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One would think she might like to retire

To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear;' Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hasted and planted it there. Oh how sudden the jessamine strove

With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,

What strains of wild melody flow !
How the nightingales warble their loves

From thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,

Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,

As----she may not be found to resign.

I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, the averr'd,

Who could rob a poor bird of its young: And I lov’d her the more, when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with sweetness unfold

How that pity was due to---a dove; That it ever attended the bold,

And the call'd it the fifter of love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,

So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she fay,

Methinks I should love her the morta

Can a bofom fo gentle remain

Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs! Will a nymphy that is fond of the plain,

These plains and this valley. defpife? Dear regions of filence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly. stray'd,

If aught in her absence could please.

But where does my Phyllida ftray?

And where are her grots and her bow'rs. Are the groves and the valleys as gay,

And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in inanners compare,

But their love is not equal to mine.


Why will you my passion reprove ?

Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I Thew you the charms of my love,

She is fairer than you can believe.
With her mien she enamours the brave;

With her wit the engages the free; With her modesty pleases the grave;

She is ev'ry way pleasing to me.

O you that have been of her train,

Come and join in my amorous lays!
I could lay down my life for the fwain,

That will sing but a song in her praise.
When he fings, may the nymphs of the towna

Come trooping, and listen the while ; Nay, on him let not Phyllida frown;

----But I cannot allow her to smile.

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For when Paridel tries in the dance

Any favour with Phyllis to find, O how, with one trivial glance,

Might she ruin the peace of my mind! In ringlets he dresses his hair,

And his crook is bestudded around ; And his pipe----oh, my Phyllis ! beware

Of a magic there is in the sound.

'Tis his with mock passion to glow;

'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, “ How her face is as bright as the snow,

“ And her bosom, be sure, is as cold? • How the nightingales labour the strain,

“ With the notes of his charmer to vie;
How they vary their accents in vain,
“ Repine at her triumphs, and die.";

To the grove or the garden he strays,

And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,

He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
a o Phyllis," he whispers, « more fair,

“ More sweet than the jefsamine's flow'r! « What are pinks, in the morn, to compare?

What is eglantine, after a fhow'r?

“ Then the lily no longer is white;

“ Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; “ Then the violets die with despight,

“ And the woodbines give up their perfume." Thus glide the soft numbers along, And he fancies no shepherd his peer:

Yet I never fhould envy the song,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an car.

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,

So Phyllis the crophy despise;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,

So they shine. not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart,
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue ;

-Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. YE shepherds give ear to my lay,

And take no more heed of my sheep: They have nothing to do but to stray;

I have nothing to do, but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair---and my paffion begun ; She smil'd---and I could not but love;

She is faithlessammand I am undone.

Perhaps I was void of all thought;

Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be sought

By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah ! love ev'ry hope can inspire ;

It banishesi wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire

Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile,

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