University of Virginia Library

Divine Thalia! Charmer of my Breast,
To whom I fly, when with rude Cares opprest:
Thou only vernal Virgin of the Nine,
Who mak'st the Spring with blooming Glories shine;
And pleas'd with Gardens and a silent Grove,
Inspir'st the Swains with Gaity and Love.
Renew thy Favours, teach me to relate
The Shepherd's Love, the Nymph's dissembled Hate;
How he and Cycnus by the Moon's pale Light,
With rival Songs, beguil'd the passing Night:
And with what Joy the Youth forsook the Shade,
And ran t'embrace the dear relenting Maid.
His yearly Race bright Phœbus thrice had run,
And now again the radiant Course begun,
Since Love-sick Theron turn'd a Shepherd Swain,
To feed a Flock, and play a rural Strain.
To higher Notes at first his Harp he strung,
And of immortal Gods and Heroes sung:
Till in a swift pursuit of Love, and Fame,
A fond Endeavour, and a hapless Flame!
In thought secure (hard Fate!) he chanc'd to find
The Town, and Celia both at once unkind.
One sooth'd him on with hopes of coming Joys,
The other bid him snatch the falling Bays:
But soon the false, inconstant Wheel was turn'd;
He saw his Verses damn'd, his Passion scorn'd.
Then in a Rage th'ingrateful Town forsook,
With many a Sigh, and many a parting Look,
And to the Shades his mourning Muse convey'd,
To weep his Fate, and curse the cruel Maid.
Where now in unmolested Peace he reigns
Th'unrival'd Prince of all the tuneful Swains,
To him, and Pan they consecrate the Plains.
No beauteous Virgin, that is us'd to wield
The harmless Crook, and trace the dewy Field,
But will for Theron weave a flow'ry Crown,
And sighing wish the Shepherd were her own.
No Swain so rude, but bows at Theron's Name,
Proclaims his wondrous Worth, and sings his happy Fame.

This Cycnus heard; whose Muse in Buskins sings
The Fall of Empires, and the Fate of Kings:
Or lashes, with a sharp Satyrick Rage,
The Follies of a leud, degenerous Age.
He heard, he saw, he read with wondring Eyes
The happy Strains, and own'd a vast Surprize.
So soft, so moving, yet so full of Fire;
Made Envy's self his matchless Skill admire.
Yet nought the unbelieving Bard cou'd move,
To think such Verse the product of a Grove.
Till urg'd with Envy of another's Fame,
From noisy Streets, to silent Shades, he came;
To see the Youth that sung such tender Lays,
And try who best deserv'd a Crown of Bays,
To tempt from Solitude the careful Swain,
And with kind Tidings end his growing Pain.

Tall Shadows now from distant Mountains fell,
Each Swain his Cot, each Hermit sought his Cell:
But Theron to a lonely Grove repairs,
To mourn his Love, and sing away his Cares;
There, every Night, when silence fill'd the Woods,
And brooding Darkness o'er the Fields and Floods
Had spread her sable Wings; the pensive Swain
Wou'd sit, and weep, and of the Stars complain,
And Celia, cruel Celia cry, in vain.

But now the rising Moon with Silver Light,
Began to paint the dusky Face of Night,
And o'er the Meads her Lucid Beams advance,
Where mimick Elves in antick Figures dance.
When Cycnus list'ning travers'd o'er the Grove,
And heard the Shepherd thus complain of Love.
Ah cruel Moon! (the mournful Youth begun)
To me unwelcome, as thy Brother Sun:
On happier Lovers spread thy silent Beams,
That kiss in Shades, or walk by warbling Streams.
They may rejoice, and bless thee for thy Light,
But let my Woes, and me be hid in Night:
Darkness, Oblivion, everlasting Shades,
Where no bright Glimpse the dreary Gloom invades!
(If such a Place there be) that Place I crave,
As dismal as my Thoughts, and silent as the Grave.

