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Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our fheep:
From these good fhepherd's care his flock may keep :
Against ill-luck, alas ! all forcast fails ;
Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.

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| - T H E N o T. | And what enticement charm'd thee, far away, | From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray ? C o L 1 N E T.

A lewd defire strange lands, and fwains, to know :
Ah me ! that ever I should covet woe.
With wand'ring feet unbleft, and fond of fame,

I fought I know not what befides a name.
T H e N o r.

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Small need there was, in random search of gain,
To drive my pining stock athwart the plain,
F 2 - -

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To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow, To hoard up to myself fuch deal of woe ! My sheep quite spent, through travel and ill fare, And like their keeper, ragged grown and bare, The damp, cold green sward, for my nightly bed, And some flaunt willow's trunk to rest my head. Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain ; And hard is want to the unpraćtic’d swain ; But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard, To blasting storms of calumny compar'd : Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting shower Destroys the tender herb, and budding flower.

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Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong : And what wounds forer than an evil tongue ?

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In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, fo shrill,
Charms every vale, and gladdens every hill :
In vain thou feek’st the coverings of the grove,
In the cool fhade to fing the pains of love:
Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail ;
And every elf hath skill enough to rail :
But yet, though poor and artless be my vein,
Menalcas feems to like my fimple ftrain :
And, while that he delighteth in my fong,
Which to the good Menalcas doth belong,
Nor might, nor day, shall my rude music cease ;
I ask no more, fo I Menalcas please. . . . . . .

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First, then, shall lightfome birds forget to fly,
The briny ocean turn to pastures dry,
And every rapid river cease to flow,
’E’re I unmindful of Menalcas grow.

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This night thy care with me forget, and fold
Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold.
New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd,
With fome remaining fruit of last year’s hoard,
Shall be our evening fare, and, for the night,
Sweet herbs and moss, which gentle sleep invite :
And now behold the fun’s departing ray,
O'er yonder, hill, the sign of ebbing day :
With fongs the jovial hinds return from plow ;
And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.

Mr. Pope's Pastorals next appeared, but in a different dress from those of Spenser, and Phillips; for he has discarded all antiquated words, drawn his swains more modern and polite, and made his numbers exquisitely harmonious ; his eclogues therefore may be called better poems, but not better Pastorals. We shali infert the eclogue he has inscribed to Mr. Wycherly, the beginning of which is in imitation of

Virgil's first Pastoral.

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When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains gr0ân,
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away !
To Delia’s ear the tender notes convey.
As fome fad turtle his loft love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the g shores ;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along !
For her, the feather'd quires neglect their song:
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny ;
For her, the lillies hang their heads and die.
Ye flow’rs, that droop, forfaken by the spring,
Ye birds, that left by fummer cease to fing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love ?
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away !
Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay :
Fade ev'ry b'offom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all but she.
What have I faid ? where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and fudden flow’rs arife ;
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs along !
The birds shall ceafe to tune their evening fong,
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty fwain,
Not balny sleep to lab’rers faint with pain,
Not show’rs to larks, or fun-fhine to the bee,
Are half fo charming as thy fight to me.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my fighs away !
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay ?
Thro' rocks and caves the name of Defia founds;
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow’rs, what pleasing frenzy fooths my mind !
Dɔ lovers dream, or is my Delia kind ?
She comes, my Delia comes !–now cease my lay,
And cease ye gales, to bear my fighs away !
Next Ægon fung, while Windfför groves admir’d:
Rehearfe, ye muses, what yourselves inspir’d.

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