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.