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Whilft 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:
But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.
Scarce was he gone, but she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by:
Her bended bow in hafte she takes,
And at the simple fwain, lets fly.
Forth flew the shaft and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain :
Yet up again forthwith he start,
And to the nymph he ran amain.
Amaz’d to see so strange a fight,
She shot and shot, but all in vain;
The more his wounds, the more his might,
Love yielded strength amidst his pain.
Her angry eyes were great with tears,
She blames her hand, she blames her skill;
The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
And try them on herself she will.
[Take heed sweet nymph, try not thy shaft,
Each little touch will pierce thy heart:
Ματην δ' άφηκ' έκασον"
Alas ! thou know'st not Cupid's craft ;
Revenge is joy; the end is smart.]
Yet try she will and pierce some bare ;
Her hands were glov’d, but next to hand
Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,
That made the shepherd senseless stand.
That breast the pierc'd, and through that breast,
Love found an entry to her heart ;
At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord! how this gentle nymph did start!
She runs not now, she shoots no more ;
Away she throws both shaft and bow :
She seeks for what she shunn'd before,
She thinks the shepherd's haste too slow.