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To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
More sweet than the jessamine's flower! What are pinks in the morn to compare?
What is eglantine after a shower?
“ Then the lily no longer is white;
Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; Then the violets die with despite,
And the woodbines give up their perfume.” Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd his peer: Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.
Let bis crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy despise;
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue; -Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.
YE Shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep: They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair – and my passion begun; She smil'd - and I could not but love;
She is faithless -- and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymplı so complete would be soughi
By a swain more engaging than me.
It banishes wisdom the while;
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithless, and I am undone;
Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to shun
What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of a 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
T'he glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain :
The flow'r, and the shrub, 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 rose,
The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight,
But we are not to find them our own; Fate never bestow'd such delight
As I with my Phyllis had known.
O ye woods, spread your branches apace!
To your deepest recesses I fly; I would hide with the beasts of the chace;
I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun; How she smil'd, and I could not but love!
Was faithless, and I am undone!
THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief- and Heaven will bless your store.
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These boary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Graudeur a magnificent abode:
Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine!
'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see: And your condition may be soon like mine,
-The child of sorrow and of misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn, But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot,
My cattle dy'd and blighted was my corn.
My daughter- once the comfort of my age!
Lur'd by a villain from her native home, Is cast-abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.