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

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

Then if by me thou lift advised be,
Forsake the soil, that so doth thee bewitch :

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

And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich, And fruitful flocks been every where to see :

Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch, Nor elvilh ghosts, nor ghafly owls do flee.

Bat friendly fairies met with many graces, And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night,

With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces ;, Whilit fifters nine, which dwell on Parnass' hight,

Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himself to kiss their chrystal faces,

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

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

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

My fancy eke from former follies move To strayed fteps : for time in passing 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 verses made

Tho would I seek for queen-apples unripe, To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade

Dight gawdy girlonds, was my common trade, To crown her golden locks : but years more ripe,

And loss of her, whose love as life I wayde, Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.


Colin, to hear thy rhimes and roandelays,
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 Ipring
Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays ;

Frame to thy fong their cheerful cheriping
Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays.

I saw Calliope with muses moe,
Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound,

Their ivory lutes and tamburins forgo:
And from the fountain, where they sate around,

Ren after haftily thy silver sound.
But when they came, where thou thy skill didft show,

They drew a back, as half with shame confound,
Shepherd to see, them in their art out-go.

Of muses, Hobbinol, I cor no skill,
For they been daughters of the highest Jove,

And holden scorn of homely fhepherds quill :
For fich I heard that Pan with Phabus ftrove

Which bim to much rebuke and danger drove, I never lift presume to Parnass?

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

Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame, Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest :

With Mepherds fits not follow Aying fame,
But feed his flocks in fields, where falls him beft.

I wote my rimes been rough, and rudely dreft ;
The fitter they, my careful case to frame :

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

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

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

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 such outrage show!

And all his pafling skill with him is filed, The fame whereof doth daily greater grow.

But if on me some little drops would low Of that the spring was in his learned hed,

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

Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourtesee, As messengers of this my painful plight,

Fly to my love, wherever that the be. And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight;

As the deserves, that wrought so deadly spight. And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery

Didft underfong my lass to wax so light, Should'It well be known for such thy villiany.

But fince I am not, as I wish I were, Ye gentle Shepherds, which your flocks do feed,

Whether on hills or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this so wicked deed :

And tell the lass, whose flower is woxe a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless feere,

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


O! careful Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest Aint to flow!

Ah! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That are the root of all this rueful woe!

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

Left night with stealing steps do you foreslo, 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, preserved in his Paltorals many antiquated words, which, tho' they are discarded from polite conversation, may naturally be sup. posed ftill to have place among the shepherds, and other rusticks in the country. We have made choice of his se. cond eclogue, because it is brought home to his own business, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings.

Mr. PHILIP s's second Paftoral.

Is it not Colinet I lonesome see
Leaning with folded arms against the tree?
Or is it


of late bedims my sight?
'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful plight.
Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears,
Unseemly, now the sky so bright appears?
Why in this mournful manner art thou found,
Unthankful lad, when all things smile around ?
Or hear't not lark and linnet jointly fing,
Their notes blithe-warbling to falute the fpring?

Though blithe their notes, not so 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 music, I to mourn.
Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.

Τ Η Ε Ν ο 1.
Small cause, 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 presseth as our days prevail?
Yet, though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn bend,
Spite of my snowy head and icy veins,
My mind a cheerful temper still retains :
And why should man, mithap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, 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't thou give ear to all my grief can say.
Thine ewes will wander ; and the heedless lambs,
In loud complaints, require their absent dams.

THE NOT. See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: and I, 'Tween whiles, a-cross the plain will glance mine eye.

COLIN E T. Where to begin I know not, where to end. Does there one smiling 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-fhine doth appear, My low'ring ky, and wint'ry months to cheer. My piteous plight in yonder naked tree, Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I see : Quite deftitute it ftands of shelter 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 sing : No more, beneath thy shade, shall shepherd's throng With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleafing song. Ill-fated tree ! and more ill-fated I ! From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.

Τ Η Ε Ν ο Τ. Sure thou in hapless hour of time was born, When blightning mildews spoil the rising corn, Or blafting winds o'er blossom'd hedge-rows pass, To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grass, Or when the moon, by wizard charm’d, foreshows, Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes. Untimely born, ill luck betides thee fiil.

And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill ?

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