The feather'd choir about the Shepherd Throng, THYRSIS. O, Mighty FAN! Who now fhall chaunt thy Praife? And who record thy Fame in tuneful Lays? Where is that He, of all the Sylvan Swains, How did he warm our Souls, and fire our Hearts? MENALCAS. Now ev'ry Maxim which the Shepherd taught DAP He The Pofture speaks a matchlefs Weight of Woe; THYRSIS. From whence, Menalcas, do thefe Ills arife, Which rack thy Breaft, and overflow thy Eyes? Has from thy Ewe fome tender Lamb been wrung? Or has thy Fav'rite Heifer caft her Young? Broke are-thy Folds by fome vileMidnight Thief, . Or is Clariffa Caufe of all this Grief? Does the in Secret bless fome other Swain ? Why, let her go, her broken Faith disdain. MENALCAS. No, Thyrfis, no, a Subject greater far, Than Flocks, or Herds, or fickle Women are, Claims all these Tears, thefe fruitless Tears I hed, Colin the foft harmonious Colin's dead. DAPHNIS. Is Colin dead! If that fad Tale be true, Then have we Cause to mourn as much as you. Colin the Pride and Darling of the Plain, Admir'd by ev'ry Nymph, Carefs'd by ev'ry Swain. Whene'er he tun'd his Pipe beneath the Shade, The nodding Boughs beat Time while Colin play'd. The The feather'd choir about the Shepherd Throng, THYRSIS. O, Mighty FAN! Who now fhall chaunt thy Praife? And who record thy Fame in tuneful Lays? Where is that He, of all the Sylvan Swains, Can equal Colin's foft harmonious Strains? If the dear Subject of his Song was Love, Sweet as the Hybla-Drops his Verfes prove: If glorious Liberty the Youth afferts, How did he warm our Souls, and fire our Hearts? MENALCAS. Now ev'ry Maxim which the Shepherd taught DAP He DAPHNIS. See! where the Nymphs and Swains in Crowds appear, Yew in their Hands, their Brows fad Cyprefs wear; In folemn State fee two by two they tread, And look with downcaft Eyes, and bended Head As if not Colin, but Themfelves were dead. THYRSIS. Hark, how the Winds in hollow Accents groan! And humid Pearls diftil from ev'ry Stone; The cooing Turtles their lov'd Elms decline, And Goats forfake their Fav'rite flow'ry Thyme? The Lambs complaining bleat, the Heifers low, The Ox and Weather cease their Cudd to chew: The vocal Grove laments young Colin dead, For him the Lawrel droops, and hangs its verdant Head AMARYLLIS. Help me, Menalcas, help me to complain, Like Colin, who can Flora's Sweets difplay? Or paint the gawdy Treasures of her May? THYRSIS. Wou'd but relentlefs Fate our Wishes Aid, And give to Substance back his Airy Shade, As Pluto once Euridice of Old, A Tale I well remember Colin told, To purchase that, my Tears like thine hou'd flow, AMARYLLIS. Why, let 'em ftray, my Crook no more I'll hold, My Herd's no moreno more my Flocks I'll fold, No more will I with Daizy, Pink, and Rose, A Garland for the Queen of May compofe, Since Colin's gone, by whom 'twas still confeft, That I, of all the Nymphs, deferv'd it beft. The Winds shall useless prove to Fleets at Sea, And Flowers fupply no Honey to the Bee, When, Colin, I forget to mourn for Thee. } MENAL |