An ancient chestnutâ€™s blossoms threw Their heavy odour over two: Leucippe, it is said, was one; The other, then, was Alciphron. â€˜Come, come! why should we stand beneath?â€™ This hollow treeâ€™s unwholesome breath?â€™ Said Alciphron, â€˜hereâ€™s not a blade Of grass or moss, and scanty shade. Come; it is just the hour to rove In the lone dingle shepherds love; There, straight and tall, the hazel twig Divides the crookÐ°ed rock-held fig, Oâ€™er the blue pebbles where the rill In winter runs and may run still. Come then, while fresh and calm the air, And while the shepherds are not there.â€™
Leucippe. But I would rather go when they Sit round about and sing and play. Then why so hurry me? for you Like play and song, and shepherds too.
Alciphron. I like the shepherds very well, And song and play, as you can tell. But there is play, I sadly fear, And song I would not have you hear.
Leucippe. What can it be? What can it be?
Alciphron. To you may none of them repeat The play that you have playâ€™d with me, The song that made your bosom beat.
Leucippe. Donâ€™t keep your arm about my waist.
Alciphron. Might you not stumble?
Leucippe. Well then, do. But why are we in all this haste?