Ah Celia, fair, unkind! Didst thou but know
How full of Pain I live, how fraught with Woe;
(If ought a Heart of Adamant can move)
Thou need'st must pity, tho thou can'st not love.
Here all the Night, about the Shades I rove,
And all my Tale is Celia, Fate, and Love.
Or else upon some rising Hillock lie,
Sigh, languish, weep, and wish I could but die.
Hills, Groves, and Woods are conscious of my Flame,
And every Tree bears cruel Celia's Name.
Poor Philomel sometimes affords Relief,
And in a kind Condolance sooths my Grief:
She's with my Cares so well acquainted grown;
She sings my Wrongs and quite forgets her own.

But all in vain: My Sorrows will not cease,
Till Celia's Voice shall hush my Soul to peace;
From her alone a Cure I must obtain,
She gave the Wound, and must relieve the Pain.
If not, I'm in Despair and Anguish lost,
And soon shall be a wandring, weeping Ghost.
Dear charming Tyrant, let my Tears prevail,
(Nought can succeed, if these last Tears should fail.)
Leave, leave the Town, and to these Shades repair;
These Shades will yield a softer, sweeter Air.
Here, free from Business in a calm Retreat,
Delightful as the Muses sacred Seat,
In charming Grots, green Fields, and shady Bowers,
We'll sweetly pass the gay, the smiling Hours:
Here, like the Mortals of the golden Age,
Secure from Envy, Treach'ry, Lust, and Rage:
How happy, more than happy! should we be,
Would'st thou but come, and love, and live with me?
But if at last your Pity you deny,
And I (in spite of all my Tears) must die:
Yet let poor Theron, e'er his Soul depart,
Once more behold those Eyes which fir'd his Heart;
Grant me once more to view thy charming Face,
Snatch one dear Kiss, and steal a short Embrace.
I'll not offend thee by too long a stay,
But press my Love, my last soft Homage pay;
For Charon waits to waft my sighing Soul away.

This, and much more the pensive Shepherd sung,
Till Grief o'erwhelm'd his Voice, and stopt his Tongue;
And Cycnus now convinc'd, that Theron's Name
Had well deserv'd the best, and noblest Fame;
Gently advanc'd, and to the Shepherd came.
Where thus he spoke, and seem'd to mourn his Fate:
Ah happy Swain, wer't not for Celia's Hate!
'Tis strange, fond Youth, she can resist so long
The powerful Charms of your inchanting Song;
So well you sing, so well complain of Love,
Your Verse might Passion in a Statue move,
Calm a rude Tempest, still the raging Wind,
Stop rapid Streams, or make a Monster kind:
Sure she's no Woman, or in Desarts nurst,
With blood of Panthers quench'd her Infant Thirst;
Stupid and wild as they; the Savage Bowl
Drown'd all the Softness of the human Soul;
For were there but one Spark of Native Fire,
Soft Theron's sighing Lays would fan Desire;
Melt the coy Nymph, till she her Love confest,
And breath'd her Passion on his Joyful Breast.
But she who stands unmov'd at Theron's Charms,
Must be unworthy of his blissful Arms.
Let me advise, come leave the lonely Grove,
And strive to cancel this unhappy Love.
Not here in Shades indulge the darling Grief;
Silence augments your Pain, not yields Relief.
Return, return, and all your Cares forget,
And former Pleasures with fresh Gust repeat.
Our crouded Town more pleasant Objects yields,
Than either Groves, or Streams, or Woods, or Fields.
You may be happy there, you there may find
Your Stars indulgent and a Mistress kind.
And yielding Fame no more your Arms will shun,
But give the Crown which you so justly won.
Return, return, great William's Deeds rehearse,
And sing his Battels in Immortal Verse.
Tell, how the Seas he in loud Tempests crost;
To save a Nation, which had else been lost:
How he the Crown at last vouchsaf'd to take,
Not for his own, but poor Britannia's sake.
Secure of Conquest wheresoe'er he fought,
Returning home, Triumphant Laurels brought!
Sing how the Hero past the rapid Flood,
Rose from the Waves, and look'd the Warrior God!
With Joy the Billows such a Burden bore;
Whilst sounding Fame, and Vict'ry flew before;
Then how the Toils of War he could sustain,
Smiling on Fear with a serene Disdain,
And glad to hear the Trumpet's chearful Call,
Still rush'd thro Danger, and despis'd it all.
And how at last, a happy Peace restor'd,
The joyful Hero sheath'd his willing Sword.
Let his great Acts be your inspiring Theam,
Nor longer here thus sooth a sickly Dream.
Thus the presuming Bard to Theron spoke,
And thus at last the Swain his Silence broke.

