 | Dione |  |
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SCENE II.
Shepherds and shepherdesses, (crown'd with garlands of cypress and yew) bearing the body of Menalcas.1 Shepherd.
Here gently rest the corse—with faltring breath
Thus spake Menalcas on the verge of death.
‘Belov'd Palemon, hear a dying friend:
‘See, where yon hills with craggy brows ascend,
‘Low in the valley where the mountain grows,
‘There first I saw her, there began my woes.
‘When I am cold, may there this clay be laid;
‘There often strays the dear, the cruel maid,
‘There as she walks, perhaps you'll hear her say,
‘(While a kind gushing tear shall force its way)
‘How could my stubborn heart relentless prove?
‘Ah poor Menalcas—all thy fault was love!
2 Shepherd.
When pitying lions o'er a carcase groan,
And hungry tygers bleeding kids bemoan;
When the lean wolf laments the mangled sheep;
Then shall Parthenia o'er Menaclas weep.
1 Shepherd.
When famish'd panthers seek their morning food,
And monsters roar along the desart wood;
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Or in the path-way rears the speckled snake;
The wary swain th'approaching peril spies,
And through some distant road securely flies,
Fly then, ye swains, from beauty's surer wound;
Such was the fate our poor Menalcas found!
2 Shepherd.
What shepherd does not mourn Menalcas slain?
Kill'd by a barbarous woman's proud disdain!
Whoe'er attempts to bend her scornful mind,
Cries to the desarts, and pursues the wind.
1 Shepherd.
With ev'ry grace Menacles was endow'd,
His merits dazled all the sylvan croud,
If you would know his pipe's melodious sound,
Ask all the echoes of those hills around,
For they have learn'd his strains; who shall rehearse
The strength, the cadence of his tuneful verse?
Go, read those lofty poplars; there you'll find
Some tender sonnet grow on ev'ry rind.
2 Shepherd.
Yet what avails his skill? Parthenia flies.
Can merit hope success in woman's eyes?
1 Shepherd.
Why was Parthenia form'd of softest mold?
Why does her heart such savage nature hold?
O ye kind gods! or all her charms efface,
Or tame her heart—so spare the shepherd race.
2 Shepherd.
As fade the flowers which on the grave I cast;
So may Parthenia's transient beauty waste!
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What woman ever counts the fleeting years,
Or sees the wrinkle which her forehead wears?
Thinking her feature never shall decay,
This swain she scorns, from that she turns away.
But know, as when the rose her bud unfolds,
A while each breast the short-liv'd fragrance holds:
When the dry stalk lets drop her shrivell'd pride,
The lovely ruin's ever thrown aside.
So shall Parthenia be.
2 Shepherd.
—See, she appears,
To boast her spoils, and triumph in our tears.
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