Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy despise;

Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they fhine not in Phyllises eyes.
The language that flows from the heart
Is a ftranger to Paridels tongue;
-Yet fhe beware of his art,
may

Or fure I must envy the fong.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

Ye fhepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my fheep:
They have nothing to do, but to ftray;
I have nothing to do but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair-and my paffion begun ;
She fmil'd-and I could not but love;
She is faithlefs-and I am undone.

Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to forefee,
That a nymph fo complete would be fought
By a fwain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can infpire;

It banishes wifdom the while;

And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a fmile.

She

She is faithlefs, and I am undone ;
Ye that witness the woes I endure;
Let reafon inftruct you to fhun

What it cannot inftruct you to cure.
Beware how ye loiter in vain

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

How fair and how fickle they be.

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 may diminish the pain :

The flower, and the fhrub, 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 rofe,

The found of a murmuring ftream,
The peace which from folitude flows,
Henceforth fhall be Corydons theme.
High transports are shown to the fight,
But we are not to find them our own;
Fate never bestow'd fuch delight,
As I with my Phyllis had known.

O ye woods, fpread your branches
To your deepest receffes I fly;

apace;

I would hide with the beafts of the chace;

I would vanish from every eye.

Yet

Yet my reed fhall refound through the grove
With the fame fad complaint it begun ;
How fhe fmil'd, and I could not but love;
Was faithlefs, and I am undone!

SONG LIX.

COLIN S

COMPLAINT.

BY NICHOLAS ROWE ESQ*.

To the tune of, Grim King of the ghofts.

D

ESPAIRING befide a clear stream,
A fhepherd forfaken was laid;
And while a falfe nymph was his theme,
A willow fupported his head.

The wind that blew over the plain,

To his fighs with a figh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.

Alas, filly fwain that I was!

Thus fadly complaining he cried,
When first I beheld that fair face,

"Twere better by far I had died.
She talk'd, and I blefs'd the dear tongue;
When fhe fmil'd, 'twas a pleafure too great:

I liften'd, and cried, when fhe fung,

Was nightingale ever fo fweet?

The author, in this beautiful and pathetic ballad, alludes to his own fituation with the countess dowager of Warwick, and to his fuccessful rival mr. Addifon.

How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on so lowly a clown; Or that her fond heart would not grieve

To forfake the fine folk of the town? To think that a beauty fo gay,

Or

So kind and fo conftant would prove;

go clad like our maidens in gray, Or live in a cottage on love?

What though I have kill to complain,

Though the Mufes my temples have crown'd;
What though when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins fit weeping around!

Ah Colin! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel refign;

Thy falfe one inclines to a swain,
Whofe mufic is fweeter than thine.

And you, my companions fo dear,
Who forrow to see me betray'd,
Whatever I fuffer, forbear,

Forbear to accufe the falfe maid.

Though through the wide world I should range,
'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly :
"Twas hers to be falfe and to change,
'Tis mine to be conftant and die.

If while my hard fate I fuftain,

In her breast any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground.
F

VOL. I.

The

The laft humble boon that I crave,
Is to shade me with cypress and yew;
And when the looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her fhepherd was true.

Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array;
Be finest at ev'ry fine show,

And frolic it all the long day:
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talk'd of, or feen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghoft shall glide over the green.

SONG LX.

BY MR. OTWA Y.

NOME all ye youths whose hearts e'er bled

COM

By cruel beautys pride,

Bring each a garland on his head,

Let none his forrows hide;

But hand in hand around me move,
Singing the faddeft tales of love;
And fee, when your complaints ye join,
If all your wrongs can equal mine.

In the tragedy of The Orphan.

The