Tixall Poetry/The Lost Mistress
XXIV.
The Lost Mistress.
Tell me, you wandring spirits of the aire,Did you not see a nimph, more bright, more faire,Then Venus' darling, or of parts more sweetThen stolne delights? if such a one you meet, Waite on her hourly, wheresoere she flies,And cry, Amintas in her absence dies.
Goe search the vallies, plucke up every rose,Youle find a simpathy of her in those;Goe fish for pearle and corrall, you shall seeHow orientall all her coullars be:Then call an echo to your aid, and cry,Cloris, Cloris, it is for thee I die.
Yet stay, I thinke I have informed you ill,Were she on earth, she had been with me still;Fly, fly to heaven, examin every spheare,And see what stairs are lately fixed there:If any brighter then the sun you see,Fall downe and worship it, for that is shee.