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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 his 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 sought
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
The 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,
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 vanish from every eye.
With the same sad complaint it begun;
Was faithless, and I am undone!
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 haild 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.