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Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamt of my vine; May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine. I priz'd ev'ry hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are pass’d, and I sigh;
And I griev'd that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languish in vain?
Why wander thus pensively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown; Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt at my beart?
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart: She gaz'd as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far-distant shrine, If he bear but a relic away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine. Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, Soft hope is the relic I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.
II. HOPE. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, ,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottos are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white-over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,
Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all-border'd with moss,
Where the hare-bells and violets grow.
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech is more beautiful green,
But a sweel-brier entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year,
More charms than my cattle unfold ! Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
But it glitters with fishes of gold.
One would think she might like to retire,
To the bow's I have labour'd to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay; Already it calls for my love
To prune the wild branches away.
From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow!
From thickets of roses that blow!
Each bird shall harmoniously join
As-she may not be fond to resign.
I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young: And I lov'd her the more, when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold,
How that pity was due to-a dove; That it ever attended the bold,
And she call'd it the sister of Love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Methinks I should love her the more.
Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs! Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise? Dear regions of silence and shade!
Soft scenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught in her absence could please.
Bnt where does my Phyllida stray?
And where are her grots and her bow'rs? Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare,
But their love is not equal to mine.
Why term it a folly to grieve?
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her wit she engages the free;
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! I could lay down my life for the swain,
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;
-But I cannot allow her to smile.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis tu 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.”