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This night, at least, with me forget your care; Chefnuts and curds and cream fhall be your fare: The carpet ground fhall be with leaves o'er-fpread, And boughs fhall weave a cov'ring for your head: For fee yon funny hill, the fhade extends,

And curling smoke from cottages afcends.

Spenfer was the firft of our own countrymen, who acquired any confiderable reputation by this method of writing. We shall infert his fixth eclogue, or that for June, which is allegorical, as will be seen by the


"Hobbinol, from a description of the pleasures of the place, excites Colin to the enjoyment of them. Colin declares himself incapable of delight, by reason of his ill fuccefs in love, and his lofs of Rofalind, who had treacherously forfaken him for Menalcas, another fhepherd. By Tityrus (mentioned before in Spenfer's fecond eclogue, and again in the twelfth) is plainly meant Chaucer, whom the author fometimes profefs'd to imitate. In the person of Colin, is reprefented the author himself; and Hobbinol's inviting him to leave the hilly country, feems to allude to his leaving the North, where, as is mention'd in his life, he had for fome time refided."


Lo! Colin, here the place, whofe pleasant fight
From other shades hath wean'd my wand'ring mind:
Tell me, what wants me here, to work delight?
The fimple air, the gentle warbling wind,
So calm, fo cool, as no where else I find :
The graffy ground with dainty daifies dight,

The bramble-bufh, where birds of every kind
To th' water's fall their tunes attemper right.


O! happy Hobbinol, I blefs thy ftate,
That paradife haft found which Adam loft.
Here wander may thy flock early or late,
Withouten dread of wolves to been ytoft ;


Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boaft: But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate,

And angry Gods pursue from coast to coast, Can no where find, to fhroud my luckless pate.


Then if by me thou lift advised be, Forfake the foil, that fo doth thee bewitch: Leave me thofe hills, where harbroughnis to fee, Nor holly-bufh, nor brere, nor winding ditch; And to the dales refort, where fhepherds rich, And fruitful flocks been every where to fee:

Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch, Nor elvish ghofts, nor ghaftly owls do flee.

But friendly fairies met with many graces, And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night, With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces; Whilft fifters nine, which dwell on Parnass' hight, Do make them mufic, for their more delight; And Pan himfelf to kifs their chrystal faces,

Will pipe and daunce, when Phoebe shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.


And I, whilft youth, and courfe of careless years, Did let me walk withouten links of love,

In fuch delights did joy amongst my peers:
But riper age fuch pleasures doth reprove,
My fancy eke from former follies move
Toftrayed steps: for time in paffing wears

(As garments doen, which waxen old above)
And draweth new delights with hoary hairs.

Tho couth I fing of love and tune my pipe
Unto my plantive pleas in verses made:

Tho would I feek for queen-apples unripe,
To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade

Dight gawdy girlonds, was my common trade,
To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe,
And lofs of her, whofe love as life I wayde,
Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.


Colin, to hear thy rhimes and roundelay's,
Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to fing,
I more delight, than lark in fommer days :
Whofe echo made the neighbour groves to ring,

And taught the birds, which in the lower spring
Did shroud in fhady leaves from funny rays;
Frame to thy fong their cheerful cheriping
Or hold their peace, for fhame of thy sweet lays.

I faw Calliope with muses moe,
Soon as thy oaten pipe began to found,

Their ivory lutes and tamburins forgo:
And from the fountain, where they fate around,
Ren after hastily thy filver found.

But when they came, where thou thy skill didst show,
They drew a back, as half with fhame confound,
Shepherd to fee, them in their art out-go.


Of mufes, Hobbinol, I con no fkill,
For they been daughters of the highest Jove,
And holden fcorn of homely fhepherds quill:
For fith I heard that Pan with Phoebus ftrove
Which him to much rebuke and danger drove,
I never lift prefume to Parnafs' hill,

But piping low, in fhade of lowly grove,
I play to please myself, albeit ill.

Nought weigh I, who my fong doth praise or blame, Ne ftrive to win renown, or pafs the rest:

With fhepherds fits not follow flying fame,
But feed his flocks in fields, where falls him best.
I wote my rimes been rough, and rudely dreft ;
The fitter they, my careful cafe to frame:
Enough is me to paint out my unreft,

And pour my piteous plaints out in the fame.

The God of fhepherds, Tityrus is dead, Who taught me homely, as I can, to make: He, whilft he lived was the fovereign head Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake.

Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake The flames, which love within his heart had bred, And tell us merry tales, to keep us wake, The while our sheep about us safely fed.

Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead, (O why should death on him fuch outrage show! And all his paffing fkill with him is fled, The fame whereof doth daily greater grow.. But if on me fome little drops would flow Of that the fpring was in his learned hed,

I foon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed.

Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourtesee, As meffengers of this my painful plight, Fly to my love, wherever that the be. And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight; As the deferves, that wrought fo deadly fpight. And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery

Didft underfong my lafs to wax fo light, Should'st well be known for fuch thy villiany.

But fince I am not, as I wish I were,. Ye gentle fhepherds, which your flocks do feed, Whether on hills or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this fo wicked deed :

And tell the lafs, whofe flower is woxe a weed, And faultlefs faith is turn'd to faithless feere,

That she the truest shepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear.


O! careful Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow ! Áh! faithlefs Rofalind, and void of grace, That are the root of all this rueful woe!

But now is time, I guefs, homeward to go: Then rife, ye bleffed flocks, and home apace, Left night with stealing fteps do you foreflo, And wet your tender lambs, that by you trace.

By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr. Philips has, in imitation of Spencer, preferved in his Paftorals many antiquated words, which, tho' they are difcarded from polite converfation, may naturally be fuppofed ftill to have place among the fhepherds, and other rufticks in the country. We have made choice of his fecond eclogue, because it is brought home to his own bufinefs, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings.

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Is it not Colinet I lonesome fee

Leaning with folded arms against the tree ?
Or is it age of late bedims my fight?
"Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful plight.
Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears,
Unfeemly, now the sky fo bright appears ?
Why in this mournful manner art thou found,
Unthankful lad, when all things fmile around?
Or hear'ft not lark and linnet jointly fing,
Their notes blithe-warbling to falute the spring?

Though blithe their notes, not fo my wayward fate;
Nor lark would fing, nor linnet, in my state,
Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born,
As they to mirth and mufic, I to mourn.
Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew,
My tears oft mingling with the falling dew.


Small caufe, I ween, has lufty youth to plain;
Or who may then, the weight of eld sustain,
When every flackening nerve begins to fail,
And the load preffeth as our days prevail ?
Yet, though with years my body downward tend,
As trees beneath their fruit, in autumn bend,
Spite of my fnowy head and icy veins,
My mind a cheerful temper ftill retains :
And why should man, mishap what will, repine,
Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine?


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