On A Bashful Shepherd.

Young Clovis, by a lucky Chance,
His Loved
In such a place, as might advance
His Courage, and abate her Pride:
With Eyes that might have told his Suit,
Although his bashful Tongue was mute,
Upon her gaz├Ęd he,
But the Coy Nymph, though in Surprise,
Upon the Ground fixing her Eyes,
The Language would not see.

With gentle Grasps he wooed her Hand
And sighed in seeming Pain,
But this she would not understand,
His Signs were all in vain:
Then change of Blushes next he tried,
And gave his Hand freedom to slide
Upon her panting Breast;
Finding she did not this control,
Unto her Lips he gently stole,
And bid her guess the rest.
She blushed, and turned her Head aside,
And so much Anger feigned,
That the poor Shepherd almost Died,
And she no Breath retained:
Her killing Frown so chilled his Blood,
He like a senseless Statue stood,
Nor further durst he Woe(1),
And though his Blessing was so near,
Checked by his Modesty and Fear,
He faintly let it go.