Damon.

Pan met me.

The other day

Clorinda. What did great Pan say?

Damon. 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.
Damon. Clorinda's voice might make it sweet.
Clorinda. Who would not in Pan's praises meet?
Chorus. Of Pan the flowery pastures sing,

Caves echo, and the fountains ring.
Sing then while he doth us inspire;

For all the world is our Pan's quire.

CXIII. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THYRSIS AND DORINDA.

Dorinda.

WHEN death shall snatch us from these kids,

And shut up our divided lids,

Tell me, Thyrsis, prythee do,
Whither thou and I must go?

Thyrsis. To the Elysium.

Dorinda.

O where is 't?

Thyrsis. A chaste soul never can miss 't.

Dorinda. I know no way but one; our home

Is our Elysium.

Thyrsis. Cast thine eye to yonder sky,

There the milky way doth lie;

'Tis a sure, but rugged way,

That leads to everlasting day.

Dorinda. There birds may nest, but how can I,

That have no wings and cannot fly?

Thyrsis. Do not sigh, fair nymph, for fire

Hath no wings, yet doth aspire
Till it hit against the pole;

Heaven's the centre of the soul.

Dorinda. But in Elysium how do they
Pass eternity away?

Thyrsis. O! there's neither hope nor fear,
There's no wolf, no fox, no bear,
No need of dog to fetch our stray,
Our Lightfoot we may give away;
And there, most sweetly, may thine ear
Feast with the music of the sphere.
Dorinda. How I my future state,

By silent thinking, antedate!

I prythee let us spend our time to come,
In talking of Elysium.

Thyrsis. Then I'll go on: there sheep are full

Of softest grass, and softest wool;

There birds sing concerts, garlands grow,

Cool winds do whisper, springs do flow
There always is a rising sun,

And day is ever but begun;
Shepherds there bear equal sway,

And every nymph's a queen of May

Dorinda. Ah, me! ah, me!

Thyrsis.

Dorinda, why dost cry?

Dorinda. I'm sick, I'm sick, and fain would die.

Thyrsis. Convince me now that this is true

By bidding, with me, all adieu.

Dorinda. I cannot live without thee, I

Will for thee, much more with thee, die.

Thyrsis. Then let us give Corellia charge o' the sheep.

And thou and I'll pick poppies and them steep

In wine, and drink on 't even till we weep,

So shall we smoothly pass away in sleep.

CXIV. DAMON THE MOWER.

HARK how the mower Damon sung,
With love of Juliana stung!

While everything did seem to paint
The scene more fit for his complaint.
Like her fair eyes the day was fair,
But scorching like his amorous care;
Sharp, like his scythe, his sorrow was,
And wither'd, like his hopes, the grass.

Oh what unusual heats are here, Which thus our sun-burn'd meadows fear! The grasshopper its pipe gives o'er, And hamstring'd frogs can dance no more; But in the brook the green frog wades, And grasshoppers seek out the shades; Only the snake, that kept within, Now glitters in its second skin.

This heat the sun could never raise,

Nor dog-star so inflame the days;
It from an higher beauty grow'th,

Which burns the fields and mower both;
Which made the dog, and makes the sun
Hotter than his own Phaeton;

Not July causeth these extremes,

But Juliana's scorching beams

Tell me where I may pass the fires

Of the hot day, or hot desires;

To what cool cave shall I descend,
Or to what gelid fountain bend?
Alas! I look for ease in vain,

When remedies themselves complain;

No moisture but my tears do rest,
No cold but in her icy breast.

How long wilt thou, fair shepherdess,
Esteem me and my presents less?
To thee the harmless snake I bring,
Disarmed of its teeth and sting;
To thee chameleons, changing hue,
And oak leaves tipt with honey dew;
Yet thou ungrateful hast not sought
Nor what they are, nor who them brought.

I am the mower Damon, known
Through all the meadows I have mown.
On me the morn her dew distils
Before her darling daffodils;

And, if at noon my toil me heat,
The sun himself licks off my sweat;
While, going home, the evening sweet
In cowslip-water bathes my feet.

What though the piping shepherd stock The plains with an unnumber'd flock,

This scythe of mine discovers wide

More ground than all his sheep do hide.

With this the golden fleece I shear

Of all these closes every year,

And though in wool more poor than they,
Yet I am richer far in hay.

Nor am I so deform'd to sight,
If in my scythe I looked right;
In which I see my picture done,
As in a crescent moon the sun.
The deathless fairies take me oft
To lead them in their dances soft;

And when I tune myself to sing,
About me they contract their ring.

How happy might I still have mow'd,
Had not Love here his thistle sow'd!
But now I all the day complain,
Joining my labour to my pain;

And with my scythe cut down the grass,
Yet still my grief is where it was;
But, when the iron blunter grows,
Sighing I whet my scythe and woes.

While thus he drew his elbow round,
Depopulating all the ground,

And, with his whistling scythe, does cut
Each stroke between the earth and root,
The edgèd steel by careless chance,
Did into his own ankle glance,
And there among the grass fell down
By his own scythe the mower mown.

Alas! said he, those hurts are slight
To those that die by Love's despite.
With shepherd's purse, and clown's all-heal,
The blood I staunch and wound I seal.
Only for him no cure is found,
Whom Juliana's eyes do wound;
'Tis Death alone that this must do;
For, Death, thou art a Mower too.

CXV. THE MOWER TO THE GLOW-WORMS.

E living lamps, by whose dear light

YE

The nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the summer night,

Her matchless songs does meditate;