The poetical and dramatic works of Sir Charles Sedley Collected and Edited from the Old Editions: With a preface on the text, explanatory and textual notes, an appendix containing works of doubtful authenticity, and a bibliography: By V. de Sola Pinto |
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| I. | I A PASTORAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN THIRSIS AND STREPHON
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 | The poetical and dramatic works of Sir Charles Sedley |  |
3
I
A PASTORAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN THIRSIS AND STREPHON
Thirsis.]
Strephon, O Strephon, once the jolliest Lad,
That with shrill Pipe did ever Mountain glad;
Whilome the Foremost at our rural Plays,
The Pride and Envy of our Holidays:
Why dost thou now sit musing all alone,
Teaching the Turtles, yet a sadder Moan?
Swell'd with thy Tears, why does the Neighbouring Brook
Bear to the Ocean, what she never took?
Thy Flocks are fair and fruitful, and no Swain,
Then thee, more welcome to the Hill or Plain.
Strep.]
I could invite the Wolf, my cruel Guest,
And play unmov'd, while he on all should feast:
I cou'd endure that every Swain out-run,
Out-threw, out-wrestled, and each Nymph shou'd shun
The hapless Strephon.—
Thir.]
Tell me then thy Grief,
And give it, in Complaints, some short Releif.
Strep.]
Had killing Mildews nipt my rising Corn,
My Lambs been all found dead, as soon as born;
Or raging Plagues run swift through every Hive,
And left not one industrious Bee alive;
Had early Winds, with an hoarse Winter's Sound
Scatter'd my rip'ning Fruit upon the Ground:
Unmov'd, untoucht, I cou'd the Loss sustain,
And a few Days expir'd, no more complain.
Thir.]
E're the Sun drank of the cold Morning-dew,
4
Then in the Evening drive the Bear away,
And rescue from his Jaws the trembling Prey.
But now thy Flocks creep feebly through the Fields,
No purple Grapes, thy half drest Vine-yards yields:
No Primrose nor no Violets grace thy Beds,
But Thorns and Thistles lift their prickly Heads.
What means this Change?
Strep.]
Enquire no more;
When none can heal, 'tis Pain to search the Sore;
Bright Galatea, in whose Mateless Face
Sat rural Innocence, with heavenly Grace;
In whose no less inimitable Mind,
With equal Light, even distant Virtues shin'd;
Chast without Pride, and Charming without Art,
Honour the Tyrant of her tender Heart:
Fair Goddess of these Fields, who for our Sports,
Though she might well become, neglected Courts.
Belov'd of all, and loving me alone,
Is from my Sight, I fear, for ever gone.
Thir.]
Thy Case indeed is pitiful, but yet
Thou on thy Loss too great a Price dost set.
Women like Days are Strephon, some be far
More bright and glorious than others are:
Yet none so gay, so temperate, so clear,
But that the like adorne the rowling Year.
Pleasures imparted, to a Friend encrease,
Perhaps divided Sorrow may grow less.
Strep.]
Others as fair, to other Eyes may seem,
But she has all my Love and my Esteem:
Her bright Idea wanders in my Thought,
At once my Poison, and my Antidote.
Thir.]
Our Hearts are Paper, Beauty is the Pen,
Which writes our Loves, and blots 'em out agen.
Phillis is Whiter than the rising Swan,
Her slender Wast confin'd within a Span:
5
When early Birds on the green Branches sing.
When rising Herbs and Buds begin to hide,
Their naked Mother, with their short-liv'd Pride,
Cloe is ripe, and as the Autumn fair,
When on the Elm the purple Grapes appear.
When Trees, Hedg-rows, and every bending Bush,
With rip'ning Fruit, or tasteful Berries blush,
Lydia is in the Summer of her Days,
What Wood can shade us from her piercing Rays?
Her even Teeth, whiter than new yean'd Lambs,
When they with tender Cries pursue their Dams.
Her Eyes as Charming as the Evening-sun,
To the scortcht Labourer when Work is done,
Whom the glad Pipe, to rural Sports invites,
And pays his Toil with innocent Delights.
On some of these fond Swain fix thy Desire,
And burn not with imaginary Fire.
Strep.]
The Stag shall sooner with the Eagle soar,
Seas leave their Fishes naked on the Shore;
The Wolf shall sooner by the Lambkin die,
And from the Kid the hungry Lion fly,
Than I abandon Galatea's Love,
Or her dear Image from my Thoughts remove.
Thir.]
Damon this Evening carries home his Bride,
In all the harmless Pomp of rural Pride:
Where, for two spotted Lambkins, newly yean'd,
With nimble Feet and Voice, the Nimphs contend:
And for a Coat, thy Galatea spun,
The Shepherds Wrastle, throw the Bar, and Run.
Strep.]
At that dear Name I feel my Heart rebound,
Like the old Steed, at the fierce Trumpet's sound:
I grow impatient of the least Delay,
No Dastard Swain shall bear the Prize away.
6
Let us make hast, already they are met;
The ecchoing Hills their joyful Shouts repeat.
| The poetical and dramatic works of Sir Charles Sedley | |