_Cloris_ returning from the Trance Which Love and soft Desire had bred, Her timerous Hand she gently laid (Or guided by Design or Chance) Upon that Fabulous _Priapus_; That Potent God, as Poets feign; But never did young _Shepherdess_, Gath’ring of Fern upon the Plain, More nimbly draw her Fingers back, Finding beneath the verdant Leaves a Snake: XII. Than _Cloris_ her fair Hand withdrew, Finding that God of her Desires Disarm’d of all his Awful Fires, And Cold as Flow’rs bath’d in the Morning Dew. Who can the _Nymph’s_ Confusion guess? The Blood forsook the hinder Place, And strew’d with Blushes all her Face, Which both Disdain and Shame exprest: And from _Lysander’s_ Arms she fled, Leaving him fainting on the Gloomy Bed. XIII. Like Lightning through the Grove she hies, Or _Daphne_ from the _Delphick God_, No Print upon the grassey Road She leaves, t’ instruct Pursuing Eyes. The Wind that wanton’d in her Hair, And with her Ruffled Garments plaid, Discover’d in the Flying Maid All that the Gods e’er made, if Fair. So _Venus_, when her _Love_ was slain, With Fear and Haste flew o’er the Fatal Plain. XIV. The _Nymph’s_ Resentments none but I Can well Imagine or Condole: But none can guess _Lysander’s_ Soul, But those who sway’d his Destiny. His silent Griefs swell up to Storms, And not one God his Fury spares; He curs’d his Birth, his Fate, his Stars; But more the _Shepherdess’s_ Charms, Whose soft bewitching Influence Had Damn’d him to the _Hell_ of Impotence. _On a Locket of Hair Wove in a True-Loves Knot, given me by Sir_ R. O.