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I faint; I die :' the goddess cried :
(0 cruel! couldst thou find none other
* To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide !
· Like Nero, thou hast sain thy mother.'
Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak;
Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye: Alas ! how easy my mistake! "I took you, for your likeness, Chloe.'
FROM BISHOP PERCY'S RELIQUES
OF ANTIENT POETRY.
T chanc'd, of late, a shepherd swain,
That went to seek his straying sheep, Within a thicket, on a plain,
Espied a dainty nymph asleep,
Her golden hair o'erspread her face ;
Her careless arms abroad were cast ;
Her quiver had her pillow's place ;
The shepherd stood, and gaz'd his fill;
Nought durft he do; nought durst he fay;
Whilst chance, or else, perhaps, his will,
Did guide the god of love that way.
The crafty boy thus sees her sleep,
Whom, if she wak’d, he durft not see:
Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended be.
There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place:
Nor dares he any longer stay,
But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.
Scarce was he gone, but she awakes,
And spies the shepherd ftanding by:
Her bended bow in hafte she takes,
And at the simple fwain, lets fly.