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"And, if no greater cares disturb your mind, Sit here with us, in covert of the wind. Your lowing heifers, of their own accord, At wat'ring time will seek the neighb'ring ford.

Here wanton Mincius winds along the meads, And shades his happy banks with bending reeds.

And see, from yon old oak that mates the skies,

How black the clouds of swarming bees arise."

What should I do! Nor was Alcippe nigh,
Nor absent Phyllis could my care supply,
To house, and feed by hand my weaning

lambs,

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And drain the strutting udders of their dams.

Great was the strife betwixt the singing swains;

And I preferr'd my pleasure to my gains. Alternate rhyme the ready champions chose: These Corydon rehears'd, and Thyrsis those.

CORYDON

Ye Muses, ever fair, and ever young, Assist my numbers, and inspire my song. With all my Codrus, O inspire my breast! For Codrus, after Phoebus, sings the best. 30 Or, if my wishes have presum'd too high, And stretch'd their bounds beyond mortality,

The praise of artful numbers I resign, And hang my pipe upon the sacred pine.

THYRSIS

Arcadian swains, your youthful poet crown With ivy wreaths; tho' surly Codrus frown: Or, if he blast my Muse with envious praise, Then fence my brows with amulets of bays, Lest his ill arts, or his malicious tongue, 39 Should poison, or bewitch my growing song.

CORYDON

These branches of a stag, this tusky boar (The first essay of arms untried before) Young Micon offers, Delia, to thy shrine: But speed his hunting with thy pow'r divine;

Thy statue then of Parian stone shall stand; Thy legs in buskins with a purple band.

THYRSIS

This bowl of milk, these cakes (our country fare),

For thee, Priapus, yearly we prepare,
Because a little garden is thy care;
But, if the falling lambs increase my fold,
Thy marble statue shall be turn'd to gold. 51
CORYDON

Fair Galatea, with thy silver feet,

O, whiter than the swan, and more than Hybla sweet,

Tall as a poplar, taper as the bole, Come, charm thy shepherd, and restore my soul!

Come, when my lated sheep at night return, And crown the silent hours, and stop the rosy morn!

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CORYDON

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And, while she loves that common wreath to wear,

Nor bays, nor myrtle boughs, with hazel shall compare.

THYRSIS

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THE EIGHTH PASTORAL

OR, PHARMACEUTRIA

THE ARGUMENT

This pastoral contains the songs of Damon and Alphesibous. The first of 'em bewails the loss of his mistress, and repines at the success of his rival Mopsus. The other repeats the charms of some enchantress, who endeavor'd by her spells and magic to make Daphnis in love with her.

THE mournful Muse of two despairing

swains,

The love rejected, and the lovers' pains; To which the salvage lynxes list'ning stood,

The rivers stood on heaps, and stopp'd the running flood;

The hungry herd their needful food re

fuse

Of two despairing swains, I sing the mournful Muse.

Great Pollio! thou, for whom thy Rome

prepares

The ready triumph of thy finish'd wars,
Whether Timavus or th' Illyrian coast,
Whatever land or sea thy presence boast; 10
Is there an hour in fate reserv'd for me,
To sing thy deeds in numbers worthy
thee?

In numbers like to thine could I rehearse

Thy lofty tragic scenes, thy labor'd verse,
The world another Sophocles in thee,
Another Homer should behold in me.
Amidst thy laurels let this ivy twine:
Thine was my earliest Muse; my latest shall
be thine.

Scarce from the world the shades of night withdrew,

Scarce were the flocks refresh'd with morning dew,

When Damon, stretch'd beneath an olive

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High on the planted hedge, and wet with morning dew.

Then scarce the bending branches I could win;

The callow down began to clothe my chin. I saw; I perish'd; yet indulg'd my pain. Begin with me, my flute, the sweet Mænalian strain.

"I know thee, Love! in desarts thou wert bred,

And at the dugs of salvage tigers fed;

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