THIRSIS.

    E’er the sun drank of the cold morning dew,
  I’ve known thee early the tuskt boar pursue: 
  Then in the evening drive the bear away,
  And rescue from his jaws the trembling prey. 
  But now thy flocks creep feebly through the fields,
  No purple grapes, thy half-drest vineyards yields: 
  No primrose nor no violets grace thy beds,
  But thorns and thistles lift their prickly heads. 
  What means this change?

STREPHON

         &nb
sp;                                        Enquire no more;
  When none can heal, ’tis pain to search the sore;
  Bright Galatea, in whose matchless face
  Sat rural innocence, with heavenly grace;
  In whose no less inimitable mind,
  With equal light, even distant virtues shin’d;
  Chaste without pride, and charming without art,
  Honour the tyrant of her tender heart: 
  Fair goddess of these fields, who for our sports,
  Though she might well become, neglected courts: 
  Belov’d of all, and loving me alone,
  Is from my sight, I fear, for ever gone.

THIRSIS.

    Thy case indeed is pitiful, but yet
  Thou on thy loss too great a price dost set. 
  Women like days are, Strephon, some be far
  More bright and glorious than others are: 
  Yet none so gay, so temperate, so clear,
  But that the like adorn the rowling year,
  Pleasures imparted to a friend, increase,
  Perhaps divided sorrow may grow less.

Strephon.

    Others as fair, to others eyes may seem,
  But she has all my love and my esteem: 
  Her bright idea wanders in my thought,
  At once my poison, and my antidote.

THIRSIS.

    Our hearts are paper, beauty is the pen,
  Which writes our loves, and blots ’em out agen. 
  Phillis is whiter than the rising swan,
  Her slender waist confin’d within a span: 
  Charming as nature’s face in the new spring,
  When early birds on the green branches sing. 
  When rising herbs and buds begin to hide,
  Their naked mother, with their short-liv’d pride,
  Chloe is ripe, and as the autumn fair,
  When on the elm the purple grapes appear,
  When trees, hedge-rows, and every bending bush,
  With rip’ning fruit, or tasteful berries blush,
  Lydia is in the summer of her days,
  What wood can shade us from her piercing rays? 
  Her even teeth, whiter than new yean’d lambs,
  When they with tender cries pursue their dams. 
  Her eyes as charming as the evening sun,
  To the scorch’d labourer when his work is done,
  Whom the glad pipe, to rural sports invites,
  And pays his toil with innocent delights. 
  On some of these fond swain fix thy desire,
  And burn not with imaginary fire.

Strephon.

    The flag shall sooner with the eagle soar,
  Seas leave their fishes naked on the shore;
  The wolf shall sooner by the lamkin die,
  And from the kid the hungry lion fly,
  Than I abandon Galatea’s love,
  Or her dear image from my thoughts remove.