CLOE
HUNTING
.
Behind
her
Neck
her
comely
Tresses
ty'd
,
Her
Iv'ry
Quiver
graceful
by
her
Side
,
A-Hunting
Cloe
went
:
She
lost
her
Way
,
And
thro'
the
Woods
uncertain
chanc'd
to
stray
.
Apollo
passing
by
beheld
the
Maid
;
And
,
Sister
Dear
,
bright
Cynthia
turn
,
He
said
:
The
hunted
Hind
lyes
close
in
yonder
Brake
.
Loud
Cupid
laugh'd
,
to
see
the
God's
Mistake
;
And
laughing
cry'd
,
Learn
better
,
great
Divine
,
To
know
Thy
Kindred
,
and
to
honour
Mine
.
Rightly
advis'd
,
far
hence
Thy
Sister
seek
,
Or
on
Meander's
Bank
,
or
Latmus'
Peak
.
But
in
This
Nymph
,
My
Friend
,
My
Sister
know
:
She
draws
My
Arrows
,
and
She
bends
My
Bow
:
Fair
Thames
She
haunts
,
and
ev'ry
neighb'ring
Grove
Sacred
to
soft
Recess
,
and
gentle
Love
.
Go
,
with
Thy
Cynthia
,
hurl
the
pointed
Spear
At
the
rough
Boar
;
or
chace
the
flying
Deer
:
I
and
My
Cloe
take
a
nobler
Aim
:
At
human
Hearts
We
fling
,
nor
ever
miss
the
Game
.