Chapter VIII

‘Tis _Celladon_ the witty and the gay,
That blest the Night, and cheer’d the world all Day:
‘Tis _Celladon_, to whom our Vows belong,
And _Celladon_ the Subject of our Song.
For whom the Nymphs would dress, the Swains rejoice,
The praise of these, of those the choice;
And if our Joyes were rais’d to this Excess,
Our Pleasures by thy presence made so great:
Some pittying God help thee to guess,
(What fancy cannot well Express.)
Our Languishments by thy Retreat;
Pitty our Swaines, pitty our Virgins more,
And let that pitty haste thee to our shore;
And whilst on happy distant Coasts you are,
Afford us all your sighs, and _Cesar_ all your care.

On _a_ Juniper-Tree, _cut down to make_ Busks.

Whilst happy I Triumphant stood,
The Pride and Glory of the Wood;
My Aromatick Boughs and Fruit,
Did with all other Trees dispute.
Had right by Nature to excel,
In pleasing both the tast and smell:
But to the touch I must confess,
Bore an Ungrateful Sullenness.
My Wealth, like bashful Virgins, I
Yielded with some Reluctancy;
For which my vallue should be more,
Not giving easily my store.
My verdant Branches all the year }
Did an Eternal Beauty wear; }
Did ever young and gay appear. }
Nor needed any tribute pay,
For bounties from the God of Day:
Nor do I hold Supremacy,
(In all the Wood) o’er every Tree.
But even those too of my own Race,
That grow not in this happy place.
But that in which I glory most,
And do my self with Reason boast,
Beneath my shade the other day,
Young _Philocles_ and _Cloris_ lay,
Upon my Root she lean’d her head, }
And where I grew, he made their Bed: }
Whilst I the Canopy more largely spread. }
Their trembling Limbs did gently press,
The kind supporting yielding Grass:
Ne’er half so blest as now, to bear
A Swain so Young, a Nimph so fair:
My Grateful Shade I kindly lent,
And every aiding Bough I bent.
So low, as sometimes had the blisse,
To rob the Shepherd of a kiss,
Whilst he in Pleasures far above
The Sence of that degree of Love:
Permitted every stealth I made,
Unjealous of his Rival Shade.
I saw ‘em kindle to desire,
Whilst with soft sighs they blew the fire;
Saw the approaches of their joy,
He growing more fierce, and she less Coy,
Saw how they mingled melting Rays,
Exchanging Love a thousand ways.
Kind was the force on every side, }
Her new desire she could not hide: }
Nor wou’d the Shepherd be deny’d. }
Impatient he waits no consent
But what she gave by Languishment,
The blessed Minute he pursu’d;
And now transported in his Arms,
Yeilds to the Conqueror all her Charmes,
His panting Breast, to hers now join’d,
They feast on Raptures unconfin’d;
Vast and Luxuriant, such as prove
The Immortality of Love.
For who but a Divinitie, }
Could mingle Souls to that Degree; }
And melt ‘em into Extasie? }
Now like the _Phenix_, both Expire, }
While from the Ashes of their Fire, }
Sprung up a new, and soft desire. }
Like Charmers, thrice they did invoke,
The God! and thrice new vigor took.
Nor had the Mysterie ended there,
But _Cloris_ reassum’d her fear,
And chid the Swain, for having prest,
What she alas wou’d not resist:
Whilst he in whom Loves sacred flame,
Before and after was the same,
Fondly implor’d she wou’d forget
A fault, which he wou’d yet repeat.
From Active Joyes with some they hast,
To a Reflexion on the past;
A thousand times my Covert bless,
That did secure their Happiness:
Their Gratitude to every Tree
They pay, but most to happy me;
The Shepherdess my Bark carest,
Whilst he my Root, Love’s Pillow, kist;
And did with sighs, their fate deplore,
Since I must shelter them no more;
And if before my Joyes were such,
In having heard, and seen too much,
My Grief must be as great and high, }
When all abandon’d I shall be, }
Doom’d to a silent Destinie. }
No more the Charming strife to hear,
The Shepherds Vows, the Virgins fear:
No more a joyful looker on,
Whilst Loves soft Battel’s lost and won.
With grief I bow’d my murmering Head,
And all my Christal Dew I shed.
Which did in _Cloris_ Pity move,
(_Cloris_ whose Soul is made of Love;)
She cut me down, and did translate,
My being to a happier state.
No Martyr for Religion di’d
With half that Unconsidering Pride;
My top was on that Altar laid.
Where Love his softest Offerings paid:
And was as fragrant Incense burn’d,
My body into Busks was turn’d:
Where I still guard the Sacred Store,
And of Loves Temple keep the Door.

On _the_ Death _of Mr._ Grinhil, _the Famous Painter._