Page:National Ballad and Song (1897), vol. 5.djvu/123

 The Wind that wanton’d in her Hair,
 And with her Ruffled Garments plaid,
 Discover’d in the Flying Maid
 All that the God e’er made, if Fair.
 So Venus, when her Love was slain,
With Fear and Haste flew o’er the Fatal Plain.

 The Nymphs resentment none but I
 Can well Imagine or Condole:
 But none can guess Lysander’s Soul,
 But those who sway’d his Destiny.
 His silent Griefts 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.