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At morn the nymph vouchsaf’d to place -
Upon her brow the various wreath;

The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath."

The flowers she wore along the day, -
And every nymph and shepherd said,

That in her hair they look'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed. ' o

Undress'd at evening, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past,

She chang'd her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropt sense distinct and clear, -
As any Muse's tongue could speak,

When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

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She sigh'd; she smil’d; and to the flow’rs
Pointing, the lovely mor’alist said,

* See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder what a change is made.

* Ah me! the blooming pride of May
And that of Beauty are but one;

At morn both flourish, bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale and gone.

* At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow'd;
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw and kiss'd her in her shrowd.

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LEXIS shunn’d his fellow-swains,
Their rural sports and jocund strains;
(Heav'n guard us all from Cupid's bow 1)
He lost his crook, he left his flocks,
And, wandering through the lonely rocks,
He nourish'd endless woe.

The nymphs and shepherds round him came:
His grief some pity, others blame;
The fatal cause all kindly seek:
He mingled his concern with theirs;
He gave them back their friendly tears;
He sigh'd, but would not speak.

Clorinda came among the rest,
And she, too, kind concern express'd,
And ask'd the reason of his woe:
She ask'd, but with an air and mien
That made it easily foreseen
She fear'd too much to know.

The shepherd rais'd his mournful head;

“And will you pardon me, (he said)
While I the cruel truth reveal,

Which nothing from my breast should tear,

Which never should offend your ear,
But that you bid me tell ?

‘'Tis thus I rove, ’tis thus complain,
Since you appear'd upon the plain;
You are the cause of all my care :
Your eyes ten thousand dangers dart,
Ten thousand torments vex my heart;
I love, and I despair.’

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A* Nancy at her toilet sat,
Admiring this and blaming that,
“Tell me, (she said) but tell me true,
The nymph who could your heart subdue,
What sort of charms does she possess?'
“Absolve me, fair-one, I'll confess
With pleasure, I replied: “Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love sits in open triumph crown'd ;
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state, by friends is seen:
Her eyes are neither black nor grey,
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor Yes nor No.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,
May say how red, how round, how sweet:
Old Homer only could indite
Their vagrant grace and soft delight: . -
They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smil'd and Hebe spoke’—
The gipsy, turning to her glass,
Too plainly show'd she knew the face;
“And which am I most like, (she said)
Your Chloe or your Nut-brown maid?'

- O DE To Mr. Hugh Howard, the Painter.

EAR Howard, from the soft assaults of love
Poets and painters never are secure;
Can I, untouch'd, the fair-ones' passions move,
Or thou draw beauty, and not feel its pow'r?

To great Apelles when young Ammon brought
The darling idol of his captive heart,

And the pleas'd nymph, with kind attention, sat
To have her charms recorded by his art;

The amorous master own'd her potent eyes,
Sigh’d when he look'd, and trembled as he drew;

Each flowing line confirm'd his first surprise,
And as the piece advanc'd, the passion grew.

While Philip's son, while Venus' son, was near,
What different tortures does his bosom feel?

Great was the rival, and the god severe;
Nor could he hide his flame, nor durst reveal.

The prince, renown'd in bounty as in arms,
With pity saw the ill-conceal’d distress;

Quitted his title to Campaspe's charms,
And gave the fair-one to the friend's embrace.

Thus the more beauteous Chloe sat to thee,
Good Howard, emulous of the Grecian art;

But happy thou, from Cupid's arrow free,
And flames, that pierc'd thy predecessor's heart.

Had thy poor breast receiv'd an equal pain,
Had I been vested with the monarch's pow'r,

Thou must have sigh'd, unlucky youth, in vain,
Nor from my bounty hadst thou found a cure.

Though, to convince thee that the friend did feel A kind concern for thy ill-fated care;

I would have sooth'd the flame I could not heal, Giv'n thee the world, though I withheld the fair.

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----- Libeat mihi sordida rura,
Atque humiles habitare casas----- Virg.

To the courteous Reader.

Go! hath it been, (and that not unlo ) to diverse worthy wits, that in this

our island of Britain, in all rare sciences so greatly abounding, more especially in all kinds of poesy highly flourishing, no poet (though otherways of notable cunning in roundelays), hath hit on the o simple Eclogue, after the true ancient guise of Theocritus, before this mine attempt: .

Other É. travailing in this plain, highway of pastoral know I none. Yet, certes, such it behoveth a pastoral to be, as nature in the country affordeth; and the manners, also meetly copied from the rustical folk therein. In this also my love to m native country Britain much pricketfi me forward, to describe aright the manners of our own honest and laborious ploughmen, in no wise, sure, more unworthy a British poet's imitation, than those of Sicily, or Arcady; albeit, not ignorant I am what a rout and rabblement of critical gallimawfry hath been made of late days by certain young men of insipid delicacy, concerning I wist not... what Golden Age, and , other outrageous conceits, to which they would confine pastoral ; whereof, I avow, I account nought at all, knowing n2 age so justly to be instised Golden, as this of our sovereign lady Queen Anne.

This idle trumpery (only fit for schools, and school-boys) unto that ancient Doric shepherd Theocritus, or his mates, was never known ; he rightly throughout his fifth Idyl, maketh his souts give foul language, and behold their goats at rut in all simplicity.

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