Then, if e’er I should complain
Of your Empire, or my Chain,
Summon all the powerful Charms,
And kill the Rebel in your Arms.
[A SONG.]
I.
Fair Chloris in a Pig-Sty lay,
Her tender Herd lay by her:
She slept, in murmuring Gruntlings they,
Complaining of the scorching Day,
Her Slumbers thus inspire.
II.
She dreamt, while she with careful Pains,
Her snowy Arms employ’d,
In Ivory Pails to fill out Grains,
One of her Love-convicted Swains,
Thus hastning to her cry’d:
III.
Fly, Nymph, oh! fly, e’re ’tis too late,
A dear-lov’d Life to save:
Rescue your Bosom Pig from Fate,
Who now expires, hung in the Gate
That leads to yonder Cave.