Four Pastoral Eclogues II

Thyrsis, the gayest one of all the Swains, Who fed their Flocks upon th' Arcadian Plains; While Love's mad Passion quite devour'd his Heart, And the coy Nymph that caus'd, neglects his Smart; Strives in low Numbers, such as Shepherds use, If not to move her Breast, his own t'amuse. You, Chloris, who with Scorn refuse to see The mighty Wounds that you have made on me; Yet cannot sure with equal Pride disdain, To hear an humble Hind of his complain.

Now while the Flocks and Herds to Shades retire, While the fierce Sun sets all the World on Fire; Thro' burning Fields, thro' rugged Brakes I rove, And to the Hills and Woods declare my Love. How small's the Heat? how easy is the Pain I feel Without, to that I feel Within?

Yet scornful Galatea will not hear, But from my Songs and Pipe still turns her Ear. Not so the sage Corisca, nor the fair Climena, nor rich Aegon's only Care: From them my Songs a just Compassion drew, And they shall have them, since contemn'd by You.

Why name I them, when ev'n chaste Cynthia stays, And Pan himself, to listen to my Lays? Pan, whose sweet Pipe has been admir'd so long, Has not disdain'd sometimes to hear my Song. Yet Galatea scorns whate'er I say; And Galatea's wiser sure than they.

Relentless Nymph! can nothing move your Mind? Must you be deaf, because you are unkind? Tho' you dislike the Subject of my Lays, Yet sure the Sweetness of my Voice might please. It is not thus that you dull Mopsus use, His Songs divert you, tho' you mine refuse. Yet I could tell you, fair One, if I would, (And since you treat me thus, methinks I should) What the wise Lycon said, when in yon Plain, He saw him Court in hope, and me in vain; Forbear, fond Youth, to chace a heedless Fair, Nor think with well-tun'd Verse to please her Ear; Seek out some other Nymph, nor e'er repine, That One who likes His Songs, should fly from Thine.

Ah, Lycon! ah! your Rage false Danger forms; 'Tis not his Songs, but 'tis his Fortune Charms: Yet, scornful Maid, in time you'll find those Toys Can yield no real, no substantial Joys; In vain his Wealth, his Titles, gain Esteem, If for all that, You are asham'd of Him.

Ah, Galatea, would'st thou turn those Eyes; Would'st thou but once vouchsafe to hear my Cries: In such soft Notes I would my Pains impart, As could not fail to move thy rocky Heart; With such sweet Songs I would thy Fame make known, As Pan himself might not disdain to own. O! could'st thou, fair One, but contented be To tend the Sheep, and chace the Hares with me: To have thy Praises eccho'd thro' the Groves, And pass thy Days with One who truly Loves; Nor let those gaudy Toys thy Heart surprize, Which the Fools envy, and the Sage despise.

But Galatea scorns my humble Flame, And neither asks my Fortune, nor my Name. Of the best Cheese my well-stor'd Dairy's full, And my soft Sheep produce the finest Wool; The richest Wines of Greece my Vineyards yield, And smiling Crops of Grain adorn my Field.

Ah, foolish Youth! in vain thou boast'st thy Store, Have what thou wilt, if Mopsus still has more. See whilst thou sing'st, behold Her haughty Pride, With what Disdain she turns her Head aside! O! why would Nature, to our Ruin, place A Tyger's Heart, with such an Angel's Face?

Cease, Shepherd, cease, at last thy fruitless Moan; Nor hope to gain a Heart already gone. While Rocks and Caves thy tuneful Notes resound, See how thy Corn lyes wither'd on the Ground! The hungry Wolves devour thy fatten'd Lambs; And bleating for the Young, makes lean the Dams. Take, Shepherd, take thy Hook, thy Flocks pursue, And when one Nymph proves cruel, find a New.