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Mong ruftick Routs the chief for wanton Game it
Nor could they merry make 'till Lobbin came.
Who better seen, than !, in Shepherds Arts,
To please the Lads and win the Lalles Hearts
How deftly to mine oaten Reed fo sweet,
Wont they, upon the Green, to fhift their Feet?
And, when the Dance was done, how would they
Some well devised Tale from me to learn? [yeara
For, many Songs and Tales of Mirth had I,

To chase the lingring Sun adown the Sky.
But, ah! since Lucy coy has wrought her Spite
Within my Heart; unmindful of Delight,
The jolly Grooms I fly; and all alone
To Rocks and Woods pour forth my fruitless Moang

Oh quit thy wonted Scom, relentless Fair!..
E’er, lingring long, I perish thro’ Despair, y;
Had Rosalind been Mistress of my Mind,

Tho' not fo fair, fhe would have been more kind
O think, unwitting Maid, while yet is Time, y
How flying Years impare our youthful Prime! :
Thy Virgin Bloom will not for ever stay;
And Flow'rs, tho' left ungather’d, will decay..

The Flow"rs a new returning Seafons bring :
But Beauty faded has no fecond Spring. Foliada

My Words are Wind ! She, deafto all my Cries
Takes Pleafure in the Mischief of her Eyes
Like frifking Heifers, loose in flow'ry Meads, !!
She gads where-e'er her roving Fancy leads; N
Yet still from me, Ah me, the tirefome Chade!!.
While, wing'd with Scorn, the flies my fond Ems
She flies indeed : But ever leaves behind, brade.
Fly where she will, her Likehefs in my Mind. in
Ah turn thee then! Unthinking Damsel! Why, 1
Thus from the Youth, who loves thee, should's thou
No cruel Parpose in my Speed I bear :

[Ay? Tis allbut Love; and Love why should'st thou

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What idle Fears a Maiden Breaft alarm!
Stay, simple Girl ! a Lover cannot harm.

What can be finer! It would be Injustice to Mr. Philips, and to our own Soul, not to confess, that we think no Body who has any the least Harmony in their Mind, but it must be awak'd, and sympathize with this.

Mr. Pope introduces Alexis, and puts into his Mouth a very sweet Complaint :

That Flute is mine, which Colin's tuneful Breath
Inspir'd when living, and bequeath'd in Death:
He said, Alexis, take this Pipe, the fame
That taught the Groves my Rosalinda's Name :
But now the Reeds shall hang on yonder Tree
For-ever filent, fince defpis'd by thee :
Oh! Were I made by fome transforming Pow'r,
The captive Bird that fings within thy Bow'r,
Then might my Voice thy listning Ears employ,
And I those Killes he receives, enjoy.

And yet my Numbers pleafe the rural Throng,
Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the Song:

The Nymphs forfaking ev'ry Cave and Spring,
Their early Fruit, and milk-white Turtles bring,
Each am'rous Nymph prefers her Gifts in vain,
On you their Gifts are all bestow'd again!
For you the Swains the fairest Flow'rs design,
And in one Garland all their Beauties join;
Accept the Wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all Beauties are compriz'd in one.

See what Delights in Sylvan Scenes appear !
Defcending Gods have found Elzium here.
In Woods bright Venus with Adonis ftray'd,
And chalte Diana haunts the Forest-ibade.

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Come,

Come, lovely Nymph, and bless the filent Hours ; When Swains from hearing seek their nightly Bow'rs; When wcary Reapers quit

the sultry Field, And crown'd with Corn, their Thanks to Ceres yield. This harmless Grove no lurking Viper hides, But in my Breast the Serpent Love abides. Here Bees from Blossoms fip the rofy Dew, But your Alexis knows no Sweet but

you, Some God conduct you to these blissful Seats, The mofly Fountains, and the green Retreats! Where'er you walk, cool Gales shall fan the Glade, Trees, where you fit, shall crowd into a Shade, Where'er you tread, the blushing Flow'rs shall rise, And all Things Aourish where you turn your Eyes. Oh! how I long with you to pass my Days, Invoke the Muses, and resound your Praise ; Your Praise the Birds shall chant in ev'ry Grove, And Winds shall waft it to the Pow'rs above. But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' Strain, The wond'ring Forests soon should dance again, The moving Mountains hear the pow'rful Call, And headlong Streams hang liftning in their Fall,

Great has been the Strife whether these Verses, or those of Mr. Ambrose Philips just mentioned, are most worthy of Praise, which we believe no small Difficulty to decide.

