When lately I offer'd Eunica to kiss,
She fleer'd and she flouted, and took it amiss;
'Be gone, you great Booby,' she cry'd, with a Frown,
'Do you think that I long for your Kisses, you Clown?
The Sparks of the City my Favours esteem-
You never shall kiss me, no, not in a Dream.
How pleasing your Look! and how gently you play!
How soft is your Voice! and what fine Things you say!
So neat is your Beard, and so comely your Hair!
And your Lips, to be sure, are a delicate Pair.
But on your dear Person I never shall doat;
So pray keep your distance- you smell like a Goat.'

Thus spoke the proud Hussey, and view'd me all round
With an Eye of Disdain, and thrice spit on the Ground;
Then mimick'd my Voice with satyrical Sneer,
And sent me away with a Flea in my Ear.
My Blood quickly boil'd, in violent Pique,
And, red as a Rose, Passion glow'd on my Cheek;
For it vex'd me, that thus in Derision she jeer'd
My Looks, and my Voice, and my Hair, and my Beard.
But, am I not handsome, ye Shepherds, say true?
Or has any God alter'd my Person anew?
For lately, on Oaks like the Ivy, with Grace
My Hair and my Beard added Charms to my Face:
My Brows were coal-black, and my Forehead milk-white,
And my Eyes, like Minerva's, were azure and bright;
My Lips sweet as Cream, and from them would flow
Words sweeter than Honey, and softer than Snow.
My Songs are enchanting; nor aught can exceed
The Tunes of my Pipe, or the Notes of my Reed.
The Girls of the Country, if they had their Wills,
Would kiss me, and press me to stay on the Hills;
For they say that I'm fair: But this Minx of the Town
Refus'd my sweet Kisses, and call'd me a Clown.
Alas! she forgot, or, perhaps, did not know,
That Bacchus fed Herds in the Valley below;
That Beauty's fair Queen fell in Love with a Swain,
And help'd him his Cattle to tend on the Plain;
Adonis, while living, in Groves she ador'd,
And, when dead, she in Groves and on Mountains deplor'd.
If right my Conjecture, Endymion, I ween,
Like me too once tended his Steers on the Green;
Yet the Moon in this Herdsman took such a Delight,
That she met him at Latmos, and kiss'd him all Night.
Ev'n Cybele mourn'd for a Herdsman; and Jove
Snatch'd a Boy from his Flock to be Waiter above.

But Eunica disdains me, nor lifts to my Vow;
Is she better than Cynthia or Venus, I trow?
May she never find Lovers in City or Plain,
But lie always alone, yet still wishing in vain!

translated by Francis Fawkes