Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts? How were thefe nuptials kept? Confufion, fhame, remorfe, defpair, At once his bofom fwell: The damps of death bedew'd his brow, From the vain bride, (ah bride no more!) The varying crimson fled, When, ftretch'd before her rival's corfe, Then to his Lucy's new-made grave, One mould with her, beneath one fod, For ever he remains. Oft at this grave, the constant hind, With garlands gay, and true-love knots, Remember Colin's dreadful fate, VOL. IV. F Written Written by N. Rowe, Efq; in his Lady's To the Illness. the brook, and the willow, that heard him comAh willow! willow! (plain, [Thefe words to be fung between each Line.] Poor Colin went weeping, and told them his pain; Sweet stream, he cry'd, fadly I'll teach thee to flow, And the waters fhall rife to the brink with my woe: All restless and painful, my Cœlia now lies, And counts the fad moments of time as it flies, ; Ah willow! willow! ah willow! willow! The The Conftant Swain, and Virtuous Maid. DON as the day begins to waste, SOON Straight to the well-known door I haste, And rapping there, am forc'd to stay, Ent'ring, I fee, in Molly's eyes, As quickly check'd by virgin fhame; I fit and talk of twenty things, Is this her prudence, or her folly? Parting, I kifs her lips and cheek, In me th' effect of love, or folly? No; both by fober reafon move, SA MUSIDORA'S Complaint. AD Mufidora, all in woe, A filent grotto seeks, No more herself on plains does show; But, fighing, thus the speaks; Had been much happier far for me A fumptuous palace full of joy And all that mirth does me annoy, The W The SHEEP-SHEERING. HEN the rofe is in bud, and the violets blow, When the birds fing us love-fongs on every bough; When couflips, and daifies, and daffadils spread, And adorn, and perfume the green flow'ry mead, When, without the plow, fat oxen do low, The lads and the laffes a fheep-fheering go; The cleanly milk-pail Is fill'd with brown ale, Our table, our table's the grafs ; And we dance in a ring, And ev'ry lad, ev'ry lad has his lass. The shepherd sheers his jolly fleece, How much richer than that which they fay was in "Tis our cloth and our food, And our politick blood, (Greece! "Tis the feat, 'tis the feat, which our nobles all fit on; 'Tis a mine above ground, Where our treasure is found, 'Tis the gold, 'tis the gold and filver of Britain. |