Classic Poem

Look as a traveller in summer's day,
Nigh chok'd with dust and molt with Titan's ray,
Longs for a spring to cool his inward heat,
And to that end with vows doth Heaven entreat,
When going further finds an apple-tree,
Standing as did old Hospitality,
With ready arms to succour any needs:
Hence plucks an apple, tastes it, and it breeds
So great a liking in him for his thirst,
That up he climbs, and gathers to the first
A second, third; nay, will not cease to pull
Till he have got his cap and pockets full:
“Things long desir'd so well esteemed are,
That when they come we hold them better far.
There is no mean 'twixt what we love and want,
Desire, in men, is so predominant:”
No less did all this quaint assembly long
Than doth the traveller: this shepherd's song
Had so ensnar'd each acceptable ear,
That but a second, naught could bring them clear
From an affected snare; had Orpheus been
Playing, some distance from them, he had seen
Not one to stir a foot for his rare strain,
But left the Thracian for the English swain.
Or had suspicious Juno (when her Jove
Into a cow transform'd his fairest love)
Great Inachus sweet stem in durance given
To this young lad, the messenger of heaven,
Fair Maia's offspring, with the depth of art
That ever Jove to Hermes might impart,
In fing'ring of a reed, had never won
Poor Iö's freedom. And though Arctor's son,
Hundred-ey'd Argus, might be lull'd by him,
And loose his pris'ner, yet in every limb
That god of wit had felt this shepherd's skill,
And by his charms brought from the Muses' hill
Enforc'd to sleep; then, robb'd of pipe and rod,
And vanquish'd so, turn swain, this swain a god.
Yet to this lad not wanted Envy's sting,
(“He's not worth aught that's not worth envying,”)
Since many at his praise were seen to grutch.
For as a miller in his bolting-hutch
Drives out the pure meal nearly as he can,
And in his sifter leaves the coarser bran:
So doth the canker of a poet's name
Let slip such lines as might inherit fame,
And from a volume culls some small amiss
To fire such dogged spleens as mate with his.
Yet, as a man that by his art would bring
The ceaseless current of a crystal spring
To overlook the lowly flowing head,
Sinks by degrees his soder'd pipes of lead
Beneath the fount, whereby the water goes
High, as a well that on a mountain flows:
So when detraction and a cynic's tongue
Have sunk desert unto the depth of wrong,
By that the eye of skill true worth shall see
To brave the stars, though low his passage be.
But here I much digress, yet pardon, swains:
For as a maiden gath'ring on the plains
A scentful nosegay to set near her pap,
Or as a favour for her shepherd's cap,
Is seen far off to stray if she have spied
A flower that might increase her posy's pride:
So if to wander I am sometimes press'd,
'Tis for a strain that might adorn the rest,
Requests, that with denial could not meet,
Flew to our shepherd, and the voices sweet
Of fairest nymphs entreating him to say
What wight he lov'd; he thus began his lay:
Shall I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then awhile to me;
And if such a woman move,
As I now shall versify;
Be assur'd, 'tis she, or none
That I love, and love alone.
Nature did her so much right,
As she scorns the help of Art;
In as many virtues dight
As e'er yet embrac'd a heart.
So much good so truly tried,
Some for less were deified.
Wit she hath without desire
To make known how much she hath;
And her anger flames no higher
Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
Full of pity as may be,
Though perhaps not so to me.
Reason masters every sense,
And her virtues grace her birth:
Lovely as all excellence,
Modest in her most of mirth:
Likelihood enough to prove,
Only worth could kindle love.
Such she is: and if you know
Such a one as I have sung;
Be she brown, or fair, or so,
That she be but somewhile young;
Be assur'd, 'tis she, or none
That I love, and love alone.