THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD.

ALEXIS shunn'd his fellow-swains,

Their rural sports and jocund strains;
(Heav'n guard us all from Cupid's bow!)

He lost his crook, he left his flocks,
And, wand'ring thro' 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 'em back their friendly tears;
He sigh'd, but would not speak.
Clorinda came among the rest,
And she, too, kind concern exprest,
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.

Too much, Alexis, I have heard:
'Tis what I thought, 'tis what I fear'd;
And yet I pardon you, she cry'd;
But you shall promise ne'er again

To breathe your vows, or speak your pain.
He bow'd, obey'd, and dy'd.

THE OLD GENTRY.

I.

THAT all from Adam first began,

None but ungodly Whiston doubts, And that his son and his son's son

Were all but ploughmen, clowns, and louts.

11.

Each, when his rustic pains began,

To merit pleaded equal right;

'Twas only who left off at noon,

Or who went on to work till night.

III.

But coronets we owe to crowns,
And favour to a court's affection;
Volume II.

N

By nature we are Adam's sons,

And sons of Anstis by election.

IV.

Kingsale! eight hundred years have roll'd Since thy forefathers held the plough; When this in story shall be told,

Add, that my kindred do so now.

V.

The man who by his labour gets
His bread, in independent state,
Who never begs, and seldom eats,
Himself can fix or change his fate.

His tropes and figures will content ye:
He should possess to all degrees

The art of talk; he practises

Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty.

THE REMEDY

WORSE THAN THE DISEASE.

I SENT for Ratcliffe, was so ill,

That other doctors gave me over:

He felt my pulse, prescrib'd his pill,

And I was likely to recover.

II.

But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cur'd yesterday of my disease,

I dy'd last night of my physician.

THE SECRETARY.

WRITTEN AT THE HAGUE, 1696.

WHILE with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the bus'ness of six,

In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a W*** on my right:
No memoirs to compose, and no postboy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;
For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea,

Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee:

This night and the next shall be her's, shall be mine, To good or ill fortune the third we resign:

Thus scorning the world, and superior to Fate,

I drive on my car in processional state;

So with Phia, thro' Athens, Pisistratus rode,
Men thought her Min rva, and him a new God.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,
Where people knew love, and were partial to vërsë;

Since none can with justice my pleasure oppose,
In Holland half drown'd in int'rest and prose?
By Greece, and past ages, what need I be try'd,
When the Hague and the present are both on my side?
And is it enough for the joys of the day,

To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say?
When good Vandergoes, and his provident vrow,
As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow,
That, search all the province, you'll find no man daris
So blest as the Englishen beer Secretar' is,

CONSIDERATIONS

ON PART OF THE LXXXVIII. PSALM.
[A College Exercise, 1695.]

I,

HEAVY, O Lord, on me thy judgments lie ;
Accurst I am while God rejects my cry.
O'erwhelm'd in darkness and despair I groan,
And ev'ry place is hell, for God is gone.
O Lord arise, and let thy beams controu!
Those horrid clouds that press my frighted soul;
Save the poor wand'rer from eternal night,
Thou that art the God of light.

II.

Downward I hasten to my destin'd place;

There none obtain thy aid, or sing thy praise,