Of Warriors let the skilful Stepney sing,
And Prior's Muse her lofty Raptures bring
To pay due Honours to a Godlike King.
I doom'd to Sorrow, must in Sylvan Song,
To list'ning Woods relate my cruel Wrong.
By Passion made unfit for chearful Airs,
My Thoughts are all subjected to my Cares:
And sure no Place so proper as a Grove,
For one that languishes in hopeless Love.
The Town! Alas I know the Town too well;
That fatal Place, where Noise and Tumult dwell.
Can Virtue hope to find a Place of Rest,
Where Vice in her Imperial Glories drest,
Usurps the Throne, and is by all ador'd;
The sordid Beggar, and the shining Lord?
No, no; long since, with Indignation fir'd,
From thence the Goddess to the Shades retir'd.
The Bard reply'd: Tho Vice is powerful grown,
Yet has not Virtue quite forsook the Town.
To her the Generous still due Homage pay,
And still the Goddess bears an equal Sway.
Nor will she thence withdraw her brighter Charms;
Whilst Collyer fights her Cause with conq'ring Arms;
And charming Wesley, warm'd with pious Rage,
On Virtue's Part so bravely does engage.
'Tis true, her Reign th'unthinking Vulgar hate,
Yet still she's lov'd and honour'd by the Great;
And H---t, and So---rs still support her State.
Suppose litigious F--- cannot rest,
And Fury Law lies brooding in his Breast;
Which, like the Devil Malice, drives him on
To ruin others, till himself's undone.
Suppose some Husbands here their Wives destroy,
More fond of Riches than uxorious Joy;
And others rise to Fortune and to Fame,
Flying like Eagles at a nobler Game,
Who Kings defraud, and publick Treas'rys cheat
Nor fear a Punishment, because they're great:
Yet sure with Virtue we may often meet,
Each Man is not a D--- nor a F---.
Then why should one that sings like Theron, choose
A Place like this to entertain his Muse?
Can senseless Trees your wondrous Worth proclaim,
Or whistling Winds sing your immortal Fame?
Can you with Brutes and Savage Beasts converse,
Or unbred Swains, that never heard a Verse
Beyond a murder'd Psalm or ballad Air,
Sung by vile Strolers at some Country Fair?
Clowns, who from fruitful Dunghils take their Rise
With equal Stamp of Ignorance and Vice,
Whose highest Wisdom in their Senses lies,
And all their Understanding in their Eyes.

Soft (answer'd Theron) moderate your Rage,
If for the Town with me you would engage.
Sit down a while: I may some respite gain,
These little Contests may divert my Pain.
Be it your Business and your Task to tell
What Vice, what Follies in the Country dwell;
Whilst I a more ungrateful Subject choose,
And to the Town compel m'unwilling Muse,
Assume new Numbers, and a bolder Face,
T'expose the Leudness of the hated Place.
The Bard agreed, nor stay'd the Rivals long,
E'er smiling Cycnus thus begun the Song.

