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T I T Y R U S.

This night, at least, with me forget your care;
Chesnuts and curds and cream shall be your fare:
The carpet ground (hall be with leaves o'er-spread,
And boughs snail weave a cov'ring for your head:
For see yon sunny hill, the shade extends,
And curling smoke from cottages ascends.

Spenser was the sirst of our own countrymen, who acquired any considerable reputation by this method of writing. We fliall insert his sixth eclogue, or that iot June, which is al« legorical, as will be seen by the

Arcument.

"Holhinol, from a description of the pleasures of the place, excites Colin to the enjoyment of them. Colin declares himself incapable of delight, by reafon of his ill success in love, and his loss of Rosalind, who had treacherously forfaken him for Menalcas, another shepherd. By Tityrta (mentioned before in Spenser's second eclogue, and again in the twelfth) is plainly meant Chaucer, whom the author fometimes prosefs'd to imitate. In the perfon of Colin, is represented the author himself; and Hobbinol's inviting him to leave the hilly country, seems to allude to his leaving the North, where, as is mention'd in his lise, he had sor fome time resided."

Hobbinol.

Lo! Colin, here the place, whose pleafant sight From other shades hath wean'd my wand'ring mind:

Tell me, what wants me here, to work delight? The simple air, the gentle warbling wind,

So calm, fo cool, as no where else I sind: The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight,

The bramble-bush, where birds of every kind To th' water's fall their tunes attemper right.

Colin. .

O! happy Hobbinol, I bless thy state,
That paradife hast found which Adam lost.

Here wander may thy flock early or late,
Withouten dread of wolves to been ytost;

Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boast: But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate,

And angry Gods pursue from coast to coast, Can no where sind, to sliroud my luckless pate.

H O B B I H O L.

Then if by me thou list advifed be, Forfake the foil, that fo doth thee bewitch:

Leave me those hills, where harbroughnis to see, Nor holly-bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch;

And to the dales refort, where shepherds rich, 'And fruitsul flocks been every where to see:

Here no night-ravens lodge,- more black than pitch, Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee.

But friendly fairies met with many graces, And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night,

With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces; Whilst sisters nine, which dwell on Parnass hight,

Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himself to kifs their chrystal faces,

Will pipe and daunce, when Phœbe shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.

Colin.

And I, whilst youth, and course of careless years, Did let me walk withouten links of love,

In such delights did joy amongst my peers: But riper age such pleasures doth reprove,

My fancy eke from former follies move To strayed steps: for time in passing wears

(As garments doen, which waxen old above) And draweth. new delights with hoary hairs.

Tho couth I sing of love and tune my pipe Unto my plantive pleas in verses made:

Tho would I seek for queen-apples unripe, To give my Rosalind, and in sommer {hade

Dight gawdy girlonds, was my common trade;, To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe,

And loss of her, whose love as lise I wayde, Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.

HOBBINOL.

Colin, to hear thy rhimes and roundelays, Which thou west wont on wastesul hills to sing,

I more delight, than lark in summer days: Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring,

And taught the birds, which in the lower spring
Did shroud in shady leaves from funny rays;

Frame to thy fong their cheerful cheriping
Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays.

I faw Calliope with muses moe,
Soon as thy oaten pipe began to found,

Their ivory lutes and tamburins forgo:
And from the fountain, where they fate around,

Ren after hastily thy silver suund.
But when they came, where thou thy skill didst (how,

They drew a back, as half with shame confound,
Shepherd to tee, them in their art out-go.

Colin.
Of muses, Hobbinol, I con no skill,

For they been daughters of the highest Jove,
And holden scorn of homely shepherds quill:

For sith I heard that Pan with Phœbus strove
Which him to much rebuke and danger drove,

I never list presume to Pamass' hill,

But piping low, in shade of lowly grove,

I play to please myself, albeit ill.

Nought weigh I, who my sung doth praife or blame, Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest:

With shepherds sits not follow flying fame,
But seed his flocks in sields, where falls him best.

I wote my rimes been rough, and rudely drest 5
The sitter they, my caresul case to frame:

Enough is me to paint out my. unrest,
And pour my piteous plaints out in the fame.

The God of shepherds, Tityrus is dead,
Who taught me homely, as I can, to make:

He, whilst he lived was the fovereign head Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake.

Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake The flames, which love within his heart had bred,

And tell us merry tales, to keep us wake,
The while our sheep about us fasely sed.

Now dead he is, and Heth wrapt in lead,
(O why should death on him such outrage show '.

And all his passing skill with him is fled,
The fame whereof doth daily greater grow.

But if on me fome litde drops would flow Of that the spring was in his learned hed,

I foon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed.

Then should ray plaints, caus'd of difcourtesee, As messengers of this my painsul plight,

Fly to my love, wherever that she be. And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight;

As she deserves, that wrought su deadly spight. And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery

Didst underfong my lass to wa£fo light, Should'st well be known for such thy villiany.

But since I am not, as I wilh I were,. Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do seed,

Whether on hills or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this" su wicked deed:

And tell the lass, whose flower is woxe a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless seere,

That she the truest shepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear.

H O B B I N O L.

O! caresul Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow!

Ah! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That are the root of all this ruesul woe!

But now is time, I guess, homeward to go: Then rise, ye blessed flocks, and home apace,

Lest night with stealing steps do you foreflo, And wet your tender lambs, that by you trace.

By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr. Philips has, in imitation of Spencer, preserved in his Pastorals many antiquated words, which, tho' they are difcarded from polite converfation, may naturally be supposed still to have place among the shepherds, and other rusticks in the country. We have-made choice of his second eclogue, because it is brought home to his own business, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings.

Mr. Phuips's second Pastoral,
Thenot, Colinet.

Is it not Colinet I lonefome see
Leaning with folded arms against the tree?
Or is it age of late bedims my sight?
'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful plight.
Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears,
Unseemly, now the sky fo bright appears'?
Why in this mournsul manner art thou found,
Unthanksul lad, when all things smile around?
Or hear'st not lark and linnet jointly sing,
Their notes blithe-warbling to falute the spring?

, Colinet.

Though blithe their notes, not su my wayward fate;
Nor lark would sing, nor linnet, in my state.
Each creature, thenot, to his task is born,
As they to mirth and music, I to mourn.
Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
My tears oft mingling with the salling dew.

Thenot.
Small cause, I ween, has lusty youth to plain;
Or who may then, the weight of eld sustain,
When every slackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load presseth as our days prevail?
Yet, though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn bend,'
Spite of my snowy head and icy veins,
My mind a cheersul temper still retains:
And why should man, mishap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine:
F

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