Than Things inanimate is fhe lefs kind,

And more fevere than fhows an human Mind.

Thyrfis.

On tender Tops of Grafs the Lambkins feed;
For hungry Wolves the tender Lambkins bleed;
But cruel Love is ever fed with Tears,
Yet never full, or fatisfied appears.

Amintas.

Ah! Thou miftak'ft, Love will have other Food; Cloy'd with my Tears, he now demands my Blood: Love, and her Eyes, drink hourly from my Veins; Ah! quickly drain forth all, and end my Pains. Thyrfis.

Alas! Amintas fpeak not fo diftreft;

But hope, and gather Comfort in thy Breaft;
Who knows but Time may cure, and thou may'st find
Another Nymph as fair, and much more kind?
Amintas.

Loft to myself, no other me can please:
Thy Remedies are not for my Disease..

Is not this Shepherddrawn as truly fick of Love? He has been us'd to figh alone, and remarks, that the Waves, and the very Stones, have echoed or replied to his Sighs and Sorrows, which he, quite defpairing, fays he expects not from Sylvia. The Anfwer of Thyrfis, concerning what Love feeds on, and the Reply of Amintas, are Beauties but feldom well imitated by our modern Poets: Indeed Mr. Allan Ramfay, who we will venture to compare to Taffo in many Places, and Mr. Gay in more, has (not illjudgingly) put Thoughts into his Shepherds, not lefs pleafing. The Scene is between Patie, the

gentle

gentle Shepherd, and Roger, a rich Swain, who is deeply in Love with Jenny.

Patie.

This funny Morning, Roger, chears my Blood, And puts all Nature in a jovial Mood.

How hartfome is't to fee the rifing Plants,

To hear the Birds chirm o'er their pleafing Rants?
How halefome 'tis to fnuff the cawler Air,

And all the Sweets it bears, when void of Care.
What ails thee, Roger, then? What gars thee
Tell me the Cause of thy ill-feafon'd Pain. (a) [grane?
Roger.

I'm born, O Patie, to a (b) thrawart Fate! I'm born to strive with Hardships fad and great. Tempefts may ceafe to jaw the rowan Flood, Corbies and Tods to (c) grein for Lambkins Blood, But I, oppreft with never ending Grief, Maun ay despair of lighting on Relief.

Patie.

The Bees fhall loath the Flour, and quit the Hive, The (d) Saughs on boggie Ground fhall cease to thrive, Ere fcornful Queans, or Lofs of warldly Gear,

Shall fpill my Reft, or ever force a Tear,

Roger.

Sae might I fay; but it's no easy done
By ane whafe Saul is fadly out of Tune.

By this Time it must appear that our Countryman has an exceeding fine Talent at Paftoral, nor do we think, if the Paftoral we quote from, had been drefs'd in our more courtly Dialect, it would have been better clad.

(a) Groan. (b) Way ward. (c) long. (d) Willows.

Our laft Quotation on the Subject of the Complaints of Lovers, fhall be from Guarini; and now, Reader, if thou art delighted with fine Poetry, (as if thou art not, little Pleafure will arife to thee from reading this Book, it being of the Life and Writings of a Poet, who did little but what was in the Study and Purfuit thereof) thou fhalt find no fmall Contentment and Delight. After that Amaryllis (notwithstanding the bears a very strong Affection for Mirtillo) has given him a Repulfe and Denial, and he by her Command is withdrawn, the exclaims this Soliloquy:

Mirtillo, Mirtillo, anima mia,
Se vedefti quì dentro,

Come ftà il cor di quefta,

Che chiami crudeliffima Amarilii;
Sò ben, che tù di lei

Quella pietà, che da lei chiedi, havrefti.
O anime in amor troppo infelici.

Che giova à te, cor mio, l'effer amato?
Che giova à me l'haver sì caro amante?
Perche crudo deftino

Ne difunifci tù, s'amor ne ftringe?
E tù perche ne ftringi,

Se ne parte il deftin, perfido amore?
O fortunate voi fere felvagge,

A cui l'alma natura

Non diè legge in amar, fe non d'amore:
Legge humana inhumana,

Che dai

per pena de l'amar la morte.

"Se'l peccar è fi dolce,

El non peccar fi neceffario; ò troppo

Imperfetta natura,

"Che repugni à la legge :

Otroppo dura legge,

"Che

"Che la natura offendi.

"Ma che? poco amaaltrui, ch'il morir teme.
Piaceffe pur' al ciel, Mirtillo mio,

Che fol pena al peccar fuffe la morte.
Santiffima honestà, che fola fei
D'alma ben nata inviolabil nume,
Queft' amorofa voglia,

Che fvenato hò col ferro

Del tuo fanto rigor, qual' innocente
Vittima à te confacro.

E tù, Mirtillo (anima mia) perdona
A chi t'è cruda fol, dove pietofa
Effer non può: perdona à questa folo
Ne i detti, e nel fembiante

Rigida tua nemica; ma nel core
Pietofiffima amante.

F fe pur hai defio di vendicarti,

Deh qual vendetta haver puoi tù maggiore
Del tuo proprio dolore?

Che fe tu fe'l cor mio;
Come fe' pur, mal grado
Del cielo, e de la terra;
Qualhor piangi, e sospiri,

Quelle lagrime tuo fono il mio fangue :

Quei fofpiri il mio fpirto: e quelle pene,

E quel dolor, che fenti,

Son miei, non tuoi tormenti.

Which, that it may be the more generally under

ftood, I have tranflated:

My Mirtillo! if within my Breaft,

if

my

the

Thou couldst but fee, how far'd the Heart of

Who thou haft call'd moft cruel Amarillis;

[her,

Το

Full well I know, the Pity thou haft afk'd,.. Now thou wouldst give: Ah Lovers toe unhappy!"

L4

To be belov'd, ah! What avails it thee?
Or me, to have a Lover, fo belav'd?

Why, cruel Fate, doft thou the Hearts divide,
Which Love has join'd? Or why, perfidious Love,
Doft thou, what Deftiny divides unite?

Happy the Brutes! to whom kind Nature gives,
No Laws in Love, but thofe of Love alone:
Inhuman human Laws, give Death for Love.
If it be fuch a Pleasure to tranfgrefs,
And not to offend, be yet fo neceffary;
O too imperfect Nature, Law t'oppose!
O Law too hard, free Nature to reftrain!
That Love which is afraid of Death is light,

Ah! would ro Heaven that nothing else but Death,
Stood between thee and me: O facred Virtue !
Thou, who to Souls above the Vulgar rais'd,
A Power inviolable art alone,

With thy Severity, all foft Defires

I kill within; and like an harmless Victim,
To thee I confecrate: Pardon, Mirtillo,
If I am cruel, where I muft not pity ::
O pardon her, who in her Looks and Words,
Seems a fierce Enemy, but is at Heart,
A tender Lover; if thou feek Revenge,
What greater canft thou have, than thine own Grief?
For if thou art my Heart, as fuch thou art,
In Oppofition, both to Heav'n and Earth,
Then if thou weep or figh, thofe Tears are thine,
They are my Blood, and all thofe Sighs my Breath;
ThofegrievousPains, thofe Griefs and Groans of thine,
Are not thy Pains, are not thy Griefs, but mine.

In this fingle Paffage Guarini has, in our Opinion, outgone all other Poets in this Subject of Complaint.

.

Let