“Acis, the lovely youth, whose loss I mourn, From Faunus, and the nymph Symethis, born, Was both his parents’ pleasure, but to me, Was all that love could make a lover be. The gods our minds in mutual bands did join, I was his only joy, and he was mine. Now sixteen summers the sweet youth had seen, And doubtful down began to shade his chin, When Polyphemus first disturbed our joy, And loved me fiercely, as I loved the boy. Ask not which passion in my soul was higher My last aversion, or my first desire, Nor this the greater was, nor that the less, Both were alike, for both were in excess. Thee, Venus, thee, both heaven and earth obey, Immense thy power, and boundless is thy sway. The cyclop, who defied the ethereal throne, And thought no thunder louder than his own, The terror of the woods, and wilder far Than wolves in plains, or bears in forests, are, The inhuman host, who made his bloody feasts On mangled members of his butcher’d guests, Yet felt the force of love, and fierce desire, And burn’d for me with unrelenting fire

“The prophet Telemus (arrived by chance Where Aetna’s summits to the seas advance, Who mark’d the tracks of every bird that flew, And sure presages from their flying drew) Foretold the cyclop that Ulysses hand In his broad eye should thrust a flaming brand. The giant, with a scornful grin, replied, ‘Vain augur, thou hast falsely prophesied; Already love his flaming brand has toss’d, Looking on two fair eyes my sight I lost.’ Thus, warn’d in vain, with stalking pace he strode, And stamp’d the margin of the briny flood With heavy steps, and weary, sought again The cool retirement of his gloomy den.

“A promontory, sharpening by degrees, Ends in a wedge, and overlooks the seas, On either side below, the water flows; This airy walk the giant lover chose. Here on the midst he sat, his flocks unled, Their shepherd follow’d, and securely fed; A pine, so burly, and of length so vast, That sailing ships required it for a mast, He wielded for a staff, his steps to guide, But laid it by, his whistle while he tried; A hundred reeds, of a prodigious growth, Scarce made a pipe proportion’d to his mouth, Which, when he gave it wind, the rocks around, And watery plains, the dreadful hiss resound. I heard the ruffian shepherd rudely blow, Where in a hollow cave I sat below; On Acis’ bosom I my head reclined, And still preserve the poem in my mind.

“ ‘Oh, lovely Galatea! whiter far Than falling snows and rising lilies are; More flowery than the meads, as crystal bright; Erect as alders, and of equal height: More wanton than a kid, more sleek thy skin Than orient shells, that on the shores are seen: Than apples fairer, when the boughs they lade; Pleasing as winter suns, or summer shade: More grateful to the sight than goodly plains, And softer to the touch than down of swans; Or curds new turn’d; and sweeter to the taste Than swelling grapes, that to the vintage haste: More clear than ice, or running streams, that stray Through garden plots, but, ah! more swift than they.

“ ‘Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke Than bullocks, unreclaim’d to bear the yoke, And far more stubborn than the knotted oak: Like sliding streams, impossible to hold; Like them fallacious, like their fountains cold; More warping than the willow, to decline My warm embrace, more brittle than the vine; Immoveable and fix’d in thy disdain: Rough as these rocks, and of a harder grain. More violent than is the rising flood; And the praised peacock is not half so proud. Fierce as the fire, and sharp as thistles are, And more outrageous than a mother bear: Deaf as the billows to the vows I make; And more revengeful than a trodden snake In swiftness fleeter than the flying hind, Or driven tempests, or the driving wind. All other faults with patience I can bear, But swiftness is the vice I only fear.