Song LXXVIII. the Pursuit

How sweet through the woodlands, with fleet hound and horn, To waken shrill echo, and taste the fresh morn: But hard is the chase my sond heart must pursue, Since Daphne, fair Daphne is lost to my view.

Affist me, chaste Diana, the nymph to regain, More wild than the roe-buck, and wing'd with disdain; In pity o'ertake her, who wounds as she flies, Though Daphne's pursu'd, 'tis Myrtillo that dies.