Four Pastoral Eclogues III

Arise, O Phosphorus! and bring the Day, While I in Sighs and Tears consume away; Deceiv'd with flattering Hopes of Nisa's Love; And to the Gods my vain Petitions move: Tho' they've done nothing to prevent my Death, I'll yet invoke them with my dying Breath. Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.

Arcadia's famous for its spacious Plains, Its whistling Pine-Trees, and its shady Groves, And often hears the Swains lament their Loves. Great Pan upon its Mountains feeds his Goats, Who first taught Reeds to warble rural Notes. Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.

Mopsus weds Nisa! O! well-suited Pair! When He succeeds, what Lover can despair? After this Match let Mares and Griffins breed; And Hounds with Hares in friendly Concert feed. Go, Mopsus, go; provide the Bridal Cake; And to thy Bed the blooming Virgin take: In Her soft Arms Thou shalt securely rest. Behold, the Ev'ning comes to make Thee blest! Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.

O! Nisa, happy in a lovely Choice! While you with Scorn neglect my Pipe and Voice; While you despise my humble Songs, my Herd, My shaggy Eye-brows, and my rugged Beard; While through the Plains disdainfully you move, And think no Shepherd can deserve your Love; Mopsus alone can the nice Virgin win, With charming Person, and with graceful Mien. Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.

When first I saw you on those fatal Plains, I reach'd you Fruit, your Mother too was there; Scarce had you seen the Thirteenth Spring appear: Yet Beauty's Buds were opening in your Face; I gaz'd, and Blushes did your Charms increase. 'Tis Love, thought I, that's rising in her Breast, Alas, Your Passion, by my Own, I guest; Then upon Trust I fed the raging Pains. Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.

O! Love! I know Thee now; Thou ow'st Thy Birth To Rocks; some craggy Mountain brought thee forth: Nor is it Human Blood that fills thy Veins. Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.

Relentless Love, to bold Medaea show'd, To stain her Hands in her own Children's Blood. Was she more cruel, or more wicked he? A wicked Counsellor he was; a cruel Mother she. Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.

Now let the Screech Owls vie with warbling Swans; Upon hard Oaks let blushing Peaches grow, And from the Brambles, liquid Amber flow. The harmless Wolves, the rav'nous Sheep shall shun; And valiant Deer, at fearful Greyhounds run: Let the Sea rise, and overflow the Plains. Begin, my Muse, begin th' Arcadian Strains.

Adieu, ye Flocks, no more shall I pursue! Adieu, ye Groves, a long, a long Adieu! And you, coy Nymph, who all my Vows disdain, Take this last Present from a dying Swain. Since you dislike whate'er in Life I said, You may be pleas'd, perhaps, to hear I'm dead: This Leap shall put an end to all my Pains. Now cease, my Muse, now cease th' Arcadian Strains.

Thus Damon sung while on the Cliff he stood, Then headlong plung'd into the raging Flood. All with united Grief the Loss bemoan, Except the Authress of his Fate alone, Who hears it with an unrelenting Breast; Ah, cruel Nymph! forbear your Scorns at least. How much soe'er you may the Love despise, 'Tis barb'rous to insult on One that dies.