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The feather'd choir about the Shepherd Throng,
And prowling Wolves stood lift'ning to his Song:
The browzing Goats from rocky Clifts defcend,
Charm'd with his Voice, the Savage Brutes attend.

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 Verses 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
Occurs afresh, and dwells in ev'ry Thought.
Our Flocks, faid he, and feather'd Kind produce
Their diff'rent Offspring for their Owner's Use:
For us, the Wood, the Pasture, and the Field,
Their several Grains, and various Flowers yield:
Not PAN himself can our known' Rights oppofe,
Or Crop without our Leave one fingle Rose :
A mutual Duty ftill on each depends,
We honour PAN, and PAN our Flock defends.
Thus Colin taught us flavish Yoaks to hate, wat
And prize the Freedom of our Rural States

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The Pofture speaks a matchlefs Weight of Woe;
Hafte, Thyrfis hafte, the fudden Caufe to know.

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 ?

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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.

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The feather'd choir about the Shepherd Throng,
And prowling Wolves stood lift'ning to his Song:
The browzing Goats from rocky Clifts defcend,
Charm'd with his Voice, the Savage Brutes attend.

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
Occurs afresh, and dwells in ev'ry Thought.
Our Flocks, faid he, and feather'd Kind produce
Their diff'rent Offspring for their Owner's Use:
For us, the Wood, the Pasture, and the Field,
Their several Grains, and various Flowers yield:
Not PAN himself can our known Rights oppose,
Or Crop without our Leave one fingle Rose t
A mutual Duty still on each depends,
We honour PAN, and PAN our Flock defends.
Thus Colin taught us flavish Yoaks to hate, wor
And prize the Freedom of our Rural State.

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,
To tell to Earth, to Air, and Seas my Pain.
Colin the dear lov'd Colin! is no more.
Come, all ye Nymphs, and Colin's Lofs deplore:
For whom shall we our flow'ry Chaplets weave?
Or who fo well deferves the Lawrel Wreath?
Who now can point thro' all these Groves a Man,
To celebrate the Birth of mighty PAN?

Like Colin, who can Flora's Sweets difplay?

Or paint the gawdy Treasures of her May?
Or who, like him, can tune the Oaten Reed?
Or tread with fuch a Grace th' enamel'd Mead?
Mourn, all ye Nymphs, your Tears inceffant shed,
Your Tribute's all too poor for him that's Dead.

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,
But this is fruitless Grief, and pageant Woe.
Hark, Amaryllis hark! Thy bleating Lambs
Amongst the Brakes have loft their Udder'd Dams:
Hafte to retrieve them e'er too far they fray.
And fall to hungry Wolves an easy Prey.

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.

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