Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/224

206 More violent, than is the rising Flood; And the prais'd Peacock is not half so proud. Fierce, as the Fire, and sharp, as Thistles are, And more outragious, than a Mother Bear: Deaf, as the Billows to the Vows I make; And more revengeful, than a trodden Snake. In Swiftness fleeter, than the flying Hind, Or driven Tempests, or the driving Wind. All other Faults, with Patience I can bear; But Swiftness is the Vice I only fear. Yet if you knew me well, you wou'd not shun My Love, but to my wish'd Embraces run: Wou'd languish in your turn, and court my Stay; And much repent of your unwise Delay. My Palace, in the living Rock, is made By Nature's Hand; a spacious pleasing Shade: Which neither Heat can pierce, nor Cold invade. My Garden fill'd with Fruits you may behold, And Grapes in Clusters, imitating Gold; Some blushing Bunches of a Purple Hue: And these, and those, are all reserv'd for you. Red Strawberries, in Shades, expecting stand, Proud to be gathered by so white a Hand. Autumnal Cornels, latter Fruit provide; And Plumbs, to tempt you, turn their glossy Side: Not those of common kinds; but such alone, As in Phæacian Orchards might have grown: Nor Chestnuts shall be wanting to your Food, Nor Garden-Fruits, nor Wildings of the Wood; Then laden Boughs for you alone shall bear; And your's shall be the Product of the Year. The Flocks you see, are all my own; beside, The rest that Woods, and winding Vallies hide; And those, that folded in the Caves abide. Ask not the Numbers of my growing Store; Who knows how many, knows he has no more. Nor