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To the grove or the garden he strays,

And pillages every sweet;
Then, saiting the wreath to his lays,

He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
“O Phyllis,” he whispers, "more fair,

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;
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,

So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart,

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.
Ab! love ev'ry hope can inspire;

It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire

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,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace 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.

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O ye woods, spread your branches apace!

To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would hide with the beasts of the chace;

I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall resound through the grove

With the same sad complaint it begun;
How she smil'd, and I could not but love!

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 hail'd 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.

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