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For when, as long her chains I've worn,
I ask relief from smart,
She only gives me looks of scorn;
Alas, 'twill break
My rivals, rich in worldly store,
May offer heaps of gold,
But surely I a heaven adore,
Too precious to be fold;
Can Sylvia such a coxcomb prize
For wealth and not desert,
And my poor sighs and tears despife?
Alas, 'twill break my heart !
When like some panting, hovering dove,
I for my bliss contend,
And plead the cause of eager love,
She coldly calls me friend.
Ah, Sylvia! thus in vain you strive
To act a healers part,
"Twill keep my lingering pain alive,
Alas! and break
When on my lonely pensive bed
I lay me down to rest,
In hope to calm my raging head,
And cool my burning breaft,
Her cruelty all eafe denies ;
With some sad dream I start,
All drown'd in tears I find my eyes,
And breaking feel my heart.
Then rising, through the path I rove
That leads me where she dwells,
Where to the senseless waves my love
Its mournful story tells ;
With fighs I dew and kiss the door,
'Till morning bids depart!
Then vent ten thousand fighs and more:
Alas, 'twill break my heart!
But, Sylvia, when this conquest's won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel deed you've done,
Nor glory when tis told :
For every lovely generous maid
Will take my injur'd part,
And curfe thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid,
For breaking my poor heart.
My times Phoebe Wene with me where ever I went :
Y time, o ye ,
When Phebe went with me where ever I went :
Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my brealt;
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was bleft!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvelous change on a sudden I find !
When things were as fine as could poflibly be,
I thought 'twas the spring, but, alas! it was fhe.
With such a companion to tend a few Meep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and seep;
I was so good-humour’d, fo chearful, and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day.
But now I fo cross, and so peevish am grown,
So strangely uneasy as never was known ;
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd,
heart-I am sure it weighs more than a pound.
The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among,
Thou know'ftp little Cupid, if Phebe was there,
'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear :
But now she is absent, I walk by its fide,
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide ;
Must you be fo chearful, while I go in pain?
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.
my lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And when Phebe and I were as joyful as they, How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time, When spring, love, and beauty were all in their prime ! But now in their frolics, when by me they pass, I fing at their fleeces an handful of grass ; Be still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, To see you so merry, while I am so sad.
My dog I was ever well pleased to see
Come wagging his tail to my
fair one and me;
And Phebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said,
Come hither, poor fellow; and patted his head :
But now, when he's fawning, I, with a four look,
Cry, firrah; and give him a blow with my crook :
And I'll give him another, for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his master, when Phebe's away.
When walking with Phebe, what sights have I seen!
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,
The corn-fields and hedges, and every thing made !
But since she has left me, though all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear :
'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes
Made so many beautiful prospects arise.
Sweet music went with us both, all the wood through,
The lark, linnet, throftle, and nightingale too;
Winds over us whisper’d, focks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet :
But now she is abfent, though still they fing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone :
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave every thing else its agreeable sound.
Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ?
And where is the violets beautiful blue?
Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile ?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah, rivals! I fee what it was that you drest,
And made yourselves fine for; a place in her breast:
You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
To be pluck'd by her hand, cn her bosom to die.
How slowly time creeps, till my Phebe return !
While amidst the soft Zephyrs cool breezes I burn;
Methinks, if I knew whereabout he would tread,
I could breathe on his wings, and ’twould melt down the lead.
Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,
And reft so much longer fort, when she is here.
Ah, Colin! old time is full of delay,
Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.
Will no pitying power that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?
To be cur’d, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove ;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair!
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye love one so fair,
O the brook and the willow that heard him complain,
Ah willow, willow.
Poor Colin sat weeping, and told them his pain.
Ah willow, willow ; ah willow, willow.