FLORAs Departure:
OR,
Summers Pride Abated.
Cold Winter with his Icy looks
bids Flora to be gone,
And Bath no more in Silver Brooks,
for Frost is coming on.
The Tune is, Young Phaon: Or, Busie Fame.
|
DAme Flora in her rich Array,
|
to winter now gives room,
|
Who strips her of her Robes so gay,
|
that had such sweet Perfume:
|
He with his Icy Beard comes in,
|
and looking her upon,
|
To greet her thus he doth begin,
|
proud Flora now be gone.
|
But Flora loath to leave the Streams,
|
wherein she took delight;
|
And banishd be from Cynthias Beams,
|
but slowly took her flight:
|
Why should I leave the Plains (quoth she)
|
that once I made so fine,
|
And decked them most gorgeously,
|
why dost thou call them thine?
|
Why must I leave the warbling Notes
|
of my beloved Quire,
|
That still would sin within the Woods,
|
what Tune I did desire?
|
Oh! stay a while, cold Winter, till
|
these pleasures all decline,
|
And when thy Floods the Rivers fill,
|
my pleasures ile resign.
|
Go, go, proud Flora, post away,
|
make haste and hence begone,
|
Believe me what I now do say,
|
my Floods are coming on:
|
Long time you raignd in glory here,
|
while I lay lurking by,
|
You in your time did Domineer,
|
so Flora now will I.
|
Old Winter, prithee stay a while,
|
be not so harsh to me;
|
For thou shouldest never take place,
|
while Leaves are on the Tree.
|
My Company is more esteemd
|
ten thousand times then thine,
|
For they that once to me are weand,
|
will ner with thee combine.
|
Is this a time to prate to me,
|
now coming into power?
|
Ile blast all that belongs to thee,
|
and will thy joys devour:
|
Ile Freeze thy pritty bubling Springs,
|
that by thee usd to glide,
|
And wither all those lovely things
|
that puffd thee up in Pride.
|
Ile take possession of thy Bowers,
|
wherein thou didst remain;
|
And make them swim with floating showers,
|
and mighty Storms of Rain:
|
Yea, where thou usdst to Bath thy self,
|
there Rocks of Ice shall be,
|
Lovers no more shall joy themselves,
|
beneath the Myrtle Tree.
|
Thou Frosty-bearded Winter, I
|
will tell thee once again,
|
Thy mighty Floods ile quickly dry,
|
and suck up all thy Rain:
|
Ile thaw the Springs which thou dost freeze
|
and guild my Plains once more,
|
Ile cause fresh Leaves upon the Trees,
|
then thou wilt me adore.
|
For couldst thou once thy will obtain,
|
thou wouldst me banish quite,
|
The world should empty be of grain,
|
such is thy deadly spight:
|
No Fruits should then in Europe be,
|
mans Pallat for to please,
|
Which makes so many envy thee,
|
for such like tricks as these.
|
I know, fair Flora, that thou art
|
belovd far more then I,
|
To speak the truth, tis thy desert,
|
with thee ile now comply:
|
Yet must thou give me leave a while,
|
in Power for to remain;
|
Then thou shalt come again and smile,
|
upon thy flowery Plain.
|
|
|
|
|
|