In the fifth eclogue, Love, the fittest subject for the pastoral muse, whether she sings on the plain or on the ocean, resumes his legitimate station; and in the sixth is suspected by the sagacious Thirsil, to have stolen from him the affection of his friend Thomalin.

A fisher boy that never knew his peer

In dainty songs, the gentle Thomalin,

With folded arms, deep sighs, and heavy cheer,
Where hundred nymphs and hundred muses inn
Sank down by Thames' brinks; with him his dear,
Dear Thirsil lay; oft times would he begin
To cure his grief, and better way advise :

But still his words, when his sad friend he spies,
Forsook his silent tongue, to speak in wat❜ry eyes.

Under a spreading vine they careless lie,

Whose tender leaves, bit with the eastern blast,
But now were born, and now began to die ;
The latter, warned by the former's haste,
Thinly for fear salute the envious sky:

There as they sat, Thirsil embracing fast
His loving friend, feeling his panting heart
To give no rest to his increasing smart,

At length thus spake, while sighs words to his grief

impart.

Thirsil.

Thomalin, I see thy Thirsil thou neglectest,

Some greater love holds down thy heart in fear;
Thy Thirsil's love and counsel thou rejectest;
Thy soul was wont to lodge within my ear:
But now that port no longer thou respectest :
Yet hath it still been safely harboured there,
My ear is not acquainted with my tongue,

1

That either tongue or ear should do thee wrong:

Why then should'st thou conceal thy hidden grief so

long?

Thomalin.

Thirsil, it is thy love that makes me hide

My smother'd grief from thy known faithful ear:
May still my Thirsil safe and merry bide;
Enough is me my hidden grief to bear:

For while thy breast in hav'n doth safely ride,
My greater half with thee rides safely there!

Thirsil.

So thou art well; but still my better part,

My Thomalin, sinks laden with his smart:

Thus thou my finger cur'st, and wound'st my bleeding heart.

How oft has Thomalin to Thirsil vow'd,

That as his heart so he his love esteem'd:

Where are those oaths? Where is that heart bestow'd Which hides it from that breast which dear it deem'd, And to that heart room in his heart allow'd?

That love was never love but only seem❜d! Tell me, my Thomalin, what envious thief

Thus robs thy joy; tell me my liefest lief:

Thou little lov'st me, friend, if more thou lov'st thy grief!

Thomalin.

Thirsil, my joyous spring is blasted quite,
And winter storms prevent the summer ray;
All as this vine, whose green the eastern spite
Hath dyed to black; his catching arms decay,

And letting go their hold for want of might,
Marv'l winter comes so soon, in first of May.
Thirsil.

Yet see, the leaves do freshly bud again;
Thou drooping still dy'st in this heavy strain;
Nor can I see or end or cause of all thy pain.
Thomalin.

No marvel, Thirsil, if thou dost not know

This grief which in my heart lies deeply drown'd; My heart itself, though well it feels this woe,

Knows not the woe it feels: the worse my wound, Which though I rankling find, I cannot shew.

Thousand fond passions in my breast abound; Fear leagu'd to joy, hope, and despair together, Sighs bound to smiles, my heart though prone to either, While both it would obey, 'twixt both, obeyeth neither.

Oft blushing flames leap up into my face,

My guiltless cheek such purple flash admires;
Oft stealing tears slip from mine eyes apace,
As if they meant to quench these causeless fires.
My good I hate; my hurt I glad embrace;

My heart though griev'd, his grief as joy desires:

I burn, yet know no fuel to my firing;

My wishes know no want, yet still desiring:

Hope knows not what to hope, yet still in hope expiring.

Thirsil

Too true my fears! alas, no wicked sprite

No writhled witch with spells of pow'rful charms,

Or hellish herbs digg'd in as hellish night,

Gives to thy heart these oft and fierce alarms:

But love, too hateful love, with pleasing spite,
And spiteful pleasure, thus hath bred thy harms;
And seeks thy mirth with pleasance to destroy ;-
Tis love, my Thomalin, my liefest boy;

'Tis love robs me of thee, and thee of all thy joy.
Thomalin.

Thirsil, I ken not what is hate or love,

Thee well I love, and thou lov'st me as well; Yet joy, no torment, in this passion prove; And often have I heard the fishers tell

He's not inferior to the almighty Jove;

Jove heaven rules; Love Jove, heaven, earth, and

hell:

Tell me, my friend, if thou dost better know:

Men

say he

goes arm'd with his shafts and bow;

Two darts, one swift as fire, as lead the other slow.

Thirsil.

Ah, heedless boy! Love is not such a lad
As he is fancied by the idle swain;

With bow and shafts, and purple feathers clad;
Such as Diana, who with buskin'd train
Of armed nymphs along the forest glade
With golden quivers, in Thessalian plain,
In level race outstrips the jumping deer
With nimble feet; or, with a mighty spear,
Flings down a bristled boar, or else a squalid bear.

Love's sooner felt than seen; his substance thin
Betwixt those snowy mounts in ambush lies:

Oft in the eyes he spreads his subtle gia;
He therefore soonest wins that fastest flies.

Fly thence my dear; fly fast my Thomalin:
Who him encounters once, for ever dies:
But if he lurk within the ruddy lips,

Unhappy soul that thence his nectar sips,
While down into his heart the sugar'd poison slips.

Oft in a voice he creeps down through the ear;
Oft from a blushing cheek he lights his fire;
Oft shrouds his golden flame in likest hair;
Oft in a soft smooth skin doth close retire;
Oft in a smile; oft in a silent tear:

And if all fail, yet Virtue's self he'll hire:
Himself's a dart when nothing else can move :
Who then the captive soul can well reprove,

When Love and Virtue's self become the darts of love?

Thomalin.

Then love it is which breeds this burning fever:
For late, yet all too soon, on Venus' day,
I chanc'd, oh! cursed chance, yet blessed ever!
As careless on the silent shore I stray,
Five nymphs to see, five fairer saw I never,
Upon the golden sand to dance and play;
The rest among, yet far above the rest,
Sweet Melite.

Thirsil.

Thomalin, too well that bitter sweet I know,
Since fair Nicæa bred my pleasing smart:

But better times did better reason show,

And cur'd those burning wounds with heav'nly art: