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O you

With her mien she enamours the brave;

With her wit she engages the free;
With her modesty pleases the grave ;
She is every way pleasing to me.

that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays ;
I could lay down my life for the swain

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;
But I cannot allow her to smile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance

Any favour with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,
Might she ruin the



mind! In ringlets He dresses his hair,

And his crook is be-studded around; And his pipe - oh may Phyllis beware

Of a magic there is in the found.

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IV. 'Tis


'Tis His with mock passion to glow;

'Tis His in smooth tales to unfold, “ How her face is as bright as the snow, " 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,

And pillages every sweet ;
Then, fuiting the wreath to his lays

He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
“O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair,

“More sweet than the jesfainin's flow'r ! “What are pinks, in a morn, to compare? “ What is eglantine after a show'r ?

VI. “Then the lily no longer is white;

“ Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; $ Then the violets die with despight,

& And the wood-bines 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.

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,

So Phyllis the trophy despise ;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,

So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue ;
Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.


Y hepherds give eat to my lay,

my lay, And take no more heed of my sheep: 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 smil'd- and I could not but love;

She is faithlefs and I am undone.

II. Perhaps

Perhaps I was void of all thoughts

Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph fo compleat would be fought

By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah! love every 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 faithless, and I am undone ;

Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reason inftruct you to fhun

What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Beware how ye 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.


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Yet time may diminish the pain :

The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree,
Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
In time may have comfort for me.

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream,
The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme.
High transports are shewn to the sight,

But we are not to find them our own;
Fate never bestow'd such delight,
As I with my Phyllis had known.

O ye woods, spread your branches apace;

To your deepest recesses I Ay;
I would hide with the beasts of the chace;

I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove

With the same sad complaint it begun; How she smild, and I could not but love ;

Was faithless, and I am undone!

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