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It chanc'd of late a shepherd swain,

That went to seek his straying sheep, Within a thicket on a plain

Espied a dainty nymph asleep.

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Her golden hair o'erspred her face;

Her careless arms abroad were cast; Her quiver had her pillows place;

Her breast lay bare to every blast.

The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill;

Nought durst he do; nought durst he say; 10 Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will,

Did guide the god of love that way.

The crafty boy thus sees her sleep,

Whom if she wak'd he durst not see; Behind her closely seeks to creep, Before her

nap

should ended bee.

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There come, he steals her shafts away,

And puts his own into their place; Nor dares he any longer stay,

But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.

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Scarce was he gone, but she awakes,

And spies the shepherd standing by: Her bended bow in haste she takes,

And at the simple swain lets flye.

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Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart,

That to the ground he fell with pain : Yet up again forthwith he start,

And to the nymph he ran amain.

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Amazed to see so strange a sight,

She shot, and shot, but all in vain;
The more his wounds, the more his might,

Love yielded strength amidst his pain.

Her angry eyes were great with tears,

She blames her hand, she blames her skill; The bluntness of her shafts she fears,

35 And try them on herself she will.

Take heed, sweet nymph, trye not thy shaft,

Each little touch will pierce thy heart : Alas! thou know'st not Cupids craft;

Revenge is joy: the end is smart.

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Yet try she will, and pierce some bare;

Her hands were glov’d, but next to hand Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,

That made the shepherd senseless stand.

That breast she pierc'd; and through that breast Love found an entry to her heart;

46 At feeling of this new-come guest,

Lord ! how this gentle nymph did start!

:

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She runs not now ; she shoots no more;

Away she throws both shaft and bow :
She seeks for what she shunn'd before,

She thinks the shepherds haste too slow.

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Though mountains meet not, lovers may:
What other lovers do, did they :

The god of love sate on a tree,
And laught that pleasant sight to see.

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XI.

The Character of a Happy Life. This little moral poem was writ by Sir Henry Wotton, who died Provost of Eaton, in 1639. Æt. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, entitled Reliquiæ Wottoniane, 1651, 12mo., compared with one or two other copies.

How happy is he born or taught,

That serveth not anothers will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his highest skill:

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Whose passions not his masters are ;

Whose soul is still prepar'd for death ;
Not ty’d unto the world with care

Of princes ear, or vulgar breath :

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Who hath his life from rumours freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruine make oppressors great:

Who envies none, whom chance doth raise,

Or vice: Who never understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise ;

Nor rules of state, but rules of good :

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Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend ;
And entertaines the harmless day

With a well-chosen book or friend.

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This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise, or feare to fall;
Lord of himselfe, though not of lands;

And having nothing, yet hath all.

XII.

Gilderoy. Was a famous robber, who lived about the middle of the last century, if we may credit the histories and story-books of highwaymen, which relate many improbable feats of him, as his robbing Cardinal Richlieu, Oliver Cromwell, &c. But these stories have probably no other authority

than the records of Grub-street; at least the Gilderoy, who is the hero of Scottish songsters, seems to have lived in an earlier age; for, in Thompson's Orpheus Caledonius, vol. ii., 1733, 8vo. is a copy of this ballad, which, though corrupt and interpolated, contains some lines that appear to be of genuine antiquity : in these he is represented as contemporary with Mary Queen of Scots : ex. gr.

“ The Queen of Scots possessed nought,

That my love let me want :
For cow and ew to me he brought,

And ein whan they were scant.” These lines, perhaps, might safely have been inserted among the following stanzas, which are given from a written copy, that seems to have received some modern corrections. Indeed the common popular ballad contained some indecent luxuriances that required the pruninghook.

GILDEROY was a bonnie boy,

Had roses tull his shoone,
His stockings were of silken soy,

Wi' garters hanging doune:
It was, I weene, a comelie sight,

To see sae trim a boy;
He was my jo and hearts delight,

My handsome Gilderoy.

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Oh! sike twa charming een he had,

A breath as sweet as rose,
He never ware a Highland plaid,

But costly silken clothes;

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