The Vigil of Venus and Other Poems: Two Duets

Two Duets

From "Arion," an unpublished Masque

I

_He._ Aglai-a! Aglai-a!
      Sweet, awaken and be glad.
_She._ Who is this that calls Aglaia?
      Is it thou, my dearest lad?
_He._ 'Tis Arion, 'tis Arion,
      Who calls thee from sleep--
    From slumber who bids thee
    To follow and number
      His kids and his sheep.
_She._ Nay, leave to entreat me!
      If mother should spy on
    Us twain, she would beat me.
_He._ Then come, my love, come!
     And hide with Arion
       Where green woods are dumb!
_She._ Ar-i-on! Ar-i-on!
         Closer, list! I am afraid!
_He._ Whisper, then, thy love Arion,
         From thy window, lily maid.
_She._ Yet Aglaia, yet Aglaia
         Hath heard them debate
       Of wooing repenting--
       "Who trust to undoing,
        Lament them too late."
_He._ Nay, nay, when I woo thee,
         Thy mother might spy on
       All harm I shall do thee.
_She._ I come, then--I come!
       To follow Arion
         Where green woods be dumb.

SONG
      Sparrow of Love, so sharp to peck,
      Arrow of Love--I bare my neck
      Down to the bosom. See, no fleck
      Of blood! I have never a wound; I go
      Forth to the greenwood. Yet, heigh-ho!
      What 'neath my girdle flutters so?
      'Tis not a bird, and yet hath wings,
      'Tis not an arrow, yet it stings;
      While in the wound it nests and sings--
                               Heigh-ho!
_He._ Of Arion, of Arion
        That wound thou shalt learn;
      What nothings 'tis made of,
      And soft pretty soothings
        In shade of the fern.
_She._ When maids have a mind to,
         Man's word they rely on,
       Old warning are blind to--
         I come, then--I come
           To walk with Arion
         Where green woods are dumb!

                            II

_He._ Dear my love, and O my love,
        And O my love so lately!
      Did we wander yonder grove
        And sit awhile sedately?
      For either you did there conclude
        To do at length as I did,
      Or passion's fashion's turn'd a prude,
        And troth's an oath derided.
_She._ Yea, my love--and nay, my love--
         And ask me not to tell, love,
       While I delay'd an idle day
         What 'twixt us there befell, love.
       Yet either I did sit beside
         And do at length as you did,
       Or my delight is lightly by
         An idle lie deluded!

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