In vain you boast your Innocence so great;
Imperious Vice keeps too her rural Seat:
The sordid Swains, by Nature prone to Ill,
Want more the Knowledg than they do the Will
There are some Crimes peculiar to the Town,
Not practis'd here, because they are unknown.
But rustick Vices stam each blushing Day,
And the dull Clown is leudest in his Way.
Oft have I laugh'd to see the brainless Rout,
With aukward dancing fling themselves about:
Till down their Sunburnt Faces Sweat distil'd,
And undistinguish'd Clamours fill the Field.
D'ye ask the Cause? A Farmer's eldest Son,
Hight Corydon, the envy'd Prize has won.
In woful Rhymes the Victor's Praise they sing,
On each of's Arms the buxome Lasses cling:
Then round a Stand of Ale the Rusticks lie,
And drink like Beasts the sounding Vessel dry.
Then drunk, with Lust the mingling Sexes fill'd,
Act their rank Leudness in the open Field.
Each Town, each Village well may curse the Day
That gave the Cause, and call'd them out to play;
The dire Remembrance begs at every Door,
A bawling Bastard, and a lazy Wh---re.
Nor are these Boors alone by Vice subdu'd,
Their Masters too are senseless, vain, and leud.
Here in an old thatch'd House by Tempests torn,
By all but him, and Owls, and Bats forlorn,
There lives a Wight, run mad for love of Gold,
(They call him Colon) wretched, rich, and old.
No Spouse, no Off-spring ever grac'd his Bed;
Too rough to Love, too covetous to Wed:
No menial Servants round his Table wait,
No croud of Beggars throng his silent Gate,
Alas! the Wretch himself scarce dares to eat.
Yet under ground the Churl vast Treasure keeps,
And in his mouldy Chests the shining Idol sleeps;
Got by Oppression, while the injur'd Poor
Increase, and not partake his useless Store.
Not far from hence a Princely Palace shrouds
Its rising Head amongst the flying Clouds.
Encompass'd round with a delightful Scene
Of Rivers, Meads, and Groves for ever green;
Where smiling Flora paints the gaudy Way,
And in cool Waves the sportful Naiads play.
Too happy Man! the Lord of such a Seat;
Did Virtue join to make the Bliss compleat:
But her he knows no more than to despise;
So from her Arms by consequence he flies.
Drink, Dogs, and Horses are his darling Joys,
To this he gives his Nights, to these his Days.
Lavish of Gold, and prodigal of Health,
The careless Spendthrift idly wasts his Wealth.
On him a Crew of wretched Rakes depend,
That sooth his Follies, and his Faults commend:
A Cadet one, old Cavaliers the rest,
A drunken Lawyer, and a gaming Priest.
With daily Food these Locusts he supplies,
Who, in return, persuade the Fool is wise.
These Theron, these disgrace your boasted Plain,
These frequent Crimes in every Village reign.
More I could mention, but let these suffice
To shew the Country is not free from Vice.
Happy the Youth! who far from pensive Groves
Spends his glad Hours in Mirth, and various Loves;
If one coy Nymph a wish'd Embrace denies,
Another strait his vacant Arms supplies.
What tho Papirius chast Sulpitia shuns,
To meet his Flames Aurelia panting runs;
Aurelia to her trading Spouse deny'd
The Joys of Wedlock, and a blooming Bride;
Papirius reaps the Harvest of her Charms,
And lies intranc'd within her crushing Arms.
Sergius the Brave, the Gallant, and the Gay,
To whom a wedded Wife could yield no Joy;
Luxurious thro the Female World does rove,
By just Decree divorc'd from lawful Love.
You need not here drag on the Load of Life,
Clog'd with that Houshold Plague, a craving Wife.
If flowing Blood provoke a strong Desire,
Some generous Nymph will soon abate the Fire:
Or if for Profit you're oblig'd to wed,
A Doctor soon removes the Nusance of your Bed.
You need not of your Thraldom long complain,
Mirmil and Maurus ne'er took Fees in vain.
Who's will may live in idle Shades for me,
Sigh Love to Winds, and wound each harmless Tree;
I'll in the Town a Life more sprightly pass,
With generous Friends, and the reviving Glass.
Pray what Diversions can the Country give,
That, like the Stage, our careful Thoughts relieve?
The height of Passion there we daily prove;
Revenge, Hate, Pity, Jealousy, and Love:
Our vacant Hours there glad Refreshment find,
Which charms the Fancy, and informs the Mind.
But can your Fields or Plains or Groves produce,
Except your own, one soft, one tuneful Muse?
Yes, your Amintas, he that wears the Bays,
Can sing sweet Sonnet, and make Rounde-Lays;
And G---d that writes Lampoons with hasty Rage,
Still thinks it hard he cannot charm the Age:
But while he labours on so base a Theam,
None will admire, but all despise his Dream.
The charming Philomela sings no more
Her Lovers lost, and seeks a Foreign Shore.
She was the Glory of the Groves and Plains,
Pride of her Sex, and Joy of all the Swains.
But now she's mute. The rest with tuneless Throats
Like Screech-owls, hoot their harsh unpleasing Notes.

