Floriana a pastoral upon the death of Her Grace the Duchess of Southampton. Duke, Richard, 1658-1711. 1681 Approx. 7 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 3 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-03 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A36811 Wing D2505 ESTC R7628 13239269 ocm 13239269 98616

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A36811) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 98616) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 453:2) Floriana a pastoral upon the death of Her Grace the Duchess of Southampton. Duke, Richard, 1658-1711. Behn, Aphra, 1640-1689. 4 p. Printed for Samuel Cooke, London : 1681. Caption title. In verse. Attributed to Aphra Behn in the Wrenn Catalogue. Reproduction of original in Bodleian Library.

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 eng Southampton, Mary Fitzroy, -- Duchess of, d. 1681? 2002-10 Assigned for keying and markup 2002-12 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2003-01 Sampled and proofread 2003-01 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2003-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
FLORIANA. A PASTORAL, Upon the Death of Her Grace THE Duchess of Southampton. Damon. TEll me, my Thyrsis, tell thy Damon why Do's my lov'd Swain in this sad posture lie? What mean these streams still falling from thine eyes, Fast as those sighs from thy swoln bosom rise? Has the fierce Wolf bro •• through the fenced Ground? Have thy Lambs stray'd? or has Dorinda frown'd? Thyrsis. The Wolf? Ah! let him come, for now he may; Have my Lambs stray'd? let 'em for ever stray: Dorinda frown'd? No, She is ever mild; Nay, I remember but just now She smil'd: Alas! She smild; for to the Lovely Maid None had the fatal Tidings yet convey'd: Tell me then Shepherd, tell me canst thou find As long as thou art true, and She is kind, A Grief so great, as may prevail above Even Damon's Friendship, or Dorinda's Love? Damon. Sure there is none. Thyrs. But, Damon, there may be: What if the charming Floriana die? Damon. Far be the Omen! Thyrs. Alas! But suppose it true. Damon. Then should I grieve my Thyrsis, more than you. She is— Thyrs. She was, but is no more; Now, Damon, now, let thy swoln eyes run o're: Here to this Turf by thy sad Thyrsts grow, And when my streams of Grief too shallow flow, Let in thy Tide to raise the Torrent high, Till both a Deluge make, and in it die. Damon. Then that to this wisht height the Floud might swell, Friend, I will tell thee. Thyrs. Friend, I thee will tell, How young, how good, how beautiful She fell. Oh! She was all for which fond Mothers pray, Blessing their Babes when first they see the Day. Beauty and She were one; for in her face Sate Sweetness temper'd with Majestick Grace; Such powerful Charms as might the proudest awe, Yet such attractive goodness as might draw The Humblest, and to both give equal Law. How was She wondred at by every Swain? The Pride, the Light, the Goddess of the Plain: On all She shin'd, and spreading glories cast, Diffusive of her self, where e're She past, There breath'd an Air sweet as the winds that blow From the blest Shoars where fragrant Spices grow: Even me sometimes She with a Smile would grace, Like the Sun shining on the vilest place. Nor did Dorinda barr me the Delight Of feasting on her eyes my longing Sight: But to a Being so sublime, so pure, Spar'd my devotion, of my Love secure. Damon. Her Beauty such: but Nature did design That only as an answerable Shrine To the Divinity that's lodg'd within. Her Soul shin'd through, and made her form so bright, As Clouds are gilt by the Sun's piercing Light. In her smooth forehead we might read exprest The even Calmness of her gentle Breast: And in her sparkling Eyes as clear was writ The active vigour of her youthful Wit. Each Beauty of the Body or the Face Was but the Shadow of some inward Grace. Gay, sprightly, chearful, free and unconfin'd As Innocence could make it, was her Mind; Yet prudent, though not tedious nor severe, Like those, who being dull, would grave appear: Who out of guilt do Chearfulness despise, And being sullen, hope men think 'em wise. How would the listning Shepherds round her throng; To catch the words fell from her charming Tongue! She all with her own Spirit and Soul inspir'd, Her they all lov'd, and her they all admir'd. Even mighty Pan, whose powerful Hand sustains The Sovereign Crook that mildly awes the Plains, Of's tend'rest Cares made her the chiefest part; And great Lovisa lodg'd her in her Heart. Thyrsis. Who would not now a solemn Mourning keep, VVhen Pan himself and fair Lovisa weep? VVhen those blest Eyes by the kind gods design'd To cherish Nature, and delight Mankind, All drown'd in Tears, melt into gentler Showers Than April drops upon the Infant Flowers; Such Tears as Venus for Adonis shed, VVhen at her feet the Lovely Youth lay dead; About her, all her little weeping Loves Ungirt her Cestos and unyoakt her Doves. Damon. Come pious Nymphs, with fair Lovisa come, And visit gentle Floriana's Tomb; And as you walk the Melancholy Round, VVhere no unhallowed feet prophane the ground, VVith your chast hands fresh flowers and odours shed About her last obscure and silent Bed; Still praying as you gently move your feet, Soft be her Pillow, and her Slumbers sweet. Thyrsis. See where they come, a mournful lovely Train, As ever wept on fair Arcadia's Plain: Lovisa mournful far above the rest, In all the Charms of beauteous Sorrow drest: Just are her Tears, when She reflects how soon A Beauty, second only to her own, Flourisht, lookt gay, was wither'd, and is gone! Damon. O She is gone! gone like a new-born flower, That deck'd some Virgin-Queens delicious Bower; Torn from the Stalk by some untimely blast, And 'mongst the vilest weeds and rubbish cast: But flowers return, and coming Spring disclose, The Lilly white, and more fresh the Rose; But no kind Season back her Charms can bring, And Floriana has no second Spring. Thyrsis. O She is set! set like the falling Sun; Darkness is round us, and glad Day is gone! Alas! the Sun that's set, again will rise, And gild with richer Beams the Morning-Skies: But Beauty, though as bright as they it shines, VVhen its short glory to the West declines, O there's no hope of the returning Light; But all is long Oblivion, and eternal Night. FINIS.

LONDON, Printed for Samuel Cooke, 1681.