Ambrose In pleafing conforts all the birds combine,
Philips. And tempt us in the various fong 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 liften, while their lambkins play.
The place indeed gives pleafance to the eye;
And pleafance works the finger's fancy high:
The fields breath fweet; and now the gentle breez
Moves ev'ry leaf, and trembles thro' the trees.
So fweet a fcene ill fuits my rugged lay,
And better fits the Mufick thou canst play.
No fkill of mufick can I, fimple fwain,
No fine device thine ear to entertain;
Albeit fome deal I pipe, rude tho' it be,
Sufficient to divert my fheep and me
Yet Colinet (and Colinet has fkill)
My fingers guided on the tuneful quill,
And try'd to teach me on what founds to dwell
And where to fink a note, and where to fwell.
A Mico! half my flock would I bestow,
Would Colinet to me his cunning fhow.
So trim his fonnets are, I prithee, fwain,
Now give us once a fample of his ftrain:
For, wonders of that lad the fhepherds fay,
How fweet his pipe, how ravifhing his lay:
The fweetness of his pipe and lay rehearse,
And afk what gift thou pleaseft for thy verfe
Since then thou lift, a mournful fong I chufe;
A mournful song becomes a mournful Mufe.
Faft by the river on a bank he fate,
To weep a lovely maid's untimely fate,
Fair Stella hight: A lovely maid was fhe,
Whofe fate he wept; a faithful fhepherd he
Awake my pipe; in ev'ry note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's diftrels.
O woful day, o day of woe! quoth he;
And woful I, who live the day to fee!
That ever she could die! O moft unkind,
To go, and leave thy Colinet behind!
And yet, why blame I her? Full fain would fhe,
With dying arms, have clafp'd herself to me:
I clafp'd her too; buth death was all too ftrong,
Nor vows, nor tears, could fleeting life prolong.
Teach me to grieve, with bleating moan, my
fheep;
Teach me, thou ever-flowing stream, to weep;
Teach me, ye faint, ye hollow winds, to figh;
And let my forrows teach me how to die:
Nor flock, nor ftream, nor winds, can e'er relieve`
A wretch like me, for ever born to grieve.
Awake, my pipe; in ev'ry note express Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's diftrefs.
Ye brighter maids, faint emblems of my Fair
With looks caft down, and with difhevel'd hair,
In bitter anguifh beat your breafts, and moan
Her hour untimely, as it were your own.
Alas! the fading glories of your eyes
In vain we doat upon, in vain you prize:
For, tho' your beauty rule the filly fwain,
And in his heart like little queens you reign;
Yet Death will ev'n that ruling beauty kill,
Ambrose As ruthless winds the tender blossoms spill.
Philips. 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 fave,
Redeeming thus each other from the grave.
Ah fruitlefs wifh! Cold Death's up-lifted arm,
Nor mufick can perfuade, nor beauty charm:
For fee (o baleful fight!) See where fhe lyes!
The budding flow'r, unkindly blafted, dies.
Awake, my pipe; in ev'ry note express
Fair Stella's death, and Colinet's diftrefs.
Unhappy Colinet! What boots thee now
To weave fresh garlands for the Damfel's brow?
Throw by the lilly, daffadil and rofe;
One of black yew, and willow pale, compofe,
With baneful henbane, deadly night-fhade dreft;
A garland, that may witnefs thy unreft.
My pipe, whose foothing found could paffion move,
And firft taught Stella's virgin heart to love,
Untun'd, fhall hang upon this blasted oak,
Whence owls their dirges fing, and ravens croak:
Nor lark, nor linnet fhall by day delight,
Nor nightingale divert my moan by night;
The night and day fhall undistinguish'd be,
Alike to Stella, and alike to me.
Thus fweetly did the gentle fhepherd fing,
And heavy woe within foft numbers bring:
And now that sheep-hook for my fong I crave.
Not this, but one much fairer fhalt thou have,
Of feafon'd elm; where ftuds of brafs 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 fkill adorn'd.
O, Colinet, how fweet thy grief to hear!
How does thy verfe fubdue the list'ning ear!
Not half fo fweet are midnight winds, that move
In drowfie murmurs o'er the waving grove;
Nor dropping waters, that in grots distill,
And with a tinkling found their caverns fill:
So fing the fwans, that in foft numbers wafte
Their dying breath, and warble to the last.
And next to thee fhall Mico bear the bell,
That can repeat thy peerless verse so well.
But fee: the hills increafing fhadows cast:
The fun, I ween, is leaving us in haste:
His weakly rays but glimmer thro' the wood,
And blueifh mifts arife from yonder flood.
Then fend our curs to gather up the sheep; Good Shepherds with their flocks betimes fhould fleep:
For, he that late lyes down, as late will rise,
And, fluggard like, 'till Noonday fnoring lyes;
While in their folds his injur'd ewes complain,
And, after dewy paftures bleat in vain.
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 afhes, leather, oatmeal, bran, and chalk;
Unwittingly of Marian they divine,
And wift not that with thoughtful love I pine.
Yet Colin Clout, untoward f'hepherd 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 foil you guide the crooked fhare,
Your early breakfeast is my constant care;
And when with even hand you ftrow the grain,
I fright the thievifh rooks from off the plain.
In mifling days when I my thresher heard,
With mappy beer I to the barn repair'd;
Loft in the mufic of the whirling flail,
To gaze on thee I left the fmoking pail;
In harvest when the fun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy drought supply:
Whene'er you mow'd, I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft' been funburnt for thy fake:
When in the welkin gathering fhow'rs were feen,
I lagg'd the laft 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 hafte.
When hungry thou ftood'ft ftaring, 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 lefs!
Laft Friday's eve, when as the fun was fet,
I, near yon' ftile, three fallow gypfies met:
Upon my hand they caft a poring look,
Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they fhook;
They faid that many croffes I must prove,
Some in my worldly gain, but most in love
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