joy, the end is smart.
Her hands were glov’d, and next to hand
Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,
That made the shepherd senseless stand.
Love finds an entry to her heart;
At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord, how the gentle Nymph doth start!
Away she throws both shafts and bow;
She seeks for that she shunn’d before,
She thinks the shepherd’s haste too slow.
So others do, and so do they:
The God of Love sits on a tree,
And laughs that pleasant sight to see.