So thus enclos'd, I bear Affliction's load,
But with more true content than some abroad;
For whilst their thoughts do feel my Scourge's sting,
In bands I'll leap, and dance, and laugh, and sing.
Why now I see thou droop'st not with thy care,
Neither exclaim'st thou on thy hunting-day;
But dost, with unchang'd resolution, bear
The heavy burthen of exile away.
All that did truly know thee, did conceive
Thy actions with thy spirit still agreed :
Their good conceit thou dost no whit bereave,
But shewest that thou'rt still thyself indeed.
If that thy mind to baseness now descends,
Thou❜lt injure Virtue, and deceive thy friends.
Willy.
Alexis! he will injure Virtue much,
But more his friends, and most of all himself,
If on that common bar his mind but touch,
It wrecks his fame upon disgrace's shelf;
Whereas, if thou steer on that happy course,
Which in thy just adventure is begun,
No 'thwarting tide nor adverse blast shall force
Thy bark without the channel's bounds to run.*
* Perhaps, says Mr. Dalrymple, there never was a more perfect metaphor; but a man must be a seaman to feel the full force of it.
Thou art the same thou wert, for ought I see,
When thou didst freely on the mountains hunt:
In nothing changed yet, unless it be
More merrily dispos'd than thou wert wont.
Still keep thee thus, so others well shall know,
Virtue can give content in midst of woe;
And she, though mightiness with frowns doth threat,
That, to be innocent, is to be great.
Thrive and farewell!.
In this thy trouble, flourish,
While those that wish thee ill, fret, pine, and perish.
The fourth Eclogue.
THE ARGUMENT.
Philarete on Willy calls,
To sing out his pastorals ;
Warrants fame shall grace his rhymes,
'Spite of envy and the times;
And shews how in care he uses
To take comfort from his Muses.
PRITHEE, Willy! tell me this;
What new accident there is,
That thou, once the blithest lad,
Art become so wond'rous sad,
And so careless of thy quill,
As if thou hadst lost thy skill?
Thou wert wont to charm thy flocks,
And among the massy rocks
Hast so cheer'd me with thy song,
That I have forgot my wrong.
Something hath thee surely crost,
That thy old wont thou hast lost.
Tell me; have I ought mis-said,
That hath made thee ill-apaid?
Hath some churl done thee a spite?
Dost thou miss a lamb to-night?
Frowns thy fairest shepherd's lass?
Or how comes this ill to pass?
Is there any discontent
Why, doth that so evil seem
That thou nothing worse dost deem? Shepherds there full many be,
That will change contents with thee;
Those that choose their walks at will,
On the valley or the hill;
Or those pleasures boast of can,
Groves or fields may yield to man ;
Never come to know the rest,
Wherewithall thy mind is blest;
Many a one that oft resorts
To make up the troop at sports,
And in company some while,
Happens to strain forth a smile;
Feels more want and outward smart,
And more inward grief of heart
Than this place can bring to thee,
While thy mind remaineth free.
Thou bewail'st my want of mirth,
But what find'st thou in this earth,
Wherein ought may be believ'd
Worth to make me joy'd, or griev'd?
And yet feel I, naitheless,
Part of both I must confess.
Sometime I of mirth do borrow,
Otherwhile as much of sorrow;
But my present state is such,
As, nor joy, nor grieve I much.
Why hath Willy then so long
Thus forborne his wonted song?
Wherefore doth he now let fall
His well-tuned pastoral,
And my ears that music bar,
Which I more long after far,
Than the liberty I want?
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