Poems on Several Occasions, Pastoral
THE Unfortunate SHEPHERD. A PASