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Thy lovely lays here mayft thou freely boast:
But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate,

And angry Gods pursue from coast to coast,
Can no where find, to shroud
lucklefs pate.


Then if by me thou list advised be,
Forfake the foil, that so doth thee bewitch:

Leave me those hills, where harbroughnis to fee,
Nor holly-bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch;

And to the dales refort, where fhepherds rich,
And fruitful flocks been every where to fee:

Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch,
Nor elvish ghofts, nor ghaftly owls do flee.

But friendly fairies met with many graces,
And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night,
With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces;
Whilft fifters nine, which dwell on Parnass' hight,

Do make them mufic, for their more delight;
And Pan himself to kifs their chrystal faces,

Will pipe and daunce, when Phabe shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in thefe places.


And I, whilft youth, and course of careless years,
Did let me walk withouten links of love,

In fuch delights did joy amongst my peers:
But riper age fuch pleasures doth reprove,

My fancy eke from former follies move
To ftrayed fteps: for time in paffing wears

(As garments doen, which waxen old above)
And draweth new delights with hoary hairs.

Tho couth I fing of love and tune my pipe
Unto my plantive pleas in verfes made:

Tho would I feek for queen-apples unripe,
To give my Rofalind, and in fommer fhade

Dight gawdy girlonds, was my common trade,
To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe,
And lofs of her, whofe love as life I wayde,
Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.


Colin, to hear thy rhimes and roundelays, Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to fing, I more delight, than lark in sommer days: Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring,

And taught the birds, which in the lower fpring
Did fhroud in fhady leaves from funny rays;

Frame to thy fong their cheerful cheriping
Or hold their peace, for fhame of thy fweet lays.

I faw Calliope with mufes moe,

Soon as thy oaten pipe began to found,

Their ivory lutes and tamburins forgo:
And from the fountain, where they fate around,
Ren after haftily thy filver found.

But when they came, where thou thy skill didft fhow,
They drew a back, as half with shame confound,
Shepherd to fee, them in their art out-go.


Of mufes, Hobbinol, I con no skill,

For they been daughters of the highest Jove,

And holden fcorn of homely fhepherds quill: For fith I heard that Pan with Phabus ftrove

Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never lift prefume to Parnafs' hill,

But piping low, in fhade of lowly grove, I play to please myself, albeit ill.

Nought weigh I, who my fong doth praise or blame, Ne ftrive to win renown, or pass the reft:

With fhepherds fits not follow flying fame,
But feed his flocks in fields, where falls him best.
I wote my rimes been rough, and rudely dreft;
The fitter they, my careful cafe to frame:

Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
And pour my piteous plaints out in the fame.

The God of fhepherds, Tityrus is dead, Who taught me homely, as I can, to make:

He, whilft he lived was the fovereign head Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake.

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Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake
The flames, which love within his heart had bred,
And tell us merry tales, to keep us wake,
The while our sheep about us safely fed.

Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead,
(O why should death on him fuch outrage show!
And all his paffing skill with him is fled,
The fame whereof doth daily greater grow.
But if on me fome little drops would flow
Of that the spring was in his learned hed,

I foon would learn these woods to wail my woe,
And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed.

Then should my plaints, caus'd of difcourtefee,
As meffengers of this my painful plight,
Fly to my love, wherever that the be.
And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight;
As the deferves, that wrought fo deadly fpight.
And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery

Didft underfong my lafs to wax fo light,
Should'ft well be known for fuch thy villiany.

But fince I am not, as I wish I were,
Ye gentle fhepherds, which your flocks do feed,
Whether on hills or dales, or other where,
Bear witness all of this fo wicked deed:

And tell the lafs, whofe flower is woxe a weed, And faultlefs faith is turn'd to faithlefs feere,

That she the trueft fhepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear.


O! careful Colin, I lament thy cafe,
Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow!
Ah! faithlefs Rofalind, and void of grace,
That are the root of all this rueful woe!

But now is time, I guess, homeward to go: Then rife, ye bleffed flocks, and home apace,

Left night with stealing steps do you foreflo, And wet your tender lambs, that by you trace.

By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr. Philips has, in imitation of Spencer, preferved in his Paftorals many antiquated words, which, tho' they are difcarded from polite converfation, may naturally be fup. pofed ftill to have place among the fhepherds, and other rufticks in the country. We have made choice of his fe cond eclogue, because it is brought home to his own bufinefs, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings.

Mr. PHILIP s's fecond Paftoral.



Is it not Colinet I lonesome fee
Leaning with folded arms against the tree?
Or is it age of late bedims my fight?
"Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful plight.
Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears,
Unfeemly, now the sky fo bright appears?
Why in this mournful manner art thou found,
Unthankful lad, when all things smile around?
Or hear'ft not lark and linnet jointly fing,
Their notes blithe-warbling to falute the spring?


Though blithe their notes, not fo my wayward fate ; Nor lark would fing, nor linnet, in my state. Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born, As they to mirth and mufic, I to mourn. Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew, My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.


Small caufe, I ween, has lufty youth to plain;
Or who may then, the weight of eld sustain,
When every flackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load preffeth as our days prevail?
Yet, though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn bend,
Spite of my fnowy head and icy veins,
My mind a cheerful temper ftill retains:
And why should man, mithap what will, repine,
Sour every fweet, and mix with tears his wine?


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


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


See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: and I, 'Tween whiles, a-cross the plain will glance mine eye.


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 show, Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe: No happy gleam of fun-shine 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 destitute it ftands of fhelter kind, The mark of storms, 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 fhepherd's throng With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song. Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I! From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.


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 fcorch 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.


And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill ?

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