The pilgrim that journeys all day Is happy, nor heard to repine. II. HOPE. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there seen, Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold : Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold. One would think she might like to retire To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, In a concert so soft and so clear, As she may not be fond to resign. I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed: For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, Such tenderness fall from her tongue. I have heard her with sweetness unfold How that pity was due to a dove; And she call'd it the sister of love. Can a bosom so gentle remain Soft scenes of contentment and ease! But where does my Phyllida stray? And where are her grots and her bow'rs? Are the groves and the valleys as gay, And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine. WE III. SOLICITUDE.. WHY will you my passion reprove? Why term it a folly to grieve? Ere I shew you the charms of my love, O you that have been of her train, That will sing but a song in her praise. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town Come trooping, and listen the while; Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown; For when Paridel tries in the dance And his crook is be-studded around; 'Tis his with mock passion to glow; 'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, How her face is as bright as the snow, I And her bosom, be sure, 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. To the grove or the garden he strays, More sweet than the jessamin's flow'r! Then the lily no longer is white; Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; Then the violets die with despight, And the woodbines give up their perfume. Thus glide the soft numbers along, And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Yet I never should envy the song, Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. |