Alas! silly swain that I was!

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

"Twere better by far I had died.

She talk'd, and I blest the dear tongue,
When she smil❜d 'twas a pleasure too great!
I listen'd, and cried, when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet?

How foolish was I to believe

She would doat on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve To forsake the fine folks of the town; To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant would prove, To go clad like our maidens in gray, And live in a cottage on love.

What tho' I have skill to complain,

Tho' the Muses my temples have crown'd? What tho' when they hear my soft strain,

The virgins sit weeping around?

Ah Colin thy hopes are in vain,

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign,

Thy fair one inclines to a swain

Whose music is sweeter than thine.

And you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid; Tho' thro' the wide world we should range, "Tis in vain from our fortune to fly; "Twas hers to be false, and to change, 'Tis mine to be constant, and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain,
In her breast any pity is found,

Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground:
The last humble boon that I crave

Is to shade me with cypress and yew,
And when she looks down on my grave
Let her own that her shepherd was true...

Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array,

Be finest at every fine show,

And frolic it all the long day: While Colin forgotten and gone,

av

No more shall be heard of her seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon His ghost shall glide over the green.

[Rowe.]

As on a summer's day,

In the greenwood shade I lay,
The maid that I lov'd,
As her fancy mov'd,

Came walking forth that way.

And as she passed by,

With a scornful glance of her eye, What a shame, quoth she,

For a swain must it be, Like a lazy loon for to lie?

And dost thou nothing heed

What Pan our God has decreed;

What a prize to-day

Shall be given away

To the sweetest shepherd's reed?

There's not a single swain ⚫
Of all this fruitful plain,

But with hopes and fears,
Now busily prepares
The bonny boon to gain.

Shall another maiden shine
In brighter array than thine?
Up, up, dull swain,

Tune thy pipe once again,
And make the garland mine.

Alas! my love, I cried,

What avails this courtly pride?
Since thy dear desert

Is written in my heart,

What is all the world beside?

To me thou art more gay
In this homely russet gray,

Than the nymphs of our green,
So trim and so sheen,

Or the brightest queen of May.

What tho' my fortune frown,
And deny thee a silken gown;
My own dear maid,

Be content with this shade,
And a shepherd all thy own.

THE DESPONDING SHEPHERD.

[PRIOR.]

ALEXIS shunn'd his fellow swains,
Their rural sports and jocund strains;
Heaven shield us all from Cupid's bow!
He lost his crook, he left his flocks,
And wandering thro' the lonely rocks,
He nourish'd endless woe.

The nymphs and shepherds round him came,
His grief some pity, others blame,

The fatal cause all kindly seek;
He mingled his concern with theirs,
He gave them back their friendly tears,
He sigh'd, but could not speak.

Clorinda came among the rest,
And she too kind concern exprest
And ask'd the reason of his woe;
She ask'd, but with an air and mien
That made it easily foreseen

She fear'd too much to know.