When the grim captain, in a furly tone,
Cries out, Pack up, ye rafcals! and be gone.
Kick'd out, we set the best face on't we cou’d,
And these two kids t'appease his angry mood
I bear, of which the Furies give him good!

ΙΟ

Lyc. Your country friends were told another tale; That from the floping mountain to the vale, And dodder'd oak, and all the banks along, Menalcas fav'd his fortune with a fong.

MOER. Such was the news, indeed; but songs and rhymes

Prevail as much in these hard iron times,

As would a plump of trembling fowl, that rise
Against an eagle foufing from the skies.

And had not Phoebus warn'd me by the croak,
Of an old raven, from a hollow oak,

To fhun debate, Menalcas had been slain,
And Moris not furviv'd him, to complain.

15

20

Lyc. Now heaven defend! could barbarous rage
induce

The brutal fon of Mars t' infult the facred Mufe!
Who then should fing the nymphs, or who rehearse 25
The waters gliding in a smoother verse !
Or Amaryllis praife, that heavenly lay,

That fhorten'd, as we went, our tedious way.
O Tityrus, tend my herd, and fee them fed;
To morning paftures, evening waters, led:
And 'ware the Libyan ridgel's butting head.
MOER. Or what unfinish'd he to Varus read;

30

Thy name, O Varus (if the kinder Powers
Preferve our plains, and shield the Mantuan towers,
Obnoxious by Cremona's neighbouring crime,)
The wings of fwans, and stronger pinion'd rhyme,
Shall raife aloft, and foaring bear above
Th' immortal gift of gratitude to Jove.

35

40

Lyc. Sing on, fing on, for I can ne'er be cloy'd, So may thy fwarms the baleful eugh avoid : So may thy cows their burden'd bags diftend, And trees to goats their willing branches bend. Mean as I am, yet have the Mufes made Me free, a member of the tuneful trade: At least, the fhepherds feem to like my lays, But I difcern their flattery from their praise : I nor to Cinna's ears, nor Varus' dare aspire; But gabble like a goose, amidst the fwan-like quire. MOER. 'Tis what I have been conning in my mind: Nor are, the verses of a vulgar kind.

Come, Galatea, come, the feas forfake;

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50

What pleasures can the tides with their hoarse murmurs make?

See, on the fhore inhabits purple spring,

Where nightingales their love-fick ditty fing;

See, meads with purling ftreams, with flowers the

ground,

55

The grottoes cool, with fhady poplars crown'd,
And creeping vines on arbours weav'd around.
Come then, and leave the waves' tumultuous roar,
Let the wild furges vainly beat the shore.

Lyc. Or that sweet song I heard with fuch delight; The fame you fung alone one starry night;

The tune I ftill retain, but not the words.

MOER. Why, Daphnis, doft thou fearch in old records,

To know the feafons when the ftars arife?

See Cæfar's lamp is lighted in the skies:

The ftar, whofe rays the blushing grapes adorn,
And fwell the kindly ripening ears of corn.
Under this influence graft the tender fhoot;
Thy childrens children shall enjoy the fruit.
The reft I have forgot, for cares and time
Change all things, and untune my foul to rhyme :
I could have once fung down a fummer's fun,

But now the chime of poetry is done.

My voice
I feel the notes decay,
hoarfe;
grows
As if the wolves had feen me first to-day.

But thefe, and more than I to mind can bring,
Menalcas has not yet forgot to fing.

Lyc. Thy faint excufes but inflame me more;
And now the waves roll filent to the fhore.

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70

75

Husht winds the topmost branches fcarcely bend, 80 As if thy tuneful song they did attend :

Already we have half our way o'ercome;

Far off I can difcern Bianor's tomb;

Here, where the labourer's hands have form'd a bow'r

Of wreathing trees, in finging waste an hour.
Reft here thy weary limbs, thy kids lay down,
We've day before us yet, to reach the town:

85

Or

90

Or if, ere night, the gathering clouds we fear,
A fong will help the beating storm to bear.
And that thou may'st not be too late abroad,
Singing, I'll ease thy shoulders of thy load.
MOER. Ceafe to requeft me; let us mind our way;
Another fong requires another day.

When good Menalcas comes, if he rejoice,

And find a friend at court, I'll find a voice.

95

THE

F4

Gallus, a great Patron of Virgil, and an excellent Poet, was very deeply in love with one Cytheris, whom he calls Lycorus; and who had forfaken him for the company of a foldier. The poet therefore fuppofes his friend Gallus retired in his height of melancholy into the folitudes of Arcadia (the celebrated scene of Paftorals); where he represents him in a very languishing condition, with all the rural Deities about him, pitying his hard usage, and condoling his misfortune.

THY facred fuccour, Arethufa, bring,

To crown my labour: 'tis the laft I fing.
Which proud Lycoris may with pity view;
The Mufe is mournful, though the numbers few.
Refufe me not a verfe, to grief and Gallus due.