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With her mien she enamours the brave;
With her wit lhe engages the free; · With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me.
O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays ; I could lay down my life for the swain
That will sing but a song in her praise. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while;
Any favour with Phyllis to find,
Might she ruin the peace of my mind ! In ringlets He dresses his hair,
And his crook is be-studded around; And his pipe --- oh may Phyllis beware:
Of a magic there is in the found.
IV. 'Tis . IV. 'Tis His with mock passion to glow;
'Tis His in smooth tales to unfold, “ How her face is as bright as the snow,
“ And her bosom, be sure, is as cold; “ How the nightingales labour the strain,
“ With the notes of his charmer to vie: “ How they vary their accents in vain,
“Repine at her triumphs, and die.",
To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
“More sweet than the jesfainin’s flow'r ! “What are pinks, in a morn, to compare? “What is eglantine after a show'r ?
VI. “ Then the lily no longer is white;
“ Then the rose is deprivd of its bloom; “ Then the violets die with despight,
F. And the wood-bines give up their perfume."
Thus glide the soft numbers along,
Yet I never should envy the song,
: . VII.
So Phyllis the trophy despise ;
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
1 And take no more heed of my fheep: They have nothing to do, but to stray;
I have nothing to do, but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair and my paffion begun She smild and I could not but love;
She is faithlefs and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thoughts
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
By a swain more engaging than me.
It banishes wisdom the while ;
Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to fhun
What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Amid nymphs of an higher degree :
What hope of an end to my woes?
The glance that undid my repose.
Yet time may diminish the pain :
The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree,
The sound of a murmuring stream,
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme.
But we are not to find them our own;
To your deepest recesses I Aly;
I would vanish from every eye.
With the same sad complaint it begun;
Was faithless, and I am undone !