Pan, Pan, wherce'er your wandring Footsteps
Whether on Lyce's airy Tops you rove, (move;
Or fporting in the vaft Menalian Grove:
Hafte, quickly hafte; leave the high Tomb, that nods
O'er Helick's Cliff, the wonder of the Gods!
And to fair Sicily thy Steps convey:

Leave off, Fond Mufe, leave off the Rural Lay.
Here take my waxen Pipe, well joyn'd, and fit;
An useless Pipe to me! and I to it!
For Love and Fate have fummon'd me away:
Leave off, Fond Mufe, leave off the Rural Lay.
On Brambles now let Violets be born,
And op'ning Rofes blush on ev'ry Thorn:
Let all things Nature's Contradiction wear,
And barren Pine-trees yield the mellow Pear.
Since Daphnis dyes, what can be ftrange, or new?
Hounds now shall fly, and trembling Fawns pursue;
Screech-Owls fhall fing, and Thrushes yield the day:

Leave off, Fond Mufe, leave off the Rural Lay. Thus Daphnis fpake, and more he would have fung: But Death prevail'd upon his trembling Tongue. Fair Venus ftrove to raise her drooping Son: In vain she strove, for his laft Thread was fpun.

Black

Black Stygian Waves furround the darling Boy
Of every Nymph, and every Mufe's Joy.
Lifeless he lies, and still as harden'd Clay,
Who was fo Young, fo Lovely, and so Gay:
Leave off, Fond Mufe, leave off the Rural Lay.
The Cup and Goat you cannot now refuse:
I'll milk her, and I'll offer to my Muse.
All hail, ye Muses, that inspire my Tongue!
A better day shall have a better Song.

Goat-herd.

May dropping Combs on those sweet Lips distil,
And thy lov'd Mouth with Attick Honey fill.
For much, much fweeter is thy Tuneful Voice,
Than, when on Sunny days with chearful noise,
The Vocal Infects of the Spring rejoyce.

Here, take the promis'd Cup: How bright the look!
How fine the Smell!fure from fome fragrant Brook,
The bath offmiling Hours, it the gay tincture took!
Here* Ciffy, hitherward, ---Come, milk her now:
My Kids, forbear to leap for if you do,
The Goat may chance to leap as well as you.

*Kivada, the Name of the Goat.

The

The REAPERS

THE

Tenth IDYLLIUM

OF

THEOCRITUS

Englished by Mr. WILIAM BOWLES, of King's College in Cambridge.

M.

A

Re

Milo. Battas.

you grown lazy, or does fome Disease, Oh Battus, bind your hands, & finews feize, That like a Sheep prickt by a pointed Thorn, Still you're behind, and lagg at ev'ry Turn? What in the Heat, and Evening will do, you Who early in the Morning loiter fo?

B. Milo, thou piece of Flint, thou all of Stone, Did❜st never yet an absent Friend bemoan? M.Who, but fuch Fools as thou, the abfent Mind? Sure what concerns you more, you here

find. may

B. Did Love ne'er yet thy Senfes waking keep, Trouble thy Dreams, or interrupt thy Sleep?

M. The Gods preferve me from that restless Care. Oh Reapers all, the gilded Bait beware!

B. But I nine days the Paffion Love have felt, With inward fires confume, and flowly melt. See! all neglected lies before my Door, While I run mad for a confounded Whore.

B. She who pip'd lately at Hippocaoris Feaft, Charm'd every Ear, and wounded every Gueft. M. The Gods for fome old Sins have fent this Evil, And fhame long due has reach'd thee from the Devil. B. Beware, infulting Cupid has a Dart, And it may one day reach thy ftubborn Heart.

For

you

M. Come, you're a Poet, fing fome am'rous Song, Twill ease your toil, and make the day lefs long. B. Oh Muse! assist my Song, and make it flow, fresh Charms on all you fing bestow. Bombyce (Oh my dearest) do not frown, They call thee Tawny, but I call thee Brown. Yet blush not, Dear: Black is the Violet, And Hyacinth with Letters all o'erwrit.

Yet both are sweet, and both for Garlands fit.

}

Kids the greenLeaves, Wolves the youngKids purfue,
And Battus, fweet Bombyce, follows you.

Oh! had the envious Gods not made me poor,
Had I rich Crafus Wealth and mighty Store,
In Venus Temple should our Statues ftand;
Thou with thy Pipe and Taber in thy hand,

I in a Dancer's Posture, gay, new fhod,

Form'd of pure Gold, and glorious as a God!
Thy Voice, Bombyce, is moft foft and sweet,
But who can praise enough thy humour,and thy filver
M. Battus deceiv'dus, a great Poet grown, (feet?
What Verfe is here! But are they, Friend, thy own?
How just the Rhymes, how equally they meet,
The Numbers how harmonious, and how fweet!
Yet mark, and this diviner Song attend,
'Twas by immortal Lyrierfes penn❜d.

Smile on the Corn, O Ceres! blefs the Field,
May the full Ears a plenteous Harvest yield.
Gather your Sheaves (Oh Friends!) and better bind,
See how they're blown, and scatter'd by the Wind:
Haste, lest some jeering Passenger should say,
Oh lazy Rogues! their Hire is thrown away.
Reapers obferve, and to the Southwest turn
Your Sheaves; 'twill fill the Ears, and fwell the Corn.
Threshers