146 The WORKS of the

XII.

Than Chi. or is her fair Hand withdrew,Finding that God of her DesiresDisarm’d of all his pow’rful Fires,

A nd cold as Flow’rs bath’d in the Morning Dew.Who can the Nymph’s Confusion guess?

The Blood forsook the kinder Place,

And strew’d with Blushes all her Face,

Which both Disdain and Shame express ;

And from Ly sander’s Arms she fled,

Leaving him fainting on th’ gloomy Bed.

XIII.

Like Lightning, thro’ the Grove she hies.

Our Daphne siom the Delphic God ;

No Print upon the grassy RoadShe leaves, t’instruct pursuing Eyes.

The Wind that wanton’d in her Hair, ■

And with her ruffled Garments play’d,Discover’d in the flying MaidAll that the God’s e’er made so fair.

Thus Venus, when her Love was slain,

With Fear and Haste flew o’er the fatal Plain.

XIV.

The Nymph’s Resentments none but ICan well imagine and condole;

But none can guess Lr Sander’s Soul,

But thole who svvay’d his Destiny ;

His silent Griefs swell up to Storms,

And not one God his Fury spares;

Hecurs’dhis Birth, his Fate, his Stars,

But more the Shepherdess's Charms;

Whose soft bewitching InfluenceHad damn’d him to the Hell of Innocence,

Of