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William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.

The Satyr and Clorin

John Fletcher (1579–1625)

THROUGH yon same bending plain

That flings his arms down to the main;

And through these thick woods have I run,

Whose bottom never kissed the sun

Since the lusty spring began.

All to please my Master Pan,

Have I trotted without rest

To get him fruit; for at a feast

He entertains, this coming night,

His paramour, the Syrinx bright.

But, behold a fairer sight!

By that heavenly form of thine,

Brightest fair, thou art divine,

Sprung from great immortal race

Of the gods; for in thy face

Shines more awful majesty,

Than dull weak mortality

Dare with misty eyes behold,

And live: therefore on this mould

Lowly do I bend my knee

In worship of thy deity.

Deign it, goddess, from my hand,

To receive whate’er this land

From her fertile womb doth send

Of her choice fruits; and but lend

Belief to that the Satyr tells:

Fairer by the famous wells

To this present day ne’er grew,

Never better, nor more true.

Here be grapes, whose lusty blood

Is the learned poet’s good,

Sweeter yet did never crown

The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown

Than the squirrel’s teeth that crack them;

Deign, oh fairest fair, to take them!

For these black-eyed Dryope

Hath often-times commanded me

With my claspèd knee to climb:

See how well the lusty time

Hath decked their rising cheeks in red,

Such as on your lips is spread!

Here be berries for a queen,

Some be red, some be green;

These are of that luscious meat,

The great god Pan himself doth eat:

All these, and what the woods can yield,

The hanging mountain, or the field,

I freely offer, and ere long

Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;

Till when, humbly leave I take,

Lest the great Pan do awake,

That sleeping lies in a deep glade,

Under a broad beech’s shade.

I must go, I must run

Swifter than the fiery sun.