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Or, climbing to a hilly steep,

He views his herds in vales afar, Or sheers his overburden'd sheep,

Or mead for cooling drink prepares,

Of virgin honey in the jars. Or in the now declining year,

When bounteous autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripen’d pear,

And cluftring grapes with purple spread. The fairest of his fruit he serves, .

Priapus, thy rewards: Sylvanus too his part deserves;

Whose care the fences guards. Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,

Or on the matted grass he lies; No God of sleep he need invoke;

The stream that o'er the pebbles flies

With gentle lumber crowns his eyes. The wind that whistles through thc sprays

Maintains the confort of the song;
And hidden birds with native lays

The golden sleep prolong.
But when the blast of winter blows,

And hoary frost inverts the year,
Into the naked woods he

goes, And seeks the tufty boar to rear, With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed spcar! Or spreads his subtle nets from fight

With twinkling glasses, to betray The larks that in the meshes light, Or makes the fearful hare his

prey. Amidst his harmless easy joys

No anxious care invades his health, Nor love his peace of mind destroys,

Nor wicked avarice of wealth. But if a chaste and plealing wife, To ease the business of his life, Divides with him his houshold care, Such as the Sabine matrons were, Such as the swift Apulian's bride,

Sun-burnt and swarthy tho The be, Will fire for winter nights provide,

And without noise will oversee

His children and his family;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and overlabor'd, home;
If she in

pens

his flocks will fold, And then produce her dairy store, With wine to drive away the cold,

And unbought dainties of the poor ; Not oysters of the Lucrine lake

My sober appetite would wish,

Nor turbot, or the foreign fish That rowling tempests overtake,

And hither waft the costly dilh.

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Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,

Which Phafis or Ionia yields, ; More pleasing morsels would afford Than the fat olives of

my

fields; Than shards or mallows for the pot,

That keep the loosen'd body found, Or than the lamb, that falls by lot

To the just guardian of my ground. Amidst these feasts of happy swains,

The jolly shepherd smiles to see
His flock returning from the plains ;

The farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his oxen sweating smoke,
Bear on their necks the loosen'd yoke ;
To look upon his menial crew,

That fit around his chearful hearth,
And bodies spent in toil renew

With wholesome food and country mirth.
This Morecraft said within himself,
Refoly'd to leave the wicked town:

the And live retir'd

upon

his He call'd his money in;

But the prevailing love of pelf,

Soon split him on the former shelf, He put it out again.

own,

The End of the Second VOLUNE.

Ν Ο Τ Ε S

Α Ν D

OBSERVATIONS

ON

Mr. DRYDEN's POEMS.

Vol. II.

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