Since Phyllis vouchsaf'd me a look, Beyond all that had pleas'd me before: But why do I languish in vain ? They tell me, my favourite maid, The pride of that valley, is flown; When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day Is happy, nor heard to repine. II. HOPE. My banks they are furnish'd with bees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, 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 seen, Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet-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 fishes of gold. One would think she might like to retire To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, What strains of wild melody flow? How the nightingales warble their loves From thickets of roses that blow ! In a concert so soft and so clear, 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 say 'twas a barbarous deed: For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, Such tenderness fall from her tongue. I have heard her with sweetness unfold How that pity was due to a dove; And she call'd it the sister of love. Can a bosom so gentle remain Soft scenes of contentment and ease! But where does my Phyllida stray? And where are her grots and her bow'rs? Are the groves and the valleys as gay, And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine. III. SOLICITUDE. WHY will you my passion reprove? With her mien she enamours the brave; O you that have been of her train, That will sing but a song in her praise. For when Paridel tries in the dance 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. |