THE tears o'erflow'd fair Cynthia's eyes, Her pretty bird away was flown; For this great loss she made her moan, And quarrell'd with her destinies. My Heart a secret joy exprest, As hoping good from that escape, Took wings, and in the fug'tive's shape, Got shelter in her snowy breast. Which prov'd a fatal resting-place, For she, th' impostor when she found, Gave it with spite a mortal wound, Then pleas'd, she laugh'd, and dried her face. |