Here ended Cycnus, and the blushing Swain
Confest he'd too much Reason to complain:
Yet in these Shades, quoth Theron, ne'er were known
Such barbarous Mischiefs as infect the Town.
Extravagance and Lust, Pride, Envy, Cheats,
Murders, Oaths, Atheism too, her Guilt compleats;
The very Streets will prove th'Assertion true,
Vices of every kind appear in view;
Rogues of all sorts, and Fools of every size,
Some unobserv'd pass by, and some affront our Eyes.
Here struts a Fop, with starch affected Grace;
There reels a Sot, with Bacchus in his Face.
This starves his Belly, that he may be fine;
And that undos himself, and Friends, for Wine.
Here, at the corner of a crouded Street,
A brace of formal busy Coxcombs meet:
Of Trade, and of Religion they discourse,
But—Hypocrites are always Knaves of course.
There, lolling in a Coach, Aureno lies,
Whose numerous Train does all the Mob surprize,
And gains their Voices, as it charms their Eyes.
To these he bows as humble as a Slave,
But treats with Insolence the Great and Brave:
Thinks he is wrong'd, that of their own accord
Th'uncivil City had not dubb'd him Lord.
Lavish as Xerxes, and as Cræsus rich;
Much every Day receives, and squanders much.
Two Wh--- by turns his vacant Hours employ;
Whom, as the Gout permits, he does enjoy.
Oft with sham Bounty he beguiles the People,
Makes drunk the Mob, or else erects a Steeple.
But let him, if he'd gain immortal Fame,
Go build a Church, and give it D---s Name.
Ah wretched Town! What Monsters dost thou breed?
What ravenous Harpyes on thy Vitals feed?
Pimps, Parasites, Buffoons, designing Knaves,
Audacious Villains, humble cheating Slaves;
Such as your Tradesmen are, who Truth disguise,
And live by Tricking, Cheats, and formal Lies.
All would be Great, and all would be Supreme,
Gold is their God, and Profit all their Theme.
Some by defrauding of their Neighbours thrive,
Others by politick Projections live.
On fickle Chance the Merchant's Hopes depend,
And Impudence is still the Lawyer's Friend.
How else could S---d such vast Treasures gain?
And quibling S--- has not baul'd in vain.
In great gilt Coaches thro the Streets they ride,
Big with Ambition, bloated up with Pride:
Whilst others, that like Icarus will soar,
Fall from their height, and live despis'd and poor.
With borrow'd Coin the Banker ventures all,
And at a push must either rise or fall:
And should we e'er see Honesty prevail,
Great-Lombard-street might languish in a Jail.
The trading Quacks too bear an equal part,
Paultry Pretenders to Apollo's Art;
Certain as Fate th'unhappy Patients die,
Whilst Ludlow durst prescribe, and Lee apply.
Leudness pollutes Religion's living Streams,
And drunken Ho---nd in the Pulpit dreams.
The other Party too has suffer'd long
Th'Impertinence of noisy tatling Y---ng;
The hot-brain'd Fool a Madhouse once restrain'd,
And sickning Bedlam of his Tongue complain'd.
But hold, my Muse, a while suspend thy Rage,
And tell what Worth adorns the thankless Age:
Dorset and Hallifax, a matchless Pair,
Have reach'd her Sight, and challeng'd all her Care:
Dorset and Hallifax, brave, just, and good,
Noble in Virtue as they are in Blood;
Great William's Friends, our Isle's Support and Stay,
The Poets Patrons, and the Muses Joy;
Triumphant stand amidst the sacred Throng
Of learned Bards, whose emulative Song
In lofty Numbers, and ne'er-dying Verse,
Th'immortal Hero's matchless Praise rehearse.
First generous Pryor greets the rising Age,
A mighty Genius shines thro every Page:
His Theam, and Verse still vast, are still the same,
And as his Muse descends mounts upwards too in Flame.
Whilst by his Fav'rite great Apollo stands,
Striking the speaking Strings with artful Hands:
Wondring we hear a second Pindar sing,
Extol the Poet's Art, adore the God-like King.
Dryden, 'tis true, the mournful Tomb enfolds,
A narrow Grave the mighty Poet holds!
Yet shall his Verse to future Age remain,
And Worlds to come applaud his heavenly Strain.
Whilst Garth and Congreve, Heirs to all the Flame
With which he wrote, and rose to endless Fame,
Charm with soft Harmony the list'ning Age,
Or lash its Vices with a noble Rage.
Judicious Dennis too, with equal Fire,
Shines sweetly bright, and never shall expire.
Poor Iphigenia weeps in such a Strain;
We read, we pity, and we feel her Pain.
Southerne still moves our Soul with tender Grief;
(A fatal Marriage, and a double Wife!)
None but a Savage could refrain from Tears,
When he the innocent Adultress hears.

