CYCLOPS.
O Nicias, there is no other remedy for Love, With ointing, or with sprinkling on, that ever I could prove, Beside the Muses nine! This pleasant medicine of the mind Grows among men; and seems but lite, yet very hard to find: As well I wote you know; who are in physic such a Leech, And of the Muses so beloved. The cause of this my speech A Cyclops is, who lived here with us right wealthily; That ancient Polyphem, when first he loved Galate (When, with a bristled beard, his chin and cheeks first clothed were): He loved her not with roses, apples, or with curlèd hair; But with the Furies' rage. All other things he little plied. Full often to their fold, from pastures green, without a guide, His sheep returnèd home: when all the while he singing lay In honour of his Love, and on the shore consumed away From morning until night; sick of the wound, fast by the heart, Which mighty Venus gave, and in his liver stuck the dart. For which, this remedy he found, that sitting oftentimes Upon a rock and looking on the sea, he sang these rhymes:
Polyphem's Emblem.
Ubi Dictamum inveniam?
THE SIXTEENTH IDILLION.
Argument.