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The Nymph Complaining For The Death Of Her Faun

Written by: Andrew Marvell | Biography
 | Quotes (10) |
 The wanton Troopers riding by
Have shot my Faun and it will dye.
Ungentle men! They cannot thrive To kill thee.
Thou neer didst alive Them any harm: alas nor cou'd Thy death yet do them any good.
I'me sure I never wisht 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 Joyn my Tears Rather then fail.
But, O my fears! It cannot dye so.
Heavens 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 dy'd 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) Ty'd 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 Faun to hunt his Dear.
But Sylvio soon had me beguil'd.
This waxed tame; while he grew wild, And quite regardless of my Smart, Left me his Faun, but took his Heart.
Thenceforth I set my self 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 seem'd to bless Its self in me.
How could I less Than love it? O I cannot be Unkind, t' a Beast that loveth me.
Had it liv'd 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 ought that I Could in so short a time espie, 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 nurst.
And as it grew, so every day It wax'd more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a Breath! And oft I blusht to see its foot more soft, And white, (shall I say then my hand?) Nay any Ladies 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 callenge me the Race: And when 'thad left me far away, 'T would stay, and run again, and stay.
For it was nimbler much than Hindes; And trod, as on the four Winds.
I have a Garden of my own, But so with Roses over grown, And Lillies, that you would it guess To be a little Wilderness.
And all the Spring time of the year It onely loved to be there.
Among the beds of Lillyes, I Have sought it oft, where it should lye; Yet could not, till it self would rise, Find it, although before mine Eyes.
For, in the flaxen Lillies shade, It like a bank of Lillies laid.
Upon the Roses it would feed, Until its lips ev'n seem'd 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 its self to fill: And its pure virgin Limbs to fold In whitest sheets of Lillies cold.
Had it liv'd long, it would have been Lillies without, Roses within.
O help! O help! I see it faint: And dye as calmely as a Saint.
See how it weeps.
The Tears do come Sad, slowly dropping like a Gumme.
So weeps the wounded Balsome: 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'reflow with mine; Then place it in Diana's Shrine.
Now my sweet Faun is vanish'd to Whether the Swans and Turtles go In fair Elizium to endure, With milk-white Lambs, and Ermins pure.
O do not run too fast: for I Will but bespeak thy Grave, and dye.
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 bemoane, 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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