Classic Poem

D AM. Thyrsis, whil'st our flocks did bite
The smiling salads in our sight,
Thou then wert wont to sing thy state
In Love, and Chloe celebrate.
But where are now those Love-sick laies
Whilom so sung in Chloes prais?

T HYR. 'Las! who can sing? since our Pan died,
Each Sheepheard's pipe is laid aside.
Our flocks they feed on parched ground,
Shelter, nor water's for them found:
And all our sports are cast away,
Save when thou sing'st thy Caelia.

D AM. Caelia, I do confes, alone
My object is of passion,
My star, my bright magnetick pole,
And onely Guidresse of my Soul.

T HYR. Let Caelia be thy Cynosure,
Chloe's my pole too, though th' obscure.
For, though her self's all glorious,
My earth 'twixt us does interpose.

D AM. Obscure indeed, since shee's but one
To mine, a constellation:
Her Lights throughout so glorious are,
That every part's a perfect star.

T HYR. Then Caelia's perfections
Are scatterr'd: Chloe's, like the Suns
United light, compacted lie:
Whence all that feel their force, must die.

D AM. Caelia's beauties are too bright
To be contracted in one light:
Nor does my Fair, her raies dispense
With such a stabbing influence,
Since 'tis her lesse imperious will
To save her Lovers, and not kill.

T HYR. Each beam of her united light
Is than the greatest star more bright,
And, if shee slay, it is from hence,
Shee darts too sweet an influence,
Wee surfet with't: weak eies must shun
The greater glory of the Sun.
Perhaps, if Caelia do not kill,
'Tis want of power, not of will.

D AM. I now perceive thy Chloe's eies
To be no stars, but prodigies,
Comets, such as blazing stand
To threaten ruine to a Land:
Beacons of sulph'rous flame they are,
Symptomes not of peace, but warre;
And thou, I guesse, by singing thus,
Thence stol'st thine Ignis fatuus .

T HYR. As th' vulgar are amaz'd at th' Sun,
When tripled by reflexion,
Chloe's self, and glorious eies
To thee seem Comets in the skies.
And true, they may portend some Warres,
Such as 'twixt Venus, and her Mars,
But chast: whose captivating bands
Would people, and not ruine Lands.
With such a going-fire I'l stray,
For who with it can lose his way?

D AM. The vulgar may perhaps be wonne
By thee to think her Sun, and Moon,
And so would I, but that my more
Convincing Caelia I adore.
Would wee had both; that Chloe thine,
And my dear Caelia might be mine.
But, if wee thus should mixe with ray,
In Heaven would be no night but day:
For wee should people all the skies
With Planet-girles, and starry-Boies,
Chloe's a going-fire, wee see,
Pray Pan, shee do not go from thee.

T HYR. Thankes, Damon: but shee does, I fear,
The shadows now so long appear:
Yet, if shee do, wee'l both finde day
I' th' Sunshine of thy Caelia.