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SONG. PHOEBUS arise,
And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red; Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, That she may thy career with roses spread. The nightingales thy coming each-where sing, Making eternal spring, Give life to this dark world that lieth dead. Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And, emperor like, decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair. Chase hence the ugly night, Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. This is the morn should bring unto this grove My Love, to hear, and recompence my love! Fair king, who all preserves, But shew thy blushing beams; And thou two sweeter eyes Shall see, than those which by Penéus' streams Did once thy heart surprise. Now Flora decks herself in fairest guise. If that, ye winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Your furious chiding stay; Let zephyr only breathe, And with her tresses play. The winds all silent are, And Phæbus in his chair Easaffroning sea and air, Makes vanish every star. Night, like a drunkard, reels Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels. The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue; Here is the pleasant place, And nothing wanting is, save she, alas!
SHEPHERD's SONG. WE
E that have known no greater state
Than this we live in, praise our fate : For courtly silks in cares are spent, When country's russet breeds content. The power of sceptres we admire, But sheep-hooks for our use desire. Simple and low is our condition, For here with us is no ambition; We with the sun our flocks unfold, Whose rising makes their fleeces gold. “ Our music from the birds we borrow, They bidding us, we them, good-morrow.”
Our habits are but coarse and plain, Yet they defend from wind and rain ; As warm too, in an equal eye, As those be stain'd in scarlet dye. The shepherd, with his home-spun lass, As many merry hours doth pass As courtiers with their costly girls, Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls; And, though but plain, to purpose woo, Nay often with less danger too. Those that delight in dainties store, One stomach feed at once, no more; And, when with homely fare we feast, With us it doth as well digest; And many times we better speed, For our wild fruits no surfeits breed. If we sometimes the willow wear, By subtle swains that dare forswear, We wonder whence it comes, and fear They've been at court and learnt it there."
From Percy's Collection, IT chanc’d of late a shepherd swain,
That went to seek his straying sheep, Within the thicket, on the plain,
Espied a dainty nymph asleep. Her golden hair o'erspread her face,
Her careless arms abroad were cast, Her quiver had her pillow's place,
Her breast lay bare to every blast. The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill,
Nought durst he do, nought durst he say ; When 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 be. 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. 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 fly. Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain ; But up again forthwith he starts,
And to the nymph he ran amain. Amaz'd 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,
And try them on herself she will.
Each little touch will pierce thy heart;
Revenge is joy, the end is smart.
Her hauds were glov'd, but next her hand
That made the shepherd senseless stand. That breast she pierc'd, and through the breast
Love found an entry to her heart; At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord ! how the gentle nymph did start. She runs not now, she shoots no more.
Away she throws both shaft and bow; She seeks for what she shuon'd before,
She thinks the shepherd's haste too slow.
The God of Love sat on a tree,
SOME there are as fair to see to;
But by art and not by nature;
From a Chorus in Julius Caesar.
Which, whilst it beauties rare array,
And by each wind is blown away ;
So, whilst the courage hottest boils,
It is with danger compast still,
As nature fails the body falls.
From the Aurora. O
Would to God a way were found,
That by some secret sympathy unknown,
Then blest, most blest were I,
I were the happiest wight;'
And mend me if they might.
The silent soul doth most abound in care, Then might my breast be read within, A thousand volumes would be written there,