Her tender herd lay by her:
She slept, in murmuring gruntlings they,
Complaining of the scorching day,
Her slumbers thus inspire.
She dreamt, while she with careful pains,
Her snowy arms employed,
In ivory pails to fill out grains,
One of her love-convicted swains,
Thus hastening to her cried:
Fly, nymph, oh! fly, e’re ’tis too late,
A dear-loved life to save:
Rescue your bosom pig from fate,
Who now expires, hung in the gate
That leads to yonder cave.
My self had tried to set him free,
Rather than brought the news:
But I am so abhorred by thee,
That even thy darling’s life from me,
I know thou wouldst refuse.
Struck with the news, as quick she flies
As blushes to her face:
Not the bright lightning from the skies,
Nor love, shot from her brighter eyes,
Move half so swift a pace.
This plot, it seems, the lustful slave
Had laid against her honour:
Which not one God took care to save,
For he pursues her to the cave,
And throws himself upon her.
Now pierced is her virgin zone,
She feels the foe within it;
She hears a broken amorous groan,
The panting lover’s fainting moan,
Just in the happy minute.
Frighted she wakes, and waking frigs,
Nature thus kindly eased,
In dreams raised by her murmuring pigs,
And her own thumb between her legs,
She’s innocent and pleased.
John Wilmot, Lord Rochester