94 Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boaft: But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate, And angry Gods pursue from coast to coaft, Can no where find, to shroud my luckless pate. HOBBINOL. Then if by me thou list advised be, Forsake the foil, that so doth thee bewitch : Leave me those hills, where harbroughnis to see, Nor holly-bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch; And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich, And fruitful flocks been every where to fee: Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch, Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee. But friendly fairies met with many graces, And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night, With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces; Whilst fifters nine, which dwell on Parnass' hight, Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himself to kiss their chrystal faces, Will pipe and daunce, when Phabe shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in these places. COLIN. And I, whilst youth, and course of careless years, Tho couth I sing of love and tune my pipe HOBBINOL. Colin, to hear thy rhimes and roundelays, I faw Calliope with muses moe, Their ivory lutes and tamburins forgo: But when they came, where thou thy skill didst show, Shepherd to fee, them in their art out-go. COLIN. Of muses, Hobbinol, I con no skill, Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, Nought weigh I, who my fong doth praise or blame, Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest: With shepherds fits not follow flying fame, The God of shepherds, Tityrus is dead, Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake The flames, which love within his heart had bred, And tell us merry tales, to keep us wake, The while our sheep about us safely fed. Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead, (O why should death on him such outrage show ! And all his passing skill with him is fled, The fame whereof doth daily greater grow. But if on me some little drops would flow Of that the spring was in his learned hed, I foon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed. Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourtesee, As messengers of this my painful plight, Fly to my love, wherever that she be. And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight; As she deserves, that wrought so deadly spight. And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery Didst underfong my lass to wax so light, Should'st well be known for such thy villiany. But fince I am not, as I wish I were, Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do feed, Whether on hills or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this so wicked deed : And tell the lass, whose flower is woxe a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless seere, That she the truest shepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear. HOBBINOL. O! careful Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow! Ah! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That are the root of all this rueful woe! But now is time, I guess, homeward to go: Then rife, ye blessed flocks, and home apace, Left night with stealing steps do you foreflo, And wet your tender lambs, that by you trace. By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr. Philips has, in imitation of Spencer, preserved in his Pastorals many antiquated words, which, tho' they are difcarded from polite conversation, may naturally be supposed still to have place among the shepherds, and other rusticks in the country. We have made choice of his second eclogue, because it is brought home to his own business, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings. Mr. PHILIPS's second Pastoral. THENOT, COLINET. Is it not Colinet I lonesome fee COLINET. Though blithe their notes, not so my wayward fate; THENOт. Small cause, I ween, has lusty youth to plain; F " But tell me then; it may relieve thy woe, COLINET. Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day, Should'st thou give ear to all my grief can say. Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs, In loud complaints, require their absent dams. THENOт. See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: and I, 'Tween whiles, a-cross the plain will glance mine eye. COLINET. Where to begin I know not, where to end. Does there one smiling hour my youth attend ? Though few my days, as well my follies show, Yet are those days all clouded o'er with woe : No happy gleam of sun-shine doth appear, My low'ring sky, and wint'ry months to cheer. My piteous plight in yonder naked tree, Which bears the thunder-scar, too plain I see : Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind, The mark of storms, and sport of every wind: The riven trunk feels not th'approach of spring; Nor birds among the leafless branches sing: No more, beneath thy shade, shall shepherd's throng With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song. Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I! From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly. THENO т. Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born, COLINET. And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill? |