a pastiche of 18thC pastoral poetry, which i've posted here before but has since been somewhat tweaked:

When Applepip, fresh from the hunt, slid down
The smooth green slope which waving poplars crown,
And on the dewy grasses draped the deer,
She saw Mirtazapine approaching near:
A long-forgotten friend! Mirtazapine
Himself addressed, while she remained unseen:
'Three summers now, innumerable nights,
Alone I've spurned all pastoral delights,
Forsaken groves where shepherdesses dance
And swains their honour and their virtue chance;
So have I hidden on this mountainside
Since cruel Phillillys my suit denied.'
Just then, Phillillys, couched within a fold
Where thistles bloomed, and fleecy she-goats strolled,
Woke up. Drunk gods their summer sunlight shed;
Deep she had slept upon her natural bed;
The empty wineskin in her one hand clasped,
The other o'er her aching eyes she cast.
Why feels she so amiss beneath this vale?
Its tufts of thistle and its she-goats pale,
The morning sun which gods above provide,
Nor pleased her sight, nor eased the dread inside.
For she had dreamt (and goatherds trust such signs),
As she stepped slowly through those unknown pines,
Across her path a mangled goat-corpse lay;
A bloody head it raised, and seemed to say:
'Goatherd, attend. The primal powers bid
That I inform you what the Fates have hid.
See my red fur; my downy throat cut through
Will look like mercy when they're through with you.'