One would think the might like to retire
To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;
Not a fhrub that I heard her admire,
But I hafted and planted it there.
Oh how fudden 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!
How the nightingales warble their loves
From thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmonioufly join
In a concert so soft and so clear,
As----she may not be found to refign.
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 fay 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, the 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 fweetness unfold
How that pity was due to---a dove;
That it ever attended the bold,
And the call'd it the fifter of love.
But her words fuch a pleafure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she fay,
Methinks I should love her the more.
Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmov'd when her Corydon fighs! Will a nymph that is fond of the plain, These plains and this valley defpife? Dear regions of filence and fhade!
Soft scenes of contentment and eafe ! Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, If aught in her absence could please.
But where does my Phyllida ftray?
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.
III. SOLICITUDE.
WHY will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I shew you the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien the enamours the brave;
With her wit the engages the free;
With her modefty pleases the grave;
She is ev'ry 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 fwain,
That will fing but a fong in her praise.
When he fings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and liften the while;
Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown';
----But I cannot allow her to smile.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might the ruin the peace of my mind!
In ringlets he dresses his hair,
And his crook is bestudded around;
And his pipe----oh, my Phyllis! beware
Of a magic there is in the found.
'Tis his with mock paffion to glow;
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,
"How her face is as bright as the snow,
"And her bosom, be fure, 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."
To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
"O Phyllis," he whispers, " more fair,
"More sweet than the jeffamine's flow'r!
"What are pinks, in the morn, to compare?
"What is eglantine, after a show'r?
"Then the lily no longer is white;
"Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom;
"Then the violets die with despight,
"And the woodbines give up their perfume."
Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd his peer:
-----Yet I never should envy the fong, Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy despise;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart,
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue;
-----Yet may she beware of his art,
Or fure I must envy the fong.
IV. DISAPΡΟΙΝΤΜΕNT.
YE shepherds give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my fheep:
They have nothing to do but to ftray;
I have nothing to do, but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair---and my paffion begun;
She smil'd---and I could not but love;
She is faithless and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to forefee, That a nymph so complete would be fought By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire;
It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
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