Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?

How were thefe nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.

Confufion, fhame, remorfe, defpair,

At once his bofom fwell:

The damps of death bedew'd his brow,
He fhook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, (ah bride no more!)

The varying crimson fled,

When, ftretch'd before her rival's corfe,
She faw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling fwains,

One mould with her, beneath one fod,

For ever he remains.

Oft at this grave, the constant hind,
And plighted maid are seen;

With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the facred green;
But, fwain forfworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd fpot forbear;

Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

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, ;
To the nymph, my heart's love, ye foft flumbers, repair,
Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make her your
Let me be left reftlefs, my eyes never close, (care;
So the fleep that I lofe, give my dear one repofe;
Dear ftream! if you chance by her pillow to creep,
Perhaps your foft murmurs may lull her to fleep:
But if I am doom'd to be wretched indeed,
And the lofs of my charmer the fates have decreed,
Believe me, thou fair one, thou dear one, believe;
Few fighs to thy lofs, and few tears will I give;
One fate to thy Colin and thee fhall betide;
And foon lay thy fhepherd down by thy cold fide:
Then glide, gentle brook, and to lose thy self haste,
Bear this to my willow; this verse is my laft.

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,
While Molly hides her work with care,
Adjufts her tucker, and her hair,
And nimble Betty scow'rs away.

Ent'ring, I fee, in Molly's eyes,
A fudden fmiling joy arife,

As quickly check'd by virgin fhame;
She drops a court'fey, fteals a glance,
Receives a kifs, one step advance;
If fuch I love, am I to blame?

I fit and talk of twenty things,
of fouth-fea stock, or deaths of kings,
While only Yes, or No, cries Molly:
As cautious fhe conceals her thoughts,
As others do their private fau'ts;

Is this her prudence, or her folly?

Parting, I kifs her lips and cheek,
I hang about her snowy neck,
And fay, Farewel, my dearest Mclly;
Yet ftill I hang, and still I kiss;
Ye learned fages, fay, is this

In me th' effect of love, or folly?

No; both by fober reafon move,
She prudence fhews, and I true love;
No charge of folly can be laid:
Then, 'till the marriage rites proclaim'd
Shall join our hands, let us be nam'd,
The conftant fwain, and virtuous maid.

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;
Why was I born of high degree?
An humble fhepherdess

Had been much happier far for me
Than all this gaudy drefs.

A fumptuous palace full of joy
To me a dungeon is,

And all that mirth does me annoy,
Which others count for blifs.
Then, loft in grief, the lovely maid
Retir'd from all the throng,
And on a bank reclin'd her head,
While tears ran trickling down.

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 ;
Where we kifs and we fing,

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.