Either of them may serve for future Poets to imitate, who purpose to excel in this Sicilian, or Arcadian Pastoral Stile: Many Friends has this Manner of Writing, its Softness stealing thro' the Ear; most young Minds are most strongly affected with it, it warms the

very Hearts of all who are touch'd with the fine Passion of Love, and infuses a disinterested and noble Spirit into the Soul: It banishes from the Brea& every Thing mean and contemptible, and VOL. II.

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places

places in the Stead, a generous Beneficence and Benevolence, lo that the Mind becomes perfectly serene and humane.

Not less pleasing is our Devonshire Shepherd, Mr. Gay, tho' his Images are much more familiar. Sparabella bewails her loft Love, devising her fad Plaint in these mournful Notes:

Come Night as dark as Pitch, furround my Head, From Spårabella Bumkinet is filed; The Ribbon that his val'rous Cudgel won, Last Sunday happier Clumsilis put on. Sure, if he'd Eyes (but Love, they fay, has none) I whilome by that Ribbon had been known. Ah, well a-day! I'm fhent with baneful Smart, For with the Ribbon he beftow'd his Heart.

My Plaint, ye Laffes, with this Burthen aid, 'Tis hard fo 'trúe a Damsel dies a Maid.

I've often seen my Visage in yon Lake, Nor are my Features of the homelieft Make. Though Clumsilis may boast a whiter Dye, Yet the black Sloe turns in my rolling Eye ; And faireft Blossoms drop with ev'ry

Blast, But the brown Beauty will like Hollies laft. Her wan Complexion's like the wither'd Leek, While Katherine Pears adorn my ruddy Cheek. Yet she, alas ! The witless Lout hath won, And by her Gain, poor Sparabell's undone! Let Hares and Hounds in coupling Straps unite, The clocking Hen make Friendship with the Kite, Let the Fox simply wear the nuptial Noose, And join in Wedlock with the wadling Goose ; For Love hath brought a stranger Thing to pass, The faireft Shepherd weds the fouleft Lals.

My Plaint, ye Lasses, with this Burthen aid, 'Tis hard so true a Damsel dies a Maid.

Ah!

Ah ! didst thou know wbat Proffers I withstood,

, When late I met the Squire in yonder Wood ! To me he sped, regardlefs of his Game, While all my Cheek was glowing red with Shame; My Lip he kiss'd, and prais'd my healthful Look, Then from his Purse of Silk á Guinea took, Into my Hand he forc d the tempting Gold, While I with modeft ftruggling broke his Hold. He swore that Dick in Liv'ry Itrip'd with Lace, Should wed me foon to keep me from Disgrace ; But I nor Footman priz'd nor golden Fee, For what is Lace or Gold compar'd to thee?

My Plaint, ye Lasses, with this Burthen aid, 'Tis hard so true a Damsel dies a Maid.

An Image fo naturally painted, never fails to please good Judges; Mri Gay has (I think we may venture to say so) pleas'd all, for he liv'd such an inoffenfive Life, that he made no Enemies, and in his Writings copied Nature so closely, and kept up such a Spirit of Wit and good Humour in his Performances, that all judicious Readers were his Admirers.

Let us turn to our Dramatick Pastoral Writers, and just see how they have acquitted themselves, whether their Lovers do not complain as sweetly as poffible, and how finely Talso has brought in Amintas speaking to Thyrfis, making him in his Reply aflift the Love-lick and scorn'd Shepherd.

Amintas, O! I have heard the Waves and fenfeless Stones, Echo my Sighs, and Trees return my Groans ; Compaffion I muft never hope to fee In her whose Chain I wear, that cruel fhe, Whose lovely Form conceals a savage Heart, Where Want of Pity heightens all my Smart : L 2

Than

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