Amongst the Worthies of the Female Quire,
Clarinda blazes with immortal Fire.
With genial Heat the Delian God has fir'd
Her tender Breast, and now she sings inspir'd:
Soft rural Lays the tuneful Charmer try'd,
Her Numbers like a Silver Current glide.
Not Behn her self with all her softest Art
So well could talk of Love, or touch the Heart.

To all the rest that wear the sacred Bays,
Unknown, my Muse a silent Homage pays.

But see what Croud is that which lags behind?
With meager Looks; a spurious, mungril kind!
In vain they stretch their stubble Wings, and try,
Like those before, to mount thro Air and Sky.
In vain they catch at Fame; their Touch she scorns,
And to their native Earth the grov'ling Rhymers spurns.
Brown their chief Leader, whom the Mob adore,
A pigmy Poet, scandalous, and poor.
Pettis to him succeeds, and trifling VVard,
A frolick Writer, and a Smithfield Bard.
Next Settle shews, amidst the rhyming Throng,
Unhappy Poet to have liv'd so long!
A Play-wright once; for Profit and for Praise
He drudg'd: But vanish'd are those golden Days.
Expel'd the Stage, he met unhappy Times;
And now for Bread composes Bellman's Rhymes.
Motteux, and Durfey are for nothing fit,
But to supply with Songs their want of Wit.
Had not the Island Princess been adorn'd
With Tunes, and pompous Scenes, she had been scorn'd.
What was not Fletcher's, no more Sense contains,
Than he that wrote the Jubilee, has Brains;
Which ne'er had pleas'd the Town, or purchas'd Fame,
But that 'twas christ'ned with a modish Name.

More I could urge in scandal to the Town,
And tell of Crimes to harmless Shades unknown:
How Fathers burn with execrable Fires,
And Daughters mingle with their lustful Sires;
How R---by scorns the Ladies charming Eyes,
And on Male-Love his leud Embraces tries.
Some City Matrons too might well prolong
Th'ungrateful Task of my Satyrick Song,
Who burn with Liquors, Envy, Lust, and Pride;
Nor e'er their craving Appetites deny'd:
Regard the true Concerns of Life no more
Than the dull Spouse with Bottle and a Whore.

