HY will you my paffion reprove? Why term it a folly to grieve? Ere I fhew the charms of my love,
She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien fhe enamours the brave;
With her wit the engages the free;
With her modefty pleases the grave;
She is ev'ry way pleafing to me.
O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays ;
I could lay down my life for the fwain,
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.
For when PARIDEL tries in the dance
Any favour with PHYLLIS to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might the 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 found.
'Tis his with mock paffion to glow;
'Tis his in fmooth tales to unfold,
How her face is as bright as the fnow,
And her bofom, be fure, is as cold :
How the nightingales labour the ftrain,
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 ftrays,
And pillages every fweet;
Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at PHYLLIS's feet.
O PHYLLIS, he whifpers, more fair,
More fweet than the jeffamin's flow'r!
What are pinks, in a morn, to compare?
What is eglantine, after a show'r?
Then the lily no longer is white;
Then the rofe is depriv'd of its bloom;
Then the violets die with defpight,
And the woodbines give up their perfume. 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.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So PHYLLIS the trophy defpife;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they fhine not in PHYLLIS's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a ftranger to PARIDEL's tongue;
may fhe beware of his art,
Or fure I muft envy the song.
E fhepherds 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.
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to forefee,
That a nymph fo compleat would be fought,
By a fwain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire:
It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithlefs, and I am undone ;
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reafon inftruct you to fhun
What it cannot inftruct you to cure.
Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of an higher degree: It is not for me to explain
How fair, and how fickle they be.
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 time may diminish the pain:
The flower, the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.
The fweets of a dew-fprinkled rofe,
The found of a murmuring ftream,
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 bestow'd fuch delight,
As I with my PHYLLIS had known.
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 shall refound thro' 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 !
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