Ad Pirrham. Lib. 1. Ode 5. Poem by John Ashmore

The Argvment.
He saith, their state is curst by Fate
That Pirrha's baits inthrall:
From this gulf freed, vowd gifts with speed
That he hung oth'Church-wall.

What pretty youth, weltring in roses
With liquid odors overspred,
O Pirrha thee in's armes incloses,
When thou loves Lecture hast him read.
Ith' inner bower? Neglecting curious dresses,
For whom plaitst thou the gold-wire of thy tresses?
How oft will he that at his pleasure
Enioyes thee now (alas) complaine,
That he is robd of that sweet treasure
By angry gods, and vowes made vaine?
How will he curse the Seas so soon that wrangle,
Whom such sly baits could not before intangle?
For he poor soule, deceiv'd, beleev'd
Thou wouldst be true to him alone,
And lovely: But his heart, now griev'd,
Thy false inconstancy doth mone.
His tents he in destructions black field pitches,
Whom thou untride, with thy fair face bewitches.
The Temples wall, that's consecrated,
To every eye the Table showes
Where my sad ship-wrack is related:
And how ith' midst of all my woes,
I hung to th'Sea god, after strange beseeches,
My doublet wringing wet, and cod-piec't breeches.