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My banks they are furnish'd with bees,
Such health do my fountains bestow ;
But a sweet-briar twines it around.
One would think she might like to retire、
With the lilac to render it gay!
Το 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 !
And when her bright form shall appear,
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,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young: And I loved her the more, when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold,
And she call'd it the sister of love.
VII. Can a bosom so gentle remain
Unmoved, when her Corydon sighs? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise ? Dear regions of silence and shade!
Soft scenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
If aught, in her absence, could please.
But where does my Phyllida stray?
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.
WHY will you my passion reprove?
Ere I show you the charms of my love.
Come and join in my amorous lays ;
O how, with one trivial glance,
And his crook is bestudded around;
"Tis his with mock passion to glow;
'Tis his, in smooth tales, to unfold, How her face is as bright as the snow, "And her bosom, be sure, is as cold! "How the nightingales labor the strain,
“With the notes of his charmer to vie ; "How they vary their accents in vain, "Repine at her triumphs, and die.”
To the grove or the garden he strays,
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
VI. "Then the lily no longer is white;
"Then the rose is deprived 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 his crook be with hyacinths bound,
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
YE shepherds, give ear to my lay,
She was fair-and my passion begun ;
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
That a nymph so complete would be sought
And the lip of the nymph we admire