Yet I could tell you, fair-one, if I would,
(And fince you treat me thus, methinks I should)
What the wife Lycon faid, when in yon' plain
He faw him court in hope, and me in vain;
Forbear, fond youth, to chace a heedless fair,
Nor think with well-tun'd verse to please her ear;
Seek out fome other nymph, nor e'er repine
That one who likes his fongs, should fly from thine.
Ah, Lycon! ah! your rage false dangers forms;
"Tis not his fongs, but "tis his fortune charms :
Yet, scornful maid, in time you'll find those toys
Can yield no real, no substantial joys;
In vain his wealth, his titles gain esteem,
If for all that you are asham'd of him.
Ah, Galatea, would'st thou turn those eyes,
Would'st thou but once vouchsafe to hear my cries;
In fuch soft notes I would my pains impart,
As could not fail to move thy rocky heart;
With fuch sweet fongs I would thy fame make known,
As Pan himself might not disdain to own.
Oh could'st thou, fair-one, but contented be
To tend the sheep, and chace the hares, with me;
To have thy praises echo'd through the groves,
And pass thy days with one who truly loves :
Nor let those gaudy toys thy heart furprize,
Which the fools envy, and the fage despise.
But Galatea scorns my humble flame,
And neither asks my fortune, nor my name.
Of the best cheese my well-stor'd dairy 's full,
And my foft sheep produce the finest wool;
The richest wines of Greece my vineyards yield,
And fmiling crops of grain adorn my field.
Ah, foolish youth! in vain thou boast'st thy store,
Have what thou wilt, if Mopsus still has more.
See whilst thou sing'ft, behold her haughty pride,
With what disdain she turns her head afide!
Oh, why would Nature, to our ruin, place
A tiger's heart, with fuch an angel's face?
Cease, shepherd, cease, at last thy fruitless moan; Nor hope to gain a heart already gone. While rocks and caves thy tuneful notes resound, See how thy corn lies wither'd on the ground ! The hungry wolves devour thy fatten'd lambs; And bleating for the young makes lean the dams. Take, shepherd, take thy hook, thy flocks pursue, And when one nymph proves cruel, find a new,
ECLOGUE
DAмо N.
TAKEN FROM THE EIGHTH ECLOGUE OF VIRGIL.
ARISE, O Phofphorus ! and bring the
While I in sighs and tears confume away;
Deceiv'd with flattering hopes of Nifa's love;
And to the gods my vain petitions move :
Though they've done nothing to prevent my death,
I'll yet invoke them with my dying breath.
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.
Arcadia 's famous for its spacious plains,
Its whistling pine-trees, and its shady groves,
And often hears the swains lament their loves.
Great Pan upon its mountains feeds his goats,
Who first taught reeds to warble rural notes.
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.
Mopfus weds Nisa! oh, well-fuited pair!
When he fucceeds, what lover can defpair?
After this match, let mares and griffins breed;
And hounds with hares in friendly confort feed.
Go, Mopfus, go; provide the bridal cake,
And to thy bed the blooming virgin take :
In her foft arms thou shalt securely reft,
Behold, the evening comes to make thee blest !
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.
Oh, Nifa, happy in a lovely choice!
While you with scorn neglect my pipe and voice;
While you despise my humble songs, my herd,
My shaggy eyebrows, and my rugged beard;
While through the plains disdainfully you move,
And think no shepherd can deserve your love;
Mopfus alone can the nice virgin win,
With charming person, and with graceful mien.
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.
When first I saw you on those fatal plains,
I reach'd you fruit; your mother too was there;
Scarce had you seen the thirteenth spring appear :
Yet beauty's buds were opening in your face;
I gaz'd, and blushes did your charms increasfe.
'Tis love, thought I, that's rifing in her breast;
Alas, your paffion, by my own, I gueft;
Then upon trust I fed the raging pains.
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.
Oh, love! I know thee now; thou ow'st thy birth
To rocks; some craggy mountain brought thee forth:
Nor is it human blood that fills thy veins,
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.
Relentless love to bold Medea show'd,
To ftain her guilty hands in children's blood.
Was the more cruel, or more wicked he
He was a wicked counsellor, a cruel mother she.
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.
Now let the screech-owls vie with warbling fwans;
Upon hard oaks let blushing peaches grow,
And from the brambles liquid amber flow.
The harmless wolves the ravenous sheep shall shun
And valiant deer at fearful greyhounds run:
Let the fea rife, and overflow the plains.
Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian strains.
Adieu, ye flocks; no more shall I purfue!
Adieu, ye groves; a long, a long adieu !
And you, coy nymph, who all my vows disdain,
Take this last present from a dying swain.
Since you dislike whate'er in life I faid,
You may be pleas'd, perhaps, to hear I'm dead :
This leap fhall put an end to all my pains.
Now cease, my Muse, now cease th' Arcadian strains.
Thus Damon fung while on the cliff he stood,
Then headlong plung'd into the raging flood.
All with united grief the lofs bemoan,
Except the authoress of his fate alone,
Who hears it with an unrelenting breast.
Ah, cruel nymph! forbear your scorns at laft..
How much foe'er you may the love despise, 'Tis barbarous to infult on one that dies.
STREPHON and Damon's flocks together fed,
Two charming swains as e'er Arcadia bred;
Both fam'd for wit, and fam'd for beauty both;
Both in the luftre of their blooming youth :
No fullen cares their tender thoughts remove,
No paffions discompose their fouls, but love.
Once, and but once alone, as story goes,
Between the youths a fierce dispute arose;
Not for the merit of their tuneful lays
(Though both deserv'd, yet both despis'd, that praise);
But for a cause of greater moment far,
That merited a lover's utmost care.
Each swain the prize of beauty strove to gain,
For the bright shepherdess that caus'd his pain.
Lycon they chose, the difference to decide,
Lycon, for prudence and fage counsel try'd;
Who love's mysterious arts had study'd long.
And taught, when old, what he had practis'd young.
For the dispute alternate verse they choose,
Alternate verse delights the rural Muse.
STREP. To Flavia, love, thou justly ow'st the prize,
She owns thy power, nor does thy laws reprove.
DAM. Though Sylvia, for herself, love's power defies,
What crowds of vassals has the made to love!
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