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But tell me then; it may relieve thy woe,
To let a friend thine inward ailment know.

COLINET.

Idly 'twill wafte thee, Thenot, the whole day, Should'st thou give ear to all my grief can say. Thine ewes will wander; and the heedlefs lambs, In loud complaints, require their abfent dams.

THENOT.

See Lightfoot; he fhall tend them clofe: and I, 'Tween whiles, a-crofs the plain will glance mine eye.

COLINE T.

Where to begin I know not, where to end. Does there one fmiling hour my youth attend? Though few my days, as well my follies fhow, Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe: No happy gleam of fun-fhine doth appear, My low'ring fky, and wint'ry months to cheer. My piteous plight in yonder naked tree, Which bears the thunder-fcar, too plain I fee: Quite deftitute it ftands of fhelter kind, The mark of ftorms, and sport of every wind: The riven trunk feels not th' approach of spring; Nor birds among the leafless branches fing: No more, beneath thy fhade, fhall thepherd's throng With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleafing fong. Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I!

From thee, from me, alike the fhepherds fly.

THEN O т.

Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born,
When blightning mildews fpoil the rifing corn,
Or blafting winds o'er bloffom'd hedge-rows pafs,
To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grafs,
Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows,
Blood-ftain'd in foul eclipfe, impending woes.
Untimely born, ill luck betides thee ftill.

COLINET.

And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?

ΤΗΕ ΝΟΤ.

Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our fheep:
From thefe good fhepherd's care his flock may keep :
Againft ill-luck, alas! all forcaft fails;

Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.

COLINET.

Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day!
Ah lucklefs lad! befits me more to say.
Unhappy hour! when fresh in youthful bud,
I left, Sabrina fair, thy filv'ry flood.
Ah, filly I! more filly than my sheep,
Which on thy flow'ry banks, I wont to keep.
Sweet are thy banks! oh, when shall I once more,
With ravish'd eyes review thine amell'd shore ?
When, in the cryftal of thy waters, scan
Each feature faded, and my colour wan?
When fhall I see my hut, the small abode
Myself did raife, and cover o'er with fod?
Small though it be, a mean and humble cell,
Yet is there room for peace, and me, to dwell.

THE NOT.

And what enticement charm'd thee, far away, From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart aftray?

COLINET.

A lewd defire strange lands, and fwains, to know: Ah me! that ever I fhould covet woe.

With wand'ring feet unbleft, and fond of fame,
I fought I know not what befides a name.

THE NOT.

Or, footh to fay, did't thou not hither rome
In fearch of gains more plenty than at home?
A rolling ftone is, ever, bare of moss;
And, to their coft, green years old proverbs crofs.

COLINET.

Small need there was, in random fearch of gain, To drive my pining flock athwart the plain,

To diftant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to myself such deal of woe!
My fheep quite spent, through travel and ill fare,
And like their keeper, ragged grown and bare,
The damp, cold green fward, for my nightly bed,
And fome flaunt willow's trunk to reft my head.
Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain;
And hard is want to the unpractic'd swain ;
But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard,
To blafting ftorms of calumny compar'd :
Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower
Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.
THENOT.

Slander we fhepherds count the vilest wrong:
And what wounds forer than an evil tongue ?

COLINET.

Untoward lads, the wanton imps of fpite,
Make mock of all the ditties I endite.
In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, fo fhrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill :
In vain thou seek'ft the coverings of the grove,
In the cool fhade to fing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail;
And every elf hath skill enough to rail:
But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Menalcas feems to like my fimple strain :
And, while that he delighteth in my fong,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor night, nor day, fhall my rude mufic ceafe
I ask no more, fo I Menalcas please.

THE N O т.

Menalcas, lord of these fair, fertile plains, Preferves the sheep, and o'er the fhepherds reigns: For him our yearly wakes, and feasts we hold, And choose the fairest firftlings from the fold: He, good to all, who good deferve, shall give Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live, Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues, And bounteously reward thy rural fongs.

COLINET.

First, then, fhall lightfome birds forget to fly,
The briny ocean turn to paftures dry,
And every rapid river ceafe to flow,
'E're I unmindful of Menalcas grow.

THEN O т.

This night thy care with me forget, and fold Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold. New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd, With fome remaining fruit of laft year's hoard, Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night, Sweet herbs and mofs, which gentle fleep invite: And now behold the fun's departing ray, O'er yonder, hill, the fign of ebbing day: With fongs the jovial hinds return from plow; And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.

Mr. Pope's Paftorals next appeared, but in a different drefs from thofe of Spenfer, and Phillips; for he has difcarded all antiquated words, drawn his fwains more modern and polite, and made his numbers exquifitely harmonious his eclogues therefore may be called better poems, but not better Paftorals. We fhali infert the eclogue he has inscribed to Mr. Wycherly, the beginning of which is in imitation of Virgil's firft Paftoral.

Beneath the shade a fpreading beech displays,
Hylas and Egon fung their rural lays :
This mourn'd a faithlefs, that an abfent love,
And Delia's name and Doris fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your facred fuccour bring;
Hylas and Egon's rural lays I fing.

Thou, whom the nine with Plautus' wit infpire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire;

Whose fenfe inftructs us, and whofe humour charms,
Whofe judgment fways us, and whofe fpirit warms!
Oh, fkill'd in nature! fee the hearts of fwains,
Their artlefs paffions, and their tender pains.
Now fetting Phabus fhone ferenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were ftreak'd with purple light;

When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,

Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.

As fome fad turtle his loft love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the founding fhores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along!
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their fong:
For her, the limes their pleafing fhades deny;
For her, the lillies hang their heads and die.
Ye flow'rs, that droop, forfaken by the fpring,
Ye birds, that left by fummer cease to fing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not abfence death to those who love?

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Curs'd be the fields that caufe my Delia's stay:
Fade ev'ry bloffom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all but she.
What have I faid? where'er my Delia flies,
Let fpring attend, and fudden flow'rs arife
Let opening rofes knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along!
The birds fhall ceafe to tune their evening fong,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And ftreams to murmur, ere I ceafe to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty fwain,
Not balmy fleep to lab'rers faint with pain,
Not fhow'rs to larks, or fun-fhime to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy fight to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay ?
Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia founds;
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow'rs, what pleafing frenzy fooths my mind!
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?

She comes, my Delia comes !--now ceafe my lay,
And ceafe ye gales, to bear my fighs away!

Next Egon fung, while Windfor groves admir'd:
Rehearfe, ye mufes, what yourfelves infpir'd.

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