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THIS place may seem for shepherds’ leisure made,

So lovingly these elms unite their head. Th’ ambitious woodbine, how it climbs, to breathe Its balmy sweets around on all beneath! The ground with grass of cheerful green bespread, Thro' which the springing flower up-rears its head. Lo here the king-cup of a golden hue, Medley'd with daisies white, and endive blue ! Hark how the gaudy goldfinch, and the thrush, With tuneful warblings fill that bramble-bush ! In pleasing concerts all the birds combine, And tempt us in the various song to join. Up, Argol, then; and to thy lip apply Thy mellow pipe, or vocal music try: And, since our ewes have graz’d, no harm, if they Lie round and liften, while their lambkins play.


The place indeed gives pleasance to the eye; And pleasance works the finger's fancy high: The fields breathe sweet; and now the gentle breeze Moves ev'ry leaf, and trembles thro' the trees. So sweet a scene ill suits my rugged lay, And better fits the mufic thou canst play.


No skill of music can I, simple swain, No fine device thine ear to entertain:



Albeit some deal I pipe, rude tho' it be,
Sufficient to divert my sheep and me ;
Yet Colinet (and Colinet has skill)
My fingers guided on the tuneful quill,
And try'd to teach me on what sounds to dwell,
And where to sink 'a note, and where to swell.


Ah Mico! half my flock would I bestow,
Would Colinet to me his cunning show.
So trim his fonnets are, I prithee, fwain,
Now give us once a sample of his strain :
For wonders of that lad the shepherds say,
How sweet his pipe, how ravishing his lay:
The sweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse,
And ask what gift thou pleaseft for thy verse.


Since then thou lift, a mournful fong I chuse;
A mournful song becomes a mournful muse.
Fast by a river, on a bank he sat,
To weep a lovely maid's untimely fate;
Fair Stella hight: a lovely maid was she,
Whose fate he wept; a faithful shepherd he.

Awake, my pipe! in ev'ry note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

O woeful day! O day of woe! quoth he ;
And woeful I, who live the day to see!
That ever she could die! O mott unkind,

go, and leave thy Colinet behind!
And yet, why blame 1 her? Full fain would she,
With dying arms, have clasp'd herself to me:
I clafp'd her too; but death was all too strong,
Nor vows, nor tears, could fleeting life prolong.


Teach me to grieve, with bleating moan, my sheep;
Teach me, thou ever-flowing stream, to weep;
Teach me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to figh;.
And let my forrows teach me how to die:
Nor flock, nor stream, nor winds, can e'er relieve
A wretch like me, for ever born to grieve.

Awake, my pipe! in ev'ry note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's diftress.

Ye brighter maids, faint emblems of my fair, With looks cast down, and with dishevel'd hair, In bitter anguish beat your breasts, and moan Her hour untimely, as it were your own. Alas! the fading glories of your eyes In vain we doat upon, in vain you prize: For, tho' your beauty rule the filly swain, And in his heart like little queens you reign; Yet death will ev’n that ruling beauty kill, As ruthless winds the tender blossoms spill. If either music's voice, or beauty's charm, Could make him mild, and stay his lifted arm; My pipe her face, her face my pipe should save, Redeeming thus each other from the grave. Ah fruitless wish! cold death's up-lifted arm No music can persuade, nor beauty charm: For fee (O baleful fight!) see where she lies! The budding flow'r, unkindly blafted, dies.

Awake, my pipe! in ev'ry note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

Unhappy Colinet! what boots thee now
To weave fresh garlands for the damsel's brow?
Throw by the lily, daffodil and rose;
One of black yew, and willow pale, compose,

With baleful henbane, deadly night-shade dreft;
A garland that may witness thy unreft.
My pipe, whose soothing sound could passion move;
And first taught Stella's virgin heart to love,
Untun’d, shall hang upon this blaited oak,
Whence owls their dirges sing, and ravens croak:.
Nor lark nor linnet shall by day delight,
Nor nightingale divert my moan by night;
The night and day shall undistinguish'd be
Alike to Stella, and alike to me.

Thus sweetly did the gentle shepherd fing,
And heavy woe within soft numbers bring:
And now that sheep-hook for my fong I crave.


Not this, but one much fairer shalt thou have, Of season'd elm; where ftuds of brass

To speak the giver's name, the month and year;
The hook of polish'd steel, the handle turn’d,
And richly by the graver's skill adorn'd.

O Colinet, how sweet thy grief to hear!
How does thy verse subdue the liftning ear!
Not half so sweet are midnight winds, that move
In drowsy murmurs o'er the waving grove;
Nor dropping waters, that in grots distil,
And with a tinkling found their caverns fill.
So sing the swans, that in soft numbers waste
Their dying breath, and warble to the last:
And next to thee shall Mico bear the bell,
That can repeat thy peerless verse fo well.

But see! the hills increasing shadow's cast:
The sun, I ween, is leaving us in halte:



His weakly rays but glimmer thro’ the wood,
And blueish mifts arise from yonder flood.


Then send our curs to gather up the sheep: Good shepherds with their flocks betimes should Neep; For, he that late lies down, as late will rise, And, fluggard-like, till noon-day snoring lies; While in their folds his injur'd ewes complain, And after dewy pastures bleat in vain.


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How !

COW ftill the fea! behold, how calm the fky!

And how, in sportive chace, the swallows fly! My goats, secure from harm, no tendance need, While high on yonder hanging rock they feed: And here below, the banky shore along Your heisers graze: and I to hear your song Dispos'd. As eldest, Hobbinol, begin; ; And Lanquet's under-song by turns come in.


Let others meanly stake upon their skill,
Or kid, or lamb, or goat, or what they will;
For praise we fing, nor wager aught beside;
And, whose the praise, let GERON's lips decide.


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