But stop my Muse, for it must be confest,
No Sins like those which do the Town infest:
By seeing part, we may suppose the rest.
Then on and tell what Bliss the Swains enjoy,
Before shrill Chanticleer has wak'd the Day.
With softer Voice in rural numbers sing
The budding Glories of the Infant Spring.
When teeming Nature with a gradual Birth
Brings forth her various Greens, and garnishes the Earth
With blooming Flowers, from whose fragrant Leaves
The painful Bees inrich their useful Hives,
And the gay Butterfly her Pride receives.
Next by her Liberality bestow'd
The Mountain Rasps, and Strawb'ries of the Wood;
The nobler Fruits, loading the spreading Trees,
Whose splendid Looks the joyful Gazer please,
Which show like Gold and Corals nicely plac'd,
And like Ambrosia to the thankful Tast.
At last the rich luxuriant purple Vine
Boasts her inspiring Clusters more Divine;
Each Place adorn'd with fresh inviting Groves,
For cool Retreats, or solitary Loves.
While Phœbus chearful Beams, with healthful Air,
Makes a gay glad Elizium every where.
Happy the Man, who acts his Part of Life
In this blest Scene, remote from Noise and Strife.
Content and Ease, with all their peaceful Train,
Wait every Hour, and bless the humble Swain.
No golden Wish invades his homely Seat,
To vex his Thoughts with Hopes of being great.
No frightful Dreams his starting Soul surprize,
Or make him wish the Day with waking Eyes.
No Globes, or gilded Spires his Gates adorn;
No Silk, or Purple's by the Shepherd worn;
Him, and his Love, a little Cottage holds,
And Cloth of Wool their healthy Limbs enfolds.
On Beds of Moss they sleep secure and sound;
With gentle Dreams, and golden Slumbers crown'd.
Or if loud Winds the neighbouring Forests shake,
Or Winter Storms the sleeping Lovers wake;
They listen to the Tempest with Delight,
Secure from all the Terrors of the Night.
Oh! let me ever live in silent Shades,
Remote from noisy Towns, and busy Trades;
Where I may innocently pass my Days
In virtuous Pleasure and in harmless Joys,
With some young Virgin Vot'ress of the Grove;
Like Celia fair, but faithful as a Dove.
Ah! could I once forget that fatal Name,
Teach my fond Breast to own another Flame,
Till the fresh Rapture had eras'd her Charms,
And a new Nymph came welcome to my Arms:
Then to the Groves in sprightly Tunes I'd sing;
The Vales should with redoubled Io's ring.
The gay Idea fills my glowing Breast
With fancy'd Joys too vast to be exprest.
How sweet the Pleasure! when the Evening Breeze
With gentle Murmurs fans the waving Trees,
To walk along the River's verdant side,
And listen to the soft complaining Tide:
Or in some winding Valley to behold
Our weary Flocks run bleating to their Fold!
Whilst on my rural Pipe I softly play
A mournful Requiem to the falling Day:
And the kind Nymph upon my Labour smiles,
Rewarding with a Kiss her Shepherd's Toils.
Raptur'd I think, how, when the Shades are fled,
And bright Aurora leaps from Tithon's Bed,
E'er Phœbus can relieve the bending Grass,
My Love and I the flowry Fields might trace,
To hear the Warblings of the winged Choir,
And tast the fragrant Sweets of morning Air;
Crop Virgin Violets blushing from their Bed,
And sip the pearly Dew on Leaves of Roses shed.
Then, then I curse, and ban the baleful Dart,
That in so ill an Hour transfix'd my Heart.
'Tis then I call the cruel Maid in vain,
To quit the Town, and hasten to the Plain.

With Rapture Cycnus heard the Shepherd tell
What charming Pleasures in the Country dwell,
Nor longer could the joyful News conceal:
Then thus the happy Secret did reveal.
Prepare dear tuneful Youth, prepare to hear
A Tale so kind 'twill charm your ravish'd Ear;
Celia the false, the faithless, and the fair,
Fickle as Chance, and fleeting as the Air,
For whom you left the Town, and sought the Groves,
Spite of her Pride at length has own'd she loves.
The smother'd Fire is kindled into Flame,
There's nothing now so dear as Theron's Name.
To morrow she resigns up all her Charms,
With Joy she runs, she flies into your wish'd-for Arms.

As, when the Sun's too powerful Beams invade
The tender Lillies, in their native Shade;
With languid Looks, the mourning Flowers decay,
Scorch'd with the Ardor of a burning Day:
But when kind Auster on his humid Wings
Some gentle Showers of soft Refreshment brings,
And on their Leaves the dewy Cordial sheds,
Soon they revive, and raise their pensive Heads,
Regain their fragrant smell, their Charms retrieve,
And in their former Pride and Splendor live.

So Theron far'd, who but few Moments past
Droop'd in Despair, and wish'd to breathe his last:
Now fill'd with Joy, starts sudden from the Ground,
And thus taught Eccho a more chearful Sound.
She loves! Farewel ye melancholy Woods,
Farewel ye silver Streams, and chrystal Floods:
To whom I've often sigh'd my Griefs in vain,
No more, no more, you'll hear me now complain.
She loves! No longer I'll converse with you,
Hills, Groves, and Woods, and Solitude adieu.
Charm'd to the Town again by Celia's Call,
Whose Love, whose Virtue can atone for all.
Come, come my Godlike Friend, with winged Feet,
We'll run, and the consenting Goddess meet.
Stay not to talk; look there, the rising Day
Already breaks, and summons us away.

He spoke, and thro the dewy Shades they prest,
And Phœbus rose, and smil'd to see the Lover blest.