To fee the King caught with this wile,

With one another jefting:

And to the Fayrie Court they went,
With mickle joy and merriment,
Which thing was done with good intent,
And thus I left them feafting.

The Quest of CYNTHIA.

WHAT

By the fame Hand.

HAT time the Groves were clad in green,
The Fields dreft all in flowers,

And that the fleek-hair'd Nymphs were seen,
To seek them Summer Bowers;

Forth rov'd I by the fliding Rills
To find where Cynthia fat,
Whofe name fo often from the hills,
The Ecchos wondred at.

When me upon my Queft to bring,
That pleasure might excell,

The Birds ftrove which fhould fweetlieft fing,
The Flowers which fweet'ft should fmell.

Long wandring in the Woods (faid 1)
Oh whither's Cynthia gone?
When foon the Eccho doth reply,
To my laft word, Go on.

At length upon a lofty Firr,

It was my chance to find,

Where that dear name moft due to her,
Was carv'd upon the rind.

Which whilft with wonder I beheld,

The Bees their honey brought, And up the carved letters fill'd,

As they with Gold were wrought.

And near that Tree's more fpacious root,
Then looking on the ground,

The shape of her most dainty foot
Imprinted there I found.

Which fuck there like a curious Seal,
As though it should forbid
Us, wretched Mortals, to reveal,
What under it was hid.

Befides, the flowers which it had press'd,
Appeared to my view,

More fresh and lovely than the reft,
That in the Meadows grew :

The clear drops in the steps that stood, Of that delicious Girl,

The Nymphs amongst their dainty food, Drunk for diffolved Pearl.

The yielding fand, where fhe had trod,
Untouch'd yet with the wind,
the fair pofture plainly show'd,
Where I might Cynthia find.

By

When on upon my wayless walk,
As my defires me draw,
I like a madman fell to talk,
With every thing I saw.

I ask'd fome Lillies, why fo white
They from their fellows were;
Who answered me, that Cynthia's fight
Had made them look fo clear,

I ask'd a nodding Violet, why
It fadly hung the head;

It told me Cynthia late paft by,
Too foon from it fhe fled.

A Bed of Rofes faw I there,
Bewitching with their grace:
Befides fo wondrous fweet 'they were,
That they perfum'd the place.

I of a Shrub of those enquir'd,
From others of that kind,
Who with fuch virtue them inspir'd,
It answer'd (to my mind,)

As the bafe Hemlock were we fuch,
The poyfon'dft Weed that grows,
Till Cynthia, by her god-like touch,
Transform'd us to the Rofe:

Since when thofe Frofts that Winter brings
Which candy every green,

Renew us like the Teeming Springs,
And we thus Fresh are seen.

At length I on a Fountain light,
Whofe Brim with Pincks was platted;
The Bank with Daffadillies dight,
With Grafs like fleave was matted,

When I demanded of that Well,
What Power frequented there;
Defiring, it would please to tell
What Name it use to bear!

It told me it was Cynthia's own,
Within whofe cheerful brims,

That curious Nymph had oft been known
To bath her fnowy Limbs,

Since when that Water had the Power

Loft Maiden-heads to restore, And make one Twenty in an hour, Of Efons Age before:

And told me that the bottom clear,
Now laid with many a fet

Of feed-pearl, e'er fhe bath'd her there,
Was known as black as jet.

When chance me to an Arbor led,

Whereas I might behold
Two bleft Eliziums in one fted,
The lefs the great enfold.

The place which he had chofen out,
Her felf in to repose;

Had they come down, the Gods no doubt
The very fame had chofe.

The Wealthy Spring yet never bore
That fweet, nor dainty flower,
That damask'd not the chequer'd floor
Of Cynthia's Summer Bower.

The Birch, the Myrtle, and the Bay,
Like Friends did all embrace;
And their large branches did display,
To Canopy the place,

Where the like Venus doth appear,

Upon a Rofie Bed;

As Lillies the foft Pillows were,
Whereon fhe laid her head.

Heav'n on her shape fuch coft beftow'd,
And with fuch Bounties bleft:

No limb of hers but might have made
A Goddess at the leaft.

The

BODE

The Flies by chance mesht in her hair,
By the bright Radiance thrown
From her clear Eyes, Rich Jewels were,
They fo like Diamonds fhone:

The meaneft weed the Soil there bare,'
Her Breath did so refine,

That it with Woodbind durft compare,
And beard the Eglantine.

The Dew which on the tender Grafs
The Evening had diftill'd,
To pure Rofe-water turned was,

The fhades with sweets that fill'd.

The Winds were husht, no leaf fo fmall
At all was feen to ftir:

Whilft tuning to the Waters fall,
The small Birds fang to her.

Where the too quickly me efpies,
When I might plainly fee

A thousand Cupids from her Eyes
Shoot all at once at me.

Into thefe fecret fhades (cry'd fhe)
How dar'ft thou be fo bold

To enter, confecrate to me,
Or touch this hallowed mold.

THE

Thofe Words (the faid) I can pronounce
Which to that shape can bring

Thee, which the Hunter had who once
Saw Dian in the Spring.

Bright Nymph, again I thus reply,

This cannot me affright: