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He's a fool that basely dallies
Where each peasant mates with him, Shall I haunt the thronged vallies, Whilst there's noble hills to climb ?
No, no ;-though clowns
Are scar'd with frowns,
And those I'll prove,
So will thy love Be all bestow'd on me in vain. * * * * * *
I do scorn to vow a duty
Where each lustful lad may woo: Give me her whose sun-like beauty Buzzards dare not soar unto.
She, she it is
Affords that bliss
But such as you,
Fond fools, adieu ! You seek to captive me in vain. * * * * * *
Leave me then, thou Syren, * leave me!
Seek no more to work my harms : I « shall your.”
?" you Syrens."
Crafty wiles cannot deceive me;
Your labour may
To lead astray
And I the while
Will sit and smile
[On his Muse.] (From “ The Shepherd's Hunting,"]
And though for her sake I'm crost,
Though I miss the flowery fields, . With those sweets the spring-tide yields, Though I may not see those groves Where the shepherds chant their loves, And the lasses more excel Than the sweet-voic'd Philomel; Though of all those pleasures past Nothing now remains at last, But remembrance, poor relief, That more makes than mends my grief; She's my mind's companion still, Maugre Envy's evil will. Whence she should be driven too, Were't in mortals power to do. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow, Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace, And the blackest discontents To be pleasing ornaments. In my former days of bliss Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw I could some invention draw, And raise pleasure to her height
Through the meanest object's sight. VOL. III.
By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rusteling; By a daisy whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed; Or a shady bush or tree She could more infuse in me, Than all nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness. The dull loneness, the black shade That these hanging vaults have made, The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves ; This black den, which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss ; The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight; This my chamber of neglect, Wall'd about with disrespect; From all these, and this dull air A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,