Of late two dainties were before me plac'd Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent, From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent That Gods might know my own particular taste: First the soft Bag-pipe mourn'd with zealous haste, The Stranger next with head on bosom bent Sigh'd; rueful again the piteous Bag-pipe went, Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste. O Bag-pipe thou didst steal my heart away O Stranger thou didst re-assert thy sway Again thou Stranger gav'st me fresh alarm Alas! I could not choose. Ah! my poor heart Mum chance art thou with both oblig'd to part.