Phoebe. a Pastoral

My time, O ye Muses! was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went: Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest. But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change, on a sudden, I find? When things were as fine as cou'd possibly be, I thought it was Spring; but, alas! it was she.

The fountain, that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, It was pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear. But, now she is absent, I walk by its side, And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide: Must you be so chearful, whilst I go in pain? Peace, there, with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head. But, now, when he's fawning, I, with a sour look, Cry, "Sirrah," and give him a blow with my crook: And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?

Sweet music went with us both all the wood thro', The Lark, Linnet, Throstle, and Nightingale too; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grashopper under our feet. But now she is absent, tho' still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gives every thing else its agreeable sound.

Will no pitying power that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? To be cur'd, thou must, Collin, thy passion remove: But what swain is so silly to live without love? No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return; For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair: Take heed, all ye swains, how you love one so fair.