University of Virginia Library

Eclogue.

Corydon, Clotten.
Corydon.
Rise, Clotten, rise, take up thy Pipe & play,
The Sheepherds want thee, 'tis Pan's Holy-day;
And thou, of all the Swains, wert wont to be
The first to grace that great Solemnity.

Clotten.
True, Corydon, but then I happy was,
And in Pan's favour had a Minion's place:
Clotten had then fair Flocks, the finest Fleece
These Plains and Mountains yielded then was his.
In these auspitious times the fruitfull Dams
Brought me the earliest and the kindli'st Lambs;
Nor nightly watch about them need I keep,
For Pan himself was Sheepherd to my Sheep;
But now, alas! neglected and forgot
Are all my off'rings, and he knows me not.
The bloudy Wolf, that lurks away the day,
When night's black palm beckons him out to prey
Under the cover of those guilty shades,
No Folds but mine the rav'nous Foe invades;
And there he has such bloudy havock made,
That, all my Flock being devour'd or stray'd,
I now have lost the Fruits of all my pain,
And am no more a Sheepherd but a Swain.

Corydon.
So sad a Tale thou tell'st me, that I must
Allow thy grief (my Clotten) to be just,
But mighty Pan has thousand Flocks in store,
He, when it pleases him, can give thee more,
And has perhaps afflicted thee, to try
Thy Vertue onely, and thy Constancy.
Repine not then at him that thou art poor,
'Twas by his bounty thou wert rich before;
And thou should'st serve him at the same free rate,
When most distress'd, as when most fortunate.

Clotten.
Thus do the healthfull still the sick advise,
And thus men preach when they would fain seem wise;
But if in my wretched Estate thou wert,
I fear me thy Philosophy would start,
And give thee o'er to an afflicted Sense,
As void of Reason as of Patience.
Had I been always poor, I should not be
Perhaps so discontent with Poverty,
Nor now so sensible of my disgrace,
Had I ne'er known what Reputation was;
But from so great a height of happiness
To sink into the bottom of distress
Is such a change as may become my care,
And more than, I confess, I well can bear.

Corydon.
But art thou not too sensible, my Lad,
Of those few losses thou hast lately had?
Thou art not yet in want, thou still dost eat
Bread of the finest Flower of purest Wheat;
Who better Syder drinks, what Sheepherd's board
Does finer Curds, Butter, or Cheese afford?
Who wears a Frock, to grace a Holy-day,
Spun of a finer Wooll, or finer Grey?
Whose Cabin is so neatly swept as thine,
With Flow'rs and Rushes kept so sweet and fine?
Whose name amongst our many Sheepherds Swains
So great as thine is throughout all these Plains?
Who has so many Friends, so pretty Loves?
Who by our bubbling Fountains and Green Groves
Passes away the Summer heats so well?
And who but thee in singing does excell?
So that the Swains, when Clotten sings or plays,
Lay down their Pipes, and listen to his Lays?
Wherein then can consist, I fain would know,
The Misery that thou complain'st of so?

Clotten.
Some of these things are true, but, Corydon,
That which maintain'd all these, alas! is gone,
The want of Wealth I reckon not distress,
But of enough to doe good offices;
Which growing less, those Friends will fall away;
Poverty is the ground of all decay;
With our Prosperities our Friendships end,
And to misfortune no one is a Friend,
Which I already find to that degree,
That my old Friends are now afraid of me,
And all avoid me, as good men would fly
The common Hangman's shamefull company.
Those who by Fortune were advanc'd above,
Being oblig'd by my most ready love,
Shun me, for fear least my necessity
Should urge what they're unwilling to deny,
And are resolv'd they will not grant; and those
Have shar'd my Meat, my Money, and my Cloaths,
Grown rich with others Spoils as well as mine,
The coming near me now do all decline,
Least shame and gratitude should draw them in,
To be to me what I to them have been;
By which means I am stripp'd of all supplies,
And left alone to my own Miseries.

Corydon.
In the relation that thy grief has made,
The World's false friendships are too true display'd;
But, courage man, thou hast one Friend in store,
Will ne'er forsake thee for thy being poor:
I will be true to thee in worst estate,
And love thee more now than when Fortunate.

Clotten.
All goodness then on Earth I see's not lost,
I of one Friend in misery can boast,
Which is enough, and peradventure more
Than any one could ever do before;
And I to thee as true a Friend will prove,
Not to abuse but to deserve thy love.