THE  ENQUIRY

By
John Dyer
1699 - 1758

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Ye poor little Sheep, ah well may ye stray,

While sad is your Shepherd, and  Clio away !

Tell where have you been, have you met with my Love,

On the Mountain, or Valley, or Meadow, or Grove ?

Alas-aday, No  ---  Ye are starv'd and half dead,

Ye saw not my Love, or ye all had been fed.
 

Oh, Sun, did you see her?  ---  Ay surely you did:

Mong what Willows, or Woodbines, or Reeds, is she hid?

Ye tall, whistling Pines, that on yonder Hill grow,

And o'er look the beautiful Valley below,

Did you see her a roving in Wood or in Brake?

Or bathing her fair Limbs in some silent Lake?
 

Ye Mountains that look on the vigorous East,

And the North, and the South, and the wearisom West,

Pray tell where she hides her, you surely do know,

And let not her Lover pine after her so.
 

Oh, had I the Wings of an Eagle,  I'd fly,

Along with bright  Phœbus  all over the Sky.

Like an Eagle, look down, with my Wings wide display'd,

And dart in my Eye at each wisp'ring Shade:

I'd search ev'ry Tuft in my diligent Tour,

I'd unravel the Woodbines, and look in each Bow'er,

Till I found out my  Clio, and ended my Pain,

And made my self quiet, and happy again.

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