With her mien fhe enamours the brave;
With her wit she engages the free;
With her modefty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleafing to me.
II.

O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays;
I could lay down my life for the swain
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 fmile.
III.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might fhe ruin the peace of my mind!
In ringlets He dresses his hair,

And his crook is be-ftudded around;
And his pipe-oh may Phyllis beware
Of a magic there is in the sound.

IV. 'Tis

IV. '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 bofom, 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."

V.

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;

Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
"O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,

"More sweet than the jeffainin's flow'r!
"What are pinks, in a morn, to compare?
“What is eglantine after a show'r?
VI.
"Then the lily no longer is white;

"Then the rofe is depriv'd of its bloom;

"Then the violets die with despight,

"And the wood-bines give up their perfume."

Thus

Thus glide the foft numbers along,

And he fancies no fhepherd his peer;
-Yet I never should envy the fong,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
VII.
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 fhe beware of his art,
Or fure I must envy the song.
IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

I.

YE thepherds give ear to my lay,

And take no more heed of my fheep:
They have nothing to do, but to stray;
I have nothing to do, but to weep.

Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair and my paffion begun She fmil'd and I could not but love; She is faithlefs and I am undone.

II. Perhaps

II.

Perhaps I was void of all thoughts

;

Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph fo compleat would be fought
By a fwain more engaging than me.
Ah! love every hope can inspire:
It banishes wisdom the while
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
III.
She is faithlefs, and I am undone ;
Ye that witnefs the woes I endure,
Let reason inftruct you to fhun

What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Beware how ye loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of an higher degree:
It is not for me to explain

How fair, and how fickle they be.
IV.
Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes?

When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repose.

Yet

Yet time may diminish the pain:

The flow'r, and the fhrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.

V.
The fweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The found of a murmuring stream,
The peace which from folitude flows,

Henceforth fhall be Corydon's theme. High transports are fhewn to the fight,

But we are not to find them our own;

Fate never beftow'd fuch delight,

As I with my Phyllis had known.
VI.

O ye woods, fpread your branches apace;
To your deepest receffes I fly;

I would hide with the beafts of the chace;
I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed fhall refound through the grove
With the fame fad complaint it begun;
How fhe fmil'd, and I could not but love;
Was faithlefs, and I am undone !