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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 wished 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, O my fears!
It cannot
die so. Heaven's King
Keeps register of every thing,
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
beguiled:
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 seemed to bless
Itself to me. How could I less
Than love it? O I
cannot be
Unkind t' a beast that loveth me.
Had it
lived 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 nursed.
And as it grew, so every day
It
waxed more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet
a breath! And oft
I blushed 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 if 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
lived 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 vanished to
Whither the swans and
turtles go:
In fair Elysium to endure,
With
milk-white lambs and ermins 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.
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