When falling dews with fpangles deck'd the glade,
And the low fun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To thefe Paftorals, which are written agreeably to the tafle of antiquity, and the rules above prefcrib'd, we shall beg leave to fubjoin another that may be called a burlesque Pastoral, wherein the ingenious author, the late Mr. Gay, has ventur'd to deviate from the beaten road, and defcribed the fhepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, instead of thofe of the Golden Age, to which the modern critics confine the pastoral. His fix Paflorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautiful and lively representation of the manners, cuftoms, and notions of our rufticks. We fhall infert the first of them, entitled, The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to out-do each other in finging the praifes of their fweet-hearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controverfy. The perfons names are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No throftles fhrill the bramble bufh forfake;
No chirping lark the welkin fheen invokes ;
No damfel yet the fwelling udder strokes ;
O'er yonder hill does fcant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear †?

CUDDY.

Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween ‡, my plight is gueft;
For he that loves, a firanger is to reft.

If swains belye not, thou haft prov'd the smart,
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rifing rear betokeneth well.thy mind;
Those arins are folded for thy Blouzelind.

And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree;
Thee Blouzelinda finites, Buxoma me.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more behalf,
Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf.

* Shining or bright sky. § Scarce. + Early. + Conceive.

Woe worth the tongue, may blifters fore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal!

CUDDY.

Hold, witlefs Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,.
Left blifters fore on thy own tongue arise,
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithfome swain,
The wifeft lout of all the neighb'ring plain !*
From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall,. or winds arife.
He taught us erft* the heifer's tail to view,
When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight enfue:
He first that useful fecret did explain,

That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When fwallows fleet foar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praife his fweet-heart in alternate verse.
I'll
wager this fame oaken ftaff with thee,
That Cloddipole fhall give the prize to me.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

See this tobacco pouch, that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the fkin of fleekeft fallow deer :
This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddeft hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

CUDDY.

Begin thy carrols then, thou vaunting flouch; Be thine the oaken ftaff, or mine the pouch.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

My Blouzalinde is the blitheft lafs,
Than primrose fweeter, or the clover grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daily that befide her grows;
Fair is the gilly-flow'r of gardens. fweet,
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet:
But Blouzelind's than gilly-flow'r more fair,
Than daify, marygold, or king-cup rare.

* Formerly.

CUDDY.

My brown Buxoma is the featest maid, That e'er at wake delightfome gambol play'd; Clean as young lambkins, or the goofe's down, And like the goldfinch in her funday gown. The witlefs lamb may sport upon the plain, The frifking kid delight the gaping fwain ; The wanton calf may skip with many a bound, And my cur Tray play defteft * feats around: But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray, Dance like Buxoma on the firft of May.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Sweet is my toil when Blouzalind is near ;
Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year.
With her no fultry fummer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouzalinda, ease thy fwain's defire,
My fummer's fhadow, and my winter's fire!
CUDDY.

As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay,
E'en noon-tide labour feem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply fhe were gone,
Like worky-days I wish'd would foon be done.
Eftfoons †, O fweet-heart kind, my love repay,
And all the year fhall then be holiday.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

As Blouzalinda, in a gamesome mood,
Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing stood,
I flily ran, and fnatch'd a hafty kifs;
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amifs.
Believe me Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.

CUDDY.

As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger ftroak'd her milky care.

I quaintly* ftole a kiss; at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I fwear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Iri fwains potatoes are the cheer;
Oats for their feafts the Scottish fhepherds grind,
Sweet turneps are the food of Blouzalind:
While fhe loves turneps, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.

CUDDY.

In good roaft-beef my land-lord sticks his knife, The capon fat, delights his dainty wife; Pudding our parfon eats, the 'fquire loves hare, But white-pot thick, is my Buxoma's fare. While the loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be, Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

As once I play'd at blind-man's-buff, it hapt
About my eyes, the towel thick was wrapt :
I mifs'd the fwains, and feiz'd on Blouzelind,
True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.

CUDDY.

As at hot-cockles once I laid me down,
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown;
Buxoma, gave a gentle tap, and I

Quick rofe, and read foft mischief in her eye.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

On two near elms, the flacken'd cord I hung, Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung: With the rude wind her rumpled garment rofe, And show'd her taper leg, and scartlet hose.

* Waggishly.

CUDDY.

Across the fallen oak, the plank I laid,
And myself pois'd against the tott'ring maid:
High leapt the plank, and down Buxoma fell;
I fpy'd-but faithful fweet-hearts never tell.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

This riddle, Cuddy,. if, thou canft, explain;
This wily riddle puzzles ev'ry fwain :

What flow'r is that which bears the virgin's name,
The richest metal joined with the fame ? *

CUDDY.

Anfwer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right,
I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight:
What flow'r is that which royal honour craves?
Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis firown on graves. †

CLODD

LODDIPOLE.

Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains;
An oaken staff each merits for his pains.
But fee the fun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodges' barn.
Your herds for want of water stand a-dry;
They're weary of your fongs- and fo am I.

To these we shall subjoin the following eclogue, or foli. loquy, written by a lady; which contains a proper lesson to thofe of her own fex, who are fo weak as to value themfelves on that fading flower, beauty; and feems intended to recommend fomething more eftimable to their culture and confideration.The ornaments of the mind are not so easily effaced as thofe of the body; and tho' beauty may captivate and fecure the affections for a time, yet a man of fenfe will never fo much esteem a fine wife, as a wife one.