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Samuel Lover

The Nymph Complaining for the Death of T Her Fawn.

HE wanton troopers, riding by, Have shot my fawn, and it will die.

Ungentle men! they cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, Them any harm; alas! nor could Thy death yet do them any good.

I'm sure I never wished them ill- Nor do I for all this, nor will; But, if my simple prayers may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears, Rather than fail.

It cannot die so. Heaven's king But, oh my fears!

Keeps register of every thing; And nothing may we use in vain ; Even beasts must be with justice slain- Else men are made their deodands.

Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean-their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain; There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin.

Inconstant Sylvio! when yet I had not found him counterfeit, One morning (I remember well), Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me; nay, and I know What he said then-I'm sure I do:

Said he, "Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear!"

But Sylvio soon had me beguiled- This waxed tame, while he grew wild; And, quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn, but took his heart.

Thenceforth, I set myself to play My solitary time away, With this; and, very well content, Could so mine idle life have spent.

For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game. It seemed to bless Itself in me; how could I less Than love it? Oh, I cannot be Unkind to a beast that loveth me.

Had it lived long, I do not know Whether it, too, might have done so As Sylvio did-his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he.

For I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk, and sugar, first I it at mine own fingers nursed; And as it grew, so every day It waxed more white and sweet than they.

It had so sweet a breath! and oft I blushed to see its foot more soft And white-shall I say than my hand?

Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet!

With what a pretty, skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race!

And when it had left me far away, 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; For it was nimbler, much, than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own- But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness; And all the spring-time of the year It only loved to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For in the flaxen lilies' shade It like a bank of lilies laid.

Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips even seemed to bleed; And then to me 'twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip.

But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill ; And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within.

Oh help! oh help! I see it faint, And die as calmly as a saint!

See how it weeps! the tears do come Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.

So weeps the wounded balsam; so The holy frankincense doth flow; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears; and fill It, till it do o'erflow, with mine; Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet fawn is vanished to Whither the swans and turtles go; In fair Elysium to endure, With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure.

Oh do not run too fast! for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.

First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble; and withal, Let it be weeping too! But there The engraver sure his art may spare, For I so truly thee bemoan That I shall weep though I be stone; Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there.

There at my feet shalt thou be laid, Of purest alabaster made; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee.