Clorinda and Damon

Clorinda. Damon, come drive thy flocks this way.
Damon. No: 'tis too late they went astray.
Clorinda. I have a grassy scutcheon spied,

Where Flora blazons all her pride;
The grass I aim to feast thy sheep,

The flowers I for thy temples keep.

Damon. Grass withers, and the flowers too fade. Clorinda. Seize the short joys then, ere they vade. Seest thou that unfrequented cave?

Damon. That den?

Clorinda.

Damon.

Love's shrine.

But virtue's grave.

Clorinda. In whose cool bosom we may lie,

Damon.

Safe from the sun.

Not Heaven's eye.

Clorinda. Near this, a fountain's liquid bell
Tinkles within the concave shell.

Damon.

Clorinda.

Might a soul bathe there and be clean,
Or slake its drought?

What is 't you mean?

Damon. These once had been enticing things,

Clorinda, pastures, caves, and springs.

Clorinda. And what late change?

Damon.

Pan met me.

The other day

Clorinda.
Damon.

What did great Pan say? Words that transcend poor shepherd's skill; But he e'er since my songs does fill,

And his name swells my slender oat.

Clorinda. Sweet must Pan sound in Damon's note. Clorinda's voice might make it sweet.

Damon.

Clorinda. Who would not in Pan's praises meet?
Of Pan the flowery pastures sing,

Chorus.

Caves echo, and the fountains ring.
Sing then while he doth us inspire;
For all the world is our Pan's quire.

Henry Vaughan

(1621-1695)

Upon the Priory Grove, his usual

Retirement

Hail, sacred shades! cool, leafy house!
Chase treasurer of all my vows

And wealth! on whose soft bosom laid
My love's fair steps I first betray'd:
Henceforth no melancholy flight,
No sad wing, or hoarse bird of night,
Disturb this air, no fatal throat
Of raven, or owl, awake the note
Of our laid echo, no voice dwell

Within these leaves, but Philomel.
The poisonous ivy here no more
His false twists on the oak shall score;
Only the woodbine here may twine,
As th' emblem of her love, and mine;
The amorous sun shall here convey
His best beams, in thy shades to play;
The active air the gentlest show'rs
Shall from his wings rain on thy flowers;
And the moon from her dewy locks
Shall deck thee with her brightest drops.
Whatever can a fancy move,

Or feed the eye, be on this grove!

And when at last the winds and tears Of heaven, with the consuming years, Shall these green curls bring to decay, And clothe thee in an aged grey

-If ought a lover can foresee,

Or if we poets prophets be

From hence transplanted, thou shalt stand.
A fresh grove in th' Elysian land;

Where most bless'd pair! —as here on earth

Thou first didst eye our growth, and birth;
So there again, thou 'lt see us move
In our first innocence and love;
And in thy shades, as now, so then,
We'll kiss, and smile, and walk again.

The Poet hath Lost his Pipe

I cannot pipe as I was wont to do;
Broke is my reed, hoarse is my singing, too;
My wearied oat I'll hang upon the tree,

And give it to the sylvan deity.

Robert Herrick.

Index