And fees 'em how they frisk, and how they play,
Grieves that he's not a Goat, as well as they:
Begin, fweet Mufe, begin the Rural Lay.

}

And you too, when you fee the Nymphs advance
Their nimble Feet in a well-order'd Dance, [fmile,
And hear 'em how they talk, and fee 'em how they
Are griev'd that you must stand neglected all the
while.

All this, without an Answer, heard the Swain;
Still he went on, and nourish'd ftill the Pain.
He found his Love increase, and Life decay :
Begin, fweet Mufe, begin the Rural Lay.

Then Venus came, and rais'd his drooping Head:
Forc'd an infulting Smile, and thus fhe faid.
You thought, fond Swain, that you could Love fubdue:
But Love, it seems, at laft has conquer'd you.
Strong are his Charms, and mighty is his Sway:
Begin, fweet Mufe, begin the Rural Lay.

She fpake----And thus the mournful Swain reply'd.
Ah! Foe to me, and all Mankind befide!
Ah! cruel Goddess! fpare thy Taunts at laft;
Nor urge a Death that's drawing on fo faft.
Too well I know my fatal Hour is come,
My Sun declining to its Western Home.
Yet ev'n in Death thy Scorns I will repay:

Begin, fweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.

Hence, Cyprian Queen, to Ida's Tops repair,
Anchifes, lov'd Anchifes waits you there.
There fpreading Oaks will cover you around:
Here humble Shrubs scarce peep above the Ground;
And bufie Bees are humming all the Day.
The noife is great, 'twill spoil your am'rous Play:
Begin, fweet Mufe, begin the Rural Lay.
Adonis too!----the Boy is lovely fair!
He feeds his Flocks, he hunts the nimble Hare;
And boldly chases ev'ry Beaft of Prey:

Begin, fweet Muse, begin the Rural Lay.

† Ἤδη 25 φράσδει πάνθ ̓ ἅλις ἅμμι δεδύκειν.

Ye Panthers, Lions, and ye Wolves adieu!

Who now fhall traverse the thick Woods with you?, No more fhall you be chas'd, no more fhall I purfue. Hail Arethusa, lovely Fountain hail ! [Vale! Farewel ye Streams that flow thro' Tyber's flow'ry Farewel!--The Gods forbid my longer Stay:

Leave off, fond Mufe, leave off the Rural Lay.

Pan, Pan, where-e'er your wandring Footsteps Whether on Lyce's airy Tops you rove,

Or fporting in the vast Menalian Grove:

[move;

Hafte, quickly hafte; leave the high Tomb, that nods
O'er Helick's Cliff, the wonder of the Gods!
And to fair Sicily thy Steps convey:

Leave off, fond Mufe, leave off the Rural Lay.
Here take my waxen Pipe, well join'd, and fit;
An ufeless Pipe to me! and I to it!
For Love and Fate have fummon'd me away:
Leave off, fond Muse, leave off the Rural Lay.
On Brambles now let Violets be born,
And op'ning Roses blush on ev'ry Thorn:
Let all things Nature's Contradiction wear,
And barren Pine-trees yield the mellow Pear.
Since Daphnis dies, what can be strange, or new?
Hounds now shall Ay, and trembling Fawns purfue;
Screech Owls fhall fing, and Thrushes yield the Day:
Leave off, fond Mufe, leave off the Rural Lay.
Thus Daphnis fpake, and more he would have fung:
But Death prevail'd upon his trembling Tongue.
Fair Venus ftrove to raise her drooping Son:
In vain the ftrove, for his laft Thread was fpun.
Black Stygian Waves furround the darling Boy
Of every Nymph, and every Mufe's Joy.
Lifelefs he lies, and still as harden'd Clay,
Who was fo Young, fo Lovely, and fo Gay:

Leave off, fond Mufe, leave off the Rural Lay. The Cup and Goat you cannot now refufe: I'll milk her, and I'll offer to my Mufe.

}

All hail, ye Mufes, that inspire my Tongue!
A better Day fhall have a better Song.

GOAT-HERD.

May dropping Combs on those fweet Lips diftil,
And thy lov'd Mouth with Attick Honey fill.
For much, much fweeter is thy tuneful Voice,
Than, when on funny Days with chearful noise,
The Vocal Infects of the Spring rejoice.

Here, take the promis'd Cup: How bright the look!
How fine the Smell! fure from fome fragrant Brook,
The bath of fmiling Hours, it the gay tincture took!
Here Ciffy, hitherward,---Come, milk her now:
My Kids, forbear to leap: for if you do,
The Goat may chance to leap as well as you.

The RE A PER S.

}

The Tenth Idyllium of THEOCRITUS. Englished by Mr. William Bowles, of King's College in Cambridge.

MILO. BATTU S.

RE you grown lazy, or does fome Disease,

That like a Sheep prickt by a pointed Thorn,
Still you're behind, and lag at ev'ry Turn?
What in the Heat and Evening will you do,
Who early in the Morning loiter fo?

B. Milo, thou piece of Flint, thou all of Stone,
Did'ft never yet an abfent Friend bemoan?

M. Who, but fuch Fools as thou, the Abfent mind? Sure what concerns you more, you here may find. B. Did Love ne'er yet thy Senfes waking keep, Trouble thy Dreams, or interrupt thy Sleep?

* Kioraidas the Name of the Goat,

M. The Gods preferve me from that reftlefs Care. Oh Reapers all, the gilded Bait beware!

B. But I nine Days the Paffion Love have felt, With inward fires confume, and flowly melt. See! all neglected lyes before my Door, While I run mad for a confounded Whore. She who pip'd lately at Hippocoon's Feaft, Charm'd every Ear, and wounded every Gueft! M. The Gods for fome old Sins have fent this Evil, And fhame long due has reach'd thee from the Devil. B. Beware, infulting Cupid has a Dart,

And it may one Day reach thy ftubborn Heart.

M. Come, you're a Poet, fing some am'rous Song, "Twill ease your Toil, and make the Day less long. B. Oh Muse! affift my Song, and make it flow, For you fresh Charms on all you fing bestow.

}

Bombyce (Oh my deareft) do not frown,
They call thee Tawny, but I call thee Brown.
Yet blush not, Dear: Black is the Violet,
And Hyacinth with Letters all o'erwrit ;
Yet both are fweet, and both for Garlands fit.
Kids the green Leaves, Wolves the young Kids pursue,
And Battus, fweet Bombyce, follows you.

Oh! had the envious Gods not made me poor,
Had I rich Crefus Wealth and mighty Store,
In Venus Temple should our Statues ftand;
Thou with thy Pipe and Taber in thy Hand,
I in a Dancer's Pofture, gay, new fhod,
Form'd of pure Gold, and glorious as a God!
Thy Voice, Bombyce, is moft foft and weer,
But who can praise enough thy humour, and thy Sil
ver Feet?

M. Battus deceiv'd us, a great Poet grown,

What Verse is here! But are they, Friend, thy own?
How just the Rhymés, how equally they meet,
The Numbers how harmonious, and how sweet!
Yet mark, and this diviner Song attend,
'Twas by immortal Lytierfes penn'd.

11.

Smile on the Corn, O Ceres blefs the Field, May the full Ears a plenteous Harvest yield. Gather your Sheaves (Oh Friends!) and better bind, See how they're blown, and scatter'd by the Wind: Hafte, le fome jeering Paffenger should fay, Oh lazy Rogues! their Hire is thrown away. Reapers obferve, and to the Southwest turn Your Sheaves; 'twill fill the Ears, and fwell the Corn. Threshers at Noon, and in the burning Heat, (Then the light Chaff flies out) fhould toil and fweat; But Reapers should with the sweet Wood-Lark rife, And fleep when Phoebus mounts the Southern Skies. Happy the Frogs who in the Waters dwell! They fuck in Drink for Air, and proudly fwell. Oh niggard Bayliff! we could dine on Beans, And fpare your windy Cabbage, and your Pains. Such Songs at once delight us, and improve; But thy fad Ditty, and thy tale of Love Keep for thy Mother, Battus, I advise, When ftretch'd and yawning in her Bed the lyes.

AITHZ. Or, the Twelfth Idyllium of THEOCRITUS.

Scarce three wholt here, and parted last,

Carce three whole Days,my lovely Youth, had paft

And yet fo fluggishly the Minutes flew,
I thought it Ages till we met anew.
Gay Youth and Vigour were already fled,
Already envious Time began to shed

A fnowy White around my drooping Head.
As to Spring's Brav'ry rugged Winter yields;
The hoary Mountains to the fmiling Fields;
As by the faithful Shepherd new-yean'd Lambs
Are much less valu'd than their fleecy Dams;

w