114 THE POEMS OF ANNE �May weep me Dead, may o'er my Tomb recline, And fighing, wish were he alive and Mine ! But mark me to the End �Thir. Go on ; for well I do thy Speech attend, Perhaps to better Ends, than yet thou know'st. �Amint. Being now a Child, or but a Youth at most, 20 When scarce to reach the blushing Fruit I knew, Which on the lowest bending Branches grew ; Still with the dearest, sweetest, kindest Maid Young as myself, at childish Sports I play'd. The Fairest, sure, of all that Lovely Kind, Who spread their golden Tresses to the Wind; Cydippe's Daughter, and Montana's Heir, Whose Flocks and Herds so num'rous do appear; The beauteous Sylvia; She, 'tis She I love, Warmth of all Hearts, and Pride of ev'ry Grove. 30 With Her I liv'd, no Turtles e'er so fond. Our Houses met, but more our Souls were join'd. Together Nets for Fish, and Fowl we laid ; Together through the spacious Forest stray'd ; Pursu'd with equal Speed the flying Deer, And of the Spoils there no Divisions were. But whilst I from the Beasts their Freedom won, Alas ! I know not how, my Own was gone. By unperceiv'd Degrees the Fire encreas'd, Which fill'd, at last, each corner of my Breast ; 40 �As from a Root, tho' scarce discern'd so small, A Plant may rise, that grows amazing tall. From Sylvia's Presence now I could not move, And from her Eyes took in full Draughts of Love, Which sweetly thro' my ravish'd Mind distill'd; Yet in the end such Bitterness wou'd yield, That oft I sigh'd, ere yet I knew the cause, And was a Lover, ere I dream'd I was. ��� �
