Ode II: The Letter-Carrier

TEll me, amiable Dove,
Thou great Embassadour of Love,
A Spokes man fit for amorous Jove;
Tell me, tell me, why such hast?
Whither is't you flie so fast?
Where didst thou thy breath perfume?
From what Spicy Country come?
From whence, with thy Mercurial Wing,
Dost thou these Heavenly Odours bring?
Swimming through th' ambitious Air,
Proud to kiss thy Wings so fair,
Leaving a scent of sweetness there.
Tell me who it is, will be
So honour'd with thy companie?
The Dove replied, What would I give,
Poor Dove, for a Preservative
From Coxcombs so inquisitive?
Pray what are my concerns to you?
But since 'tis your desire to know,
And Medlers will not be said no:
(Save me, ye Gods; for what offence
Must I be kill'd by Impertinence?)
I am (and then she curb'd her Head,
Her Tail, Fan-like, by Feathers spread,
And walk'd in state, and clapp'd her Wings,
And did a hundred pretty things,
To shew her pride) Anacreon's Dove,
And manage the affairs of Love
With his Bathyllus, that dear Boy,
(Oh, happy state that I enjoy!)
Lovely Bathyllus, he that can,
By one sweet look, ev'n conquer Man;
Can by the Magick of his Eyes,
Over all things tyrannize;
Victorious Beauty of all Greece,
The whole Creation's Master-piece;
The Pride of Nature, and the Fire
That raises Venus's Desire,
Whom thô she envy, she must still admire;
Could make a Stoick change his mind,
Fixt as the Sun, turn like the Wind,
And in Love's School more Pleasures find,
Than in his former Hermite's Cell,
Principles dark and deep as Hell.
To Venus once I did belong,
She sold me for a trifling Song.
O happy I, that us'd to run
From place to place, from Sun to Sun,
Managing the Intrigues of Love,
With Mars, and half the Gods above,
With her Seraglio of Gallants,
That by turns supply'd her wants;
Am Servant to Anacreon,
Who lov'd by all, yet loves but one.
And as you see me now, I bear
His Letters to his lovely Fair;
This the perfume that scents the Air.
He promises to set me free;
Excuse me for such libertie:
No other freedom would I crave,
Than name and nature of a Slave;
Nor other slavery can I dread,
Than being, as he tells me, freed.
For to what purpose should I flie,
And ramble in the spacious Skie,
By Famine, Net, or Arrow die?
Sit starving on a Mountains top,
Or coo on barren Trees, and hop,
In fear of death, from bough to bough,
I know not where, I know not how;
Either die for want of Meat,
Else Haws, and Chaff, and Vetches eat:
Nor safety in that wretched fare,
'Ware Birdlime, Turtle! and the Snare.
Where Puddle-water is the best,
A hollow Tree the softest Nest;
To hear Owls Musick, nor that long;
She'll make one dance unto her Song.
Is this the freedom I have lost?
Is this the freedom others boast?
I by my Master now can stand,
Peck Crums out of Anacreon's hand;
And have my little Ganymede
To give me Wine, whene're I need.
I in a merry mood, can sup
Wine out of Anacreon's Cup;
His own pure, choice, delicious Wine,
So smooth, so sparkling, and so fine!
Which he keeps purposely to treat
Bathyllus with, when they two meet.
When I get drunk, I clap my wings,
And dance, whilst my Anacreon sings.
And when I am a sleepy grown,
Upon his Harp I lay me down:
Musick and I can there agree
In one united Harmonie;
Both make our Master Melodie.
Peace and Concord is, in brief,
The perfect sum of my whole Life,
Free from danger, noise, or strife.
Farewel. But now too late I must repent,
That like your self I'm grown impertinent:
For when I'm gone, you'll say you took me wrong,
To be a Dove with a Crows pratling Tongue.