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THE QUEST OF CYNTHIA.

WHAT time the groves were clad in green,
The fields drest all in flowers,

And that the sleek-haired nymphs were seen
To seek them summer bowers;

Forth roved I by the sliding rills
To find where Cynthia sat,
Whose name so often from the hills
The echoes wondered at.

When me upon my quest to bring,
That pleasure might excel,

The birds strove which should sweetliest sing,
The flowers which sweet'st should smell.

"Long wandering in the woods," said I, "Oh, whither's Cynthia gone?"

When soon the echo doth reply

To my last word, "Go on."

At length upon a lofty fir

It was my chance to find,

Where that dear name most due to her

Was carved upon the rind.

Which whilst with wonder I beheld,
The bees their honey brought,
And up the carvéd letters filled,

As they with gold were wrought.

And near that tree's more spacious root,
Then looking on the ground,

The shape of her most dainty foot
Imprinted there I found;

Which stuck there like a curious seal,
As though it should forbid
Us, wretched mortals, to reveal
What under it was hid.

Besides the flowers which it had prest

Appeared to my view,

More fresh and lovely than the rest.
That in the meadows grew⚫

The clear drops in the steps that stood Of that delicious girl,

The nymphs amongst their dainty food Drunk for dissolvéd pearl.

The yielding sand where she had trod,
Untouched yet with the wind,

By the fair posture plainly showed
Where I might Cynthia find.

When on upon my wayless walk,
As my desires me draw,

I like a madman fell to talk

With everything I saw ;

I asked some lilies why so white
They from their fellows were;
Who answered me that Cynthia's sight
Had made them look so clear.

I asked a nodding violet why
It sadly hung the head,
It told me Cynthia late passed by,
Too soon from it she fled.

A bed of roses saw I there,
Bewitching with their grace;
Besides so wondrous sweet they were
That they perfumed the place;

I of a shrub of those inquired,
From others of that kind,

Who with such virtue them inspired,
It answered (to my mind):

As the base hemlock were we such, The poisoned'st weed that grows, Till Cynthia by her godlike touch

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Transformed us to the rose :

Since when those frosts that winter brings Which candy every green

Renew us like the teeming springs,

And we thus fresh are seen."

At length I on a fountain light,

Whose brim with pinks was platted;

The bank with daffodilies dight,

With grass like sleave was matted,

When I demanded of that well

What power frequented there, Desiring it would please to tell What name it used to bear :

It told me it was Cynthia's own,
Within whose cheerful brims
That curious nymph had oft been known
To bathe her snowy limbs.

Since when that water had the power
Lost maidenheads to restore,
And make one twenty in an hour,
Of Eson's age before.

And told me that the bottom clear,
Now laid with many a set
Of seed-pearl, ere she bathéd her there
Was known as black as jet;

As when she from the water came,
Where first she touched the mould,
In balls the people made the same
For pomander, and sold.

When chance me to an arbour led,
Whereas I might behold
Two blest Elyisums in one stead,
The less the great enfold.

The place which she had chosen out

Herself in to repose;

Had they come down, the gods no doubt The very same had chose.

The wealthy spring yet never bore
That sweet nor dainty flower
That damasked not the chequered floor
Of Cynthia's summer bower.

The birch, the myrtle, and the bay,
Like friends did all embrace;
And their large branches did display
To canopy the place.

Where she like Venus doth appear

Upon a rosy bed;

As lilies the soft pillows were

Whereon she laid her head.

Heaven on her shape such cost bestowed,
And with such bounties blest,

No limb of hers but might have made
A goddess at the least.

The flies by chance meshed in her hair,
By the bright radiance thrown
From her clear eyes rich jewels were,
They so like diamonds shone.

The meanest weed the soil there bare
Her breath did so refine,

That it with woodbine durst compare,
And beard the eglantine.

The dew which on the tender grass
The evening had distilled,

To pure rose-water turnéd was,

The shades with sweets that filled.

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