The Nymph Complaining for the Death of her…

The wanton troopers riding by

Have shot my fawn, and it will die.

Ungentle men! they cannot thrive

To kill thee. Thou ne’er didst alive

Them any harm, alas, nor could

Thy death yet do them any good.

I’m sure I never wish’d them ill,

Nor do I for all this, nor will;

But if my simple pray’rs may yet

Prevail with Heaven to forget

Thy murder, I will join my tears

Rather than fail. But oh, my fears!

It cannot die so. Heaven’s King

Keeps register of everything,

And nothing may we use in vain.

Ev’n beasts must be with justice slain,

Else men are made their deodands;

Though they should wash their guilty hands

In this warm life-blood, which doth part

From thine, and wound me to the heart,

Yet could they not be clean, their stain

Is dyed in such a purple grain.

There is not such another in

The world to offer for their sin.

Unconstant Sylvio, when yet

I had not found him counterfeit

One morning (I remember well)

Tied in this silver chain and bell,

Gave it to me; nay, and I know

What he said then; I’m sure I do.

Said he, “Look how your huntsman here

Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear.”

But Sylvio soon had me beguil’d,

This waxed tame, while he grew wild;

And quite regardless of my smart,

Left me his fawn, but took his heart.

Thenceforth I set myself to play

My solitary time away,

With this, and very well content

Could so mine idle life have spent;

For it was full of sport, and light

Of foot and heart, and did invite

Me to its game; it seem’d to bless

Itself in me. How could I less

Than love it? Oh, I cannot be

Unkind t’ a beast that loveth me.

Had it liv’d long, I do not know

Whether it too might have done so

As Sylvio did; his gifts might be

Perhaps as false or more than he.

But I am sure, for aught that I

Could in so short a time espy,

Thy love was far more better then

The love of false and cruel men.

With sweetest milk and sugar first

I it at mine own fingers nurst;

And as it grew, so every day

It wax’d more white and sweet than they.

It had so sweet a breath! And oft

I blush’d to see its foot more soft

And white, shall I say than my hand?

Nay, any lady’s of the land.

It is a wond’rous thing how fleet

’Twas on those little silver feet;

With what a pretty skipping grace

It oft would challenge me the race;

And when ’t had left me far away,

’Twould stay, and run again, and stay,

For it was nimbler much than hinds,

And trod, as on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,

But so with roses overgrown

And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness;

And all the spring time of the year

It only loved to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie;

Yet could not, till itself would rise,

Find it, although before mine eyes;

For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade,

It like a bank of lilies laid.

Upon the roses it would feed

Until its lips ev’n seemed to bleed,

And then to me ’twould boldly trip

And print those roses on my lip.

But all its chief delight was still

On roses thus itself to fill,

And its pure virgin limbs to fold

In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it liv’d long it would have been

Lilies without, roses within.

O help, O help! I see it faint,

And die as calmly as a saint.

See how it weeps! The tears do come,

Sad, slowly dropping like a gum.

So weeps the wounded balsam, so

The holy frankincense doth flow;

The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will

Keep these two crystal tears, and fill

It till it do o’erflow with mine,

Then place it in Diana’s shrine.

Now my sweet fawn is vanish’d to

Whither the swans and turtles go,

In fair Elysium to endure

With milk-white lambs and ermines pure.

O do not run too fast, for I

Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.

First my unhappy statue shall

Be cut in marble, and withal

Let it be weeping too; but there

Th’ engraver sure his art may spare,

For I so truly thee bemoan

That I shall weep though I be stone;

Until my tears, still dropping, wear

My breast, themselves engraving there.

There at my feet shalt thou be laid,

Of purest alabaster made;

For I would have thine image be

White as I can, though not as thee.