I priz'd every hour that went by, And I grieve that I priz'd them no more. But why do I languish in vain? The pride of that valley, is flown; I could wander with pleasure, alone. When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day, Thus widely remov'd from the fair, And my folace whereever I go. II. HOPE. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, And my hills are white-over with sheep. Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss, Where the hare-bells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there feen, Not a beeches more beautiful green, But a fweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fifhes of gold. One would think she might like to retire But I hafted and planted it there. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, How the nightingales warble their loves From thickets of rofes that blow ! And And when her bright form fhall appear, As she may not be fond 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 fay 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, the averr'd, Such tenderness fall from her tongue. I have heard her with fweetness unfold And fhe call'd it the fifter of love. Can a bofom fo gentle remain Unmov'd, when her Corydon fighs? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain, These plains and this valley despise? Dear regions of filence and fhade! Soft fcenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, If aught, in her abfence, could please. But But where does my Phyllida ftray? And where are her grots and her bow'rs? III. SOLICITUDE. Why will you my paffion reprove? With her mien fhe enamours the brave: O you that have been of her train, Come and join in my amorous lays; I could lay down my life for the swain, That will fing but a fong in her praise. When he fings, may the nymphs of the town Come trooping, and liften the while; Nay on him let not Phyllida frown; -But I cannot allow her to fmile. For when Paridel tries in the dance O how, with one trivial glance, In ringlets he dreffes his hair, And his crook is be-ftudded around; And his pipe-oh may Phyllis beware Of a magic there is in the found. "Tis his with mock paffion to glow; To the grove or the garden he strays, More sweet than the jeffamines flow'r! Then the lily no longer is white; Then the rofe is depriv'd of its bloom; Then the violets die with defpight; And the woodbines give up their perfume. Thus glide the foft numbers along, And he fancies no fhepherd his peer; -Yet I never fhould envy the fong, Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. Let |