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WHY will

you my paffion reprove ?

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

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

With her wit she 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 fing but a song in her praise. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town

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

But I cannot allow her to smile.

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 be-studded around; And his pipe-oh may Phyllis beware

Of a magic there is in the sound.

'Tis his with mock paffion 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.
O PHYLLIS, he whispers, more fair,

More sweet than the jessamin's flow'r !
What are pinks, in a morn, to compare ?

What is eglantine, after a show'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 foft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer ; Yet I never should envy the song,

Were not PHYLLIS to lend it an ear.

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,

So Phyllis the trophy 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.



E 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 passion begun;


She smil'd, and I could not but love ;

She is faithless, and I am undone.

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Perhaps I was void of all thought;

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

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

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

Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.

She is faithless, and I am undone ;

Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to fhun

What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you

loiter in vain Amid nymphs of an higher degree : It is not for me to explain

How fair, and how fickle they be.

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Alas! from the day that we met,

What hope of an end to my woes ?
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repose.

Yet time


diminish the pain : The flower, the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,

In time may have comfort for me.

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be CORYDON's theme. High transports are shewn to the fight,

But we are not to find them our own; Fate never bestow'd such delight,

As I with my PHYLLIS had known.

O ye woods, spread your branches apace ;

To your deepest receffes I fly;
I would hide with the beasts of the chace ;

I would vanish from every eye.

reed shall resound thro' the grove With the fame fad complaint it begun ; How she smil'd, and I could not but love ;

Was faithless and I am undone !


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