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, But still his words, when his sad friend he spies, Under a spreading vine they careless lie, Whose tender leaves, bit with the eastern blast, There as they sat, Thirsil embracing fast 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; 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: For while thy breast in hav'n doth safely ride, 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 letting go their hold for want of might, Yet see, the leaves do freshly bud again; 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; 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, 'Tis love robs me of thee, and thee of all thy joy. 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 With bow and shafts, and purple feathers clad; Love's sooner felt than seen; his substance thin Oft in the eyes he spreads his subtle gia; Fly thence my dear; fly fast my Thomalin: Unhappy soul that thence his nectar sips, Oft in a voice he creeps down through the ear; And if all fail, yet Virtue's self he'll hire: When Love and Virtue's self become the darts of love? Thomalin. Then love it is which breeds this burning fever: Thirsil. Thomalin, too well that bitter sweet I know, But better times did better reason show, And cur'd those burning wounds with heav'nly art: |