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Ye Naiades, what held you from his aid,
When to unpity'd fames he was betray'd ?
Nor Aganippe tempted you away;
Nor was Parnafsus guilty of your stay:
The Bays, whose Honours he so long had kept,
The lofty Bays and humble Herbage wept.
When stretch'd beneath a Rock, he figh'd alone,
The Mountain Pines and Manalus did groan,
And cold Lycæus wept from every stone.
His Flock surrounded him: nor think thy fame
Impair'd (great Poet) by a Shepherd's name;
E'er thou and I our Sheep to Pastures led,
His Flocks the Goddefs-lov'd Adonis fed.
The Shepherds came; the suggish Neat-herd Swains,
And Swine-herds reeking from their Maft and Grains.
All ask'd from whence this frenzy? Phebus came
To see his Poet, Phebus ask'd the fame:
And is (he cry'd) that cruel Nymph thy care,
Who, flying thee, can for thy Rival dare [of War:
The Frosts, and Snow, and all the frightful forms
Sylvanus came, thy fortune to deplore;
A wreath of Lillies on his Head he wore.
Pan came, and wondring we beheld him too,
His Skin all dy'd of a vermilion hue:
He cry’d, what mad designs doft thou purfue ?
Nor satisfy'd with Dew the Grafs appears,
With browz the Kids, nor cruel Love with Tears.
When thus (and forrow melted in his Eyes)
Gallws to his Arcadian Friends replies :
Ye gentle Swains, fing to the Rocks my moan,
(For you Arcadian Swains should sing alone:)
How calm a rest my wearied Ghoft wou'd have,
If you adorn'd my Love, and mourn'd my Grave :
O that your Birth and Business had been mine,
To feed a Flock, or press the swelling Vine!
Had Phyllis, or had Galatea been
My Love, or any Maid upon the Green,

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(What if her Face the Nut-brown Livery wear,
Are Violets not sweet, because not fair :)
Secure in that unenvied state, among
The Poplars, I my careless Limbs had flung;
Phyllis had made me Wreaths, and Galatea sung.
Behold, fair Nymph, what bliss the Country yields,
The flowry Meads, the purling Streams, the laugh-

ing Fields.
Next all the pleasures of the Forest see,
Where I could melt away my years with thee.
But furious Love denies me soft repose,
And hurls me on the pointed Spears of Foes.
While thou (but ah ! That I should find it so,)
Without thy Gallus for thy Guide, doft go
Through all the German Colds, and Alpine Snow,
Yet, flying me, no hardship may't thou meet ;
Nor Snow nor Ice offend those tender Feet.
But let me run to Desarts, and rehearse
On my Sicilian Reeds Euphorion's Verse;
Ev’n in the Dens of Monsters let me lie,
Thore I can tame, but not your cruelty.
On smoothest rinds of Trees, l'll carve my woe;
And as the rinds encrease, the Love shall grow.
Then, mixt with Nymphs, on Manalus resort,
I'll make the Boar my danger and my sport.
When, from the Vales the jolly cry resounds,
What rain or cold shall keep me from my Hounds!
Methinks my Ears the sprightly Consort fills ;
lseem to bound thro' Woods and mount o'er Hills,
My Arm of a Cydonian Jav’lin seiz'd,
As if by this my madness cou'd be eas'd;
Or, by our mortal woes, the cruel God appeas'd:
My frenzy changes now; and Nymphs and Verse

I hate, And Woods; for ah, what toil can stubborn Love Shou'd we to drink the frozen Hebrus go, (abate! And shiver in the cold Sithonian Snow, .

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Or to the swarthy Ethiops Clime remove,
Parch'd all below, and burning all above,
Evn there wou'd Love o'er-come; then, let us

yield to Love.
Let this fad Lay suffice, by sorrow breath’d,
While bending Twigs I into Baskets wreath’d:
My Rural Numbers, in their homely guise,
Gallus, because they came from me, will prize :
Gallus, whose growing Love my Breast does rend,
As shooting Trees the bursting Bark distend.
Now rise, for Night and Dew the Fields invade;
And Juniper is an unwholsome fhade: [Mildew fade.
Blasts kill the Corn by Night, and Flow’rs with
Bright Hesper twinkles from afar; away
My Kids, for you have had a feast to day.

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The LAST ECLOGUE. Translated, or rather Imitated in the

Year 1666.

By Sir William Temple, Bar.

Before I leave the Shepherds and the Field:
Some Verses to my Gallus e're we part,
Such as may one day break Lycoris Heart,
As she did his; who can refuse a Song,
To one that lov’d so well, and dy'd so young!
So mayst thou thy belov'd Alpheus please,
When thou creep'st under the Sicanian Seas.
Begin, and sing Gallus unhappy fires,
Whilst yonder Goat to yonder branch aspires
Out of his reach. We sing not to the deaf;
An answer comes from every trembling Leaf.
What Woods, what Forests had intic'd your stay?
Ye Naiades, why came ye not away!

When Gallus dy'd by an unworthy Flame,
Parnassus knew, and lov'd too well his Name
To ftop your Course; nor could your hafty fight
Be ftay'd by Pindus, which was his delight.
Him the frelh Laurels, him the lowly Heath
Bewail'd with dewy Tears; his parting Breath
Made lofty Menalus hang his piny Head ;
Lycean Marbles wept when he was dead.
Under a lonely Tree he lay and pin'd,
His Flock about him feeding on the Wind,
As he on Love; such kind and gentle Sheep,
Even fair Adonis would be proud to keep.
There came the Shepherds, there the weary Hinds,
Thither Menalcas parcht with Frosts and winds.
All ask him whence, for whom this fatal Love?
Apollo came his Arts and Herbs to prove?
Why Gallus : why fo fond: he says; thy fame,
Thy care, Lycoris, is another's game;
For him the fighs and raves, him he pursues
Thorough the mid-day Heats and morning Dews;
Over the fnowy Cliffs and frozen'Streams,
Through noisie Camps. Up Gallus, leave thy Dreams.
She has left thee. Still lay the drooping Swain
Hanging his mournful Head, Phæbus in vain
Offers his Herbs, employs his. Counsel here ;
'Tis all refus’d, or anfwer'd with a Tear.
What shakes the Branches! what makes all the Trees
Begin to bow their Heads, the Goats their Knees?
Oh! 'tis Sylvanus, with his moffie Beard
And leafy Crown, attended by a Herd
Of Wood-born Satyrs; see! he thakes his Spear,
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green young Oak, the taltest of the year.
Pan, the Arcadian God, forfook the Plains,
Mov'd with the ftory of his Gallus-pains.
We faw him come with Oaren-pipes in hand,
Painted with Berries-juice; we saw him stand)
And gaze upon his Shepherd's bathing Eyes ;
And what! no end, no end of Grief, he cries !

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Love little minds all thy consuming care,
Or restlefs Thoughts, they are his daily fare.
Nor cruel Love with tears, nor Grass with show'rs,
Nor Goats with tender sprouts, nor Bees with flow'rs
Are ever satisfy'd. Thus spoke the God,
And touch'd the Shepherd with his Hazle Rod:
He, sorrow flain, seem'd to revive, and said,
But yet Arcadians is my Grief allay'd,
To think that in these Woods, and Hills, and Plains,
When I am filent in the-Grave, your Swains
Shall fing my Loves, Arcadian Swains inspir’d
By Phæbus ; Oh! how gently shall these tir'd
And fainting Limbs repose in endless sleep,
While your Tweet Notes my Love immortal keep!
Would it had pleas'd the Gods, I had been born
Just one of you, and taught to wind a Horn,
Or wield a hook, or prune a branching Vine,
And known no other Love, but, Phyllis, thine;
Or thine, Amyntas; what though both are brown,
So are the Nuts and Berries on the Down ;
Amongst the Vines, the Willows and the Springs,
Phyllis makes Garlands, and Amyntas sings.
No cruel Absence calls my Love away,
Farther than bleating Sheep can go astray:
Here my Lycoris, here are fhady Groves,
Here Fountains cool, and Meadows soft, our Loves
And Lives may here together wear, and end :
O the true Joys of such a Fate and Friend!
I now am hurried by severe Commands
Into remotest"Parts, among the Bands
Of armed Troops; there by my Focs pursu’d,
Here by my Friends; but still my Love subdu'd.
Thou far from home, and me, art wand'ring o'er
The Alpine Snows, the farthest Western shore,
The frozen Rhine. When are we like to meet :
Ah, gently, gently, least thy tender Feet
Be cut with Ice. Cover thy lovely Arms;
The Northern cold relents not at their Charms:

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