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With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me.
O you, that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays!
That will sing but a song in her praise. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while; Nay, on him may not Phyllida frown;
--Bat I cannot allow her to smile.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find, O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the peace of my mind! In ringlets he dresses his hair,
And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe-oh, my Phillis! beware
Of a magic there is in the sound.
'Tis his with mock passion to glow;
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, "How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold; How the nightingales labour the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie; How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs, and die.”
To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
More sweet than the jessamine's flower! What are pinks in the morn to compare?
What is eglantine after a shower?
“Then the lily no longer is white;
Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; Then the violets die with despite,
And the woodbines give up their perfume." Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd bis peer: Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy despise;
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
Or sure I must envy the song.
IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. Ye Shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep: They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep, Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair-and my passion begun; She smil'd-and I could not but love;
She is faithless—and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be sought
By a swain more engaging than me.
It banishes wisdom the while;
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithless, and I am undone;
Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to shun
What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of a higher degree. It is not for me to explain
How fair, and low fickle they be.
Alas! from the day that we met,
The glarice that undid my repose. .:Yet time may diminish the pain:
The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
In time may have comfort for me.
The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
The sound of a murmuring stream,
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme.
But we are not to find them our own;
As I with my Phyllis had known.
O ye woods, spread your branches apace !
To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would vanish from every eye.
With the same sad complaint it begun;
Was faithless, and I am undone !
THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode: