She answer'd, " Friend, your service I disclaim;
Who are you, pray? whence come you? what's your name?"
"Men call me Celadon, in verse I write,
And songs at home with some applause indite;
Oh, why is every flower and pleasing root
That in the Muses' happy garden shoot,
Denied me now? and why must I despair,
With sweets of verse to charm the brightest fair?
Thou gentle muse, my humble breast inspire
With sacred numbers and celestial fire;
And, Pallas, thy propitious light convey,
To chase the mist of ignorance away!"
"Peace, rhyming fool, and learn henceforth to make
A fitter choice; your woman you mistake."
"0 mercy, Venus! mercy from above!
Why would you curse me with such hopeless love?
Behold the most abandon'd soul on earth;
Ill was I got, and woful was my birth.
Unless some pity on my pains you shed,
The frosty grave will quickly be my bed."
Thus having spoke, my breath began to fail,
My colour sunk, and turned like ashes pale;
I swoon'd, and down I fell. " Thou slave arise
(Cried Rosalinda), now thy love I prize;
I only tried thy heart, and since I find
'Tis soft and tender, know that mine is kind.
Swear but to keep the oath you lately took,
And I'll not be so cruel as I look."
Her eyes then languish'd, and her face grew red,
And squeezing fast my hand, she laughing said,
"I know a way thy passion to appease,
And soon will set thy simple heart at ease."
But ere she brought me to her promis'd bed,
The rapture wak'd me, and the vision fled.
