Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, YE NYMPHS AND SYLVAN GODS, by THOMAS D'URFEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

YE NYMPHS AND SYLVAN GODS, by                    
Last Line: Of those of the milking-pail.
Subject(s): Hearts; Spring


YE nymphs and sylvan gods,
That love green fields and woods,
When Spring newly-born herself does adorn
With flowers and blooming buds:
Come sing in the praise while flocks do graze
On yonder pleasant vale,
Of those that choose to milk their ewes,
And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,
To carry the milking-pail.

You goddess of the morn,
With blushes you adorn,
And take the fresh air, whilst linnets prepare
A concert on each green thorn:
The blackbird and thrush, on every bush,
And the charming nightingale,
In merry vein, their throats do strain,
To entertain the jolly train
Of those of the milking-pail

When cold bleak winds do roar,
And flowers will spring no more,
The fields that were seen so pleasant and green,
With winter's all candied o'er.
See how the town-lass looks with her white face,
And her lips so deadly pale.
But it is not so with those that go
Thro' frost and snow, with cheeks that glow,
And carry the milking-pail.

The miss of courtly mould,
Adorned with pearl and gold,
With washes and paint her skin does so taint,
She's withered before she's old:
While she of commode puts on a cart-load,
And with cushions plumps her tail.
What joys are found in rushy ground,
Young, plump, and round, nay, sweet and sound,
Of those of the milking-pail.

You girls of Venus game,
That venture health and fame,
In practising feats, with cold and heats,
Make lovers grow blind and lame:
If men were so wise to value the prize
Of wares most fit for sale,
What store of beaux would daub their clothes,
To save a nose, by following of those
Who carry the milking-pail?

The country-lad is free
From fears and jealousy,
Whilst upon the green he is often seen
With his lass upon his knee;
With kisses most sweet he doth her so treat,
And swears she'll never grow stale:
But the London lass, in every place,
With brazen face despises the grace
Of those of the milking-pail.





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