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Umbrore In pleasing conforts all the birds combino,
Philips. , And tempt us in the various song to join,

Up, Argol, then; and to thy lip apply
Thy mellow pipe, or vocal musick try:
And, fince our ewes have graz’d, no harm, if they
Lye round and listen, while their lambkins play.

Argolo
The place indeed gives pleasance to the eye;
And pleasance works the finger's fancy high:
The fields breath sweet; and now the gentle breez
Moves ev'ry leaf, and trembles thro’ the trees.
So sweet a scene ill suits my rugged lay,
And better fits the Musick thou canst play.

Mico.

No skill of musick can I, simple fwain,
No fine device thine ear to entertain;
Albeit fome deal I pipe, rude tho' it be,
Suificient to divert my sheep and me
Yet Colinet (and Colinet has fkill)
My fingers guided on the tuneful quill,
And try'd to teach me on what sounds to dwell,
And where to sink a note, and where to fwell.

Argol.
A Mico! half my flock would I bestow,
Would Colinet to me his cunning show.
So trim his sonnets are, I prithee, swain,
Now give us once a sample of his strain:
For, wonders of that lad the shepherds say,
How sweet his pipe, how ravishing his lay:
The sweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse,
And ask what gift thou pleafest for thy verso

Mico.

Ambrose
Philips.

Since then thou list, a mournful fong I chuse;
A mournful fong becomes a mournful Muse.
Fast by the river on a bank he sate,
To weep a lovely maid's untimely fate,
Fair Stella hight: A lovely maid was she,
Whose fate he wept; a faithful shepherd he.

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Awake my pipe; in ev'ry note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

O woful day, o day of woe! quoth he;
And woful I, who live the day to see!
That ever she could die! O most unkind,
To go, and leave thy Colinet behind!
And yet, why blame I her? Full fain would she,
With dying arms, haye clasp'd herself to me:
I clafpd her too ; buth death was all too strong,
Nor vows, nor tears, could fleeting life prolong.
Teach me
me to grieve, with bleating moan, my

sheep;
Teach' me, thou ever-flowing stream, to weep;
Teach me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to figh;
And let

my

sorrows teach me how to dię:
Nor flock, nor stream, nor winds, can e'er relieve
A wretch like me, for ever born to grieve.

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Awake, my pipe; in ev'ry note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinęt's distress.

Ye brighter maids, faint emblems of my Fair
With 'looks cast down, and with dis heveld hair,
In bitter anguish beat your breasts, and moan
Her hour, untimely, as it were your own
Alas! the fading glories of your eyes
In yain we doat upon, in vain you prize:
For, tho' your beauty rule the filly swain,
And in his heart like little queens you reign;
Yet Death will ev'n that ruling beauty kill,

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2mbrore Philips.

As ruthless winds the tender blossoms spill.
If either mufick's voice, or beauty's charm,
Could make him mild, and stay his lifted arm;
My pipe her face, her face my pipe should save,
Redeeming thus each other from the grave.
Ah fruitlel's wish! Cold Death's up-lifted arm,
Nor mufick can persuade, nor beauty charm:
For fee (o baleful sight!) See where she lyes!
The budding flow'r, unkindly blasted, dies.

Awake, my pipe; in ev'ry note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's distress.

1

Unhappy Colinet! What boots thee now
To weave fresh garlands for the Damsel's brow?

Throw by the lilly, daffadil and rose;
One of black yew, and willow pale, compose,
With banetul henbane, deadly night-shade drest;
A garland, that may witness thy unrest.
My pipe, whose foothing found could passion move,
And first taught Stella's virgin heart to love,
Untun'd, shall hang upon this blafted oak,
Whence owls their dirges fing, and ravens croak:
Nor lark, nor linnet shall by day delight,
Nor nightingale divert my moan by night;
The night and day shall undistinguish'd be,
Alike to Stella, and alike to me.

Thus sweetly did the gentle Shepherd fing,
And heavy woe within soft numbers bring:
And now that sheep-hook for my song I crave.

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Argol.
Not this, but one much fairer shalt thou have,
of season'd elm; where studs of brass appear,
To speak the Giver's name, the month and year;
The hook of polish'd steel, the handle turn'd,
And richly by the graver's skill adorn'd.

0, Co

.

Umbrose
philips.

0, Colinet, how fweet thy grief to hear!
How does thy verfe fubdue the lift'ning ear!
Not half so sweet are midnight winds, that move
In drowfie murmurs o'er the waving grove;
Nor dropping waters, that in grots distill,
And with a tinkling sound their caverns fill:
So sing the swans, that in soft numbers waste
Their dying breath, and warble to the last.
And next to thee shall Mico bear the bell,
That can repeat thy peerless verse so well.

But see: the hills increasing shadows caft:
The fun, I ween, is leaving us in haste:
His weakly rays but glimmer thro' the wood,
And blueish mists arise from yonder flood.

1

Mico.

Then send our curs to gather up the sheep;
Good Shepherds with their flocks betimes should

sleep:
For, he that'late lyes down, as late will rise,
And, fluggard like, 'till Noonday snoring lyes;
While in their folds his injur'd ewes complain,
And, after dewy pastures bleat in vain.

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Gan.

Gay.

White as the curd my ruddy cheek is grown,
So thin my features, that I'm hardly known.
Our neighbours tell me oft in joking talk
Of ashes, leather, oatmeal, bran, and chalk;
Unwittingly of Marian they divine,
And wist not that with thoughtful love I pine.
Yet Colin Clout, untoward shepherd fwain,
Walks whistling blithe, while pitiful I plain,

Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight,
To moil all day, and merry-make at night.
If in the soil you guide the crooked share,
Your early breakfeast is my constant care ;
And when with even hand you strow the grain,
I fright the thievis h rooks from off the plain.
In milling days when I my thresher heard,
With mappy beer I to the barn repair’d;
Loft in the music of the whirling Aail,
To gaze on thee I left the smoking pail;
In harvest when the sun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy drought supply:
Whene'er you mow's, I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft' been sunburnt for thy fake:
When in the welkin gathering 1how'rs were feen,
I lagg’d the last with Colin on the green;
And when at eve returning with thy carr,
Awaiting heard the gingling bells from far;
Straight on the fire the footy pot I plac'd,
To warm thy broth, I burnt my hands for haste.
When hungry thou stood'st staring, like an oaf,
I flic'd the luncheon from the barley loaf,
With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess.
Ah! love me more, or love thy pottage less!

Last Friday's eve, when as the sun was set;
1, near yon' stile, three fallow gypsies met:
Upon my hand they cast a poring look,
Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they shook;
They said that many crosses I must prove,
Some in my worldly gain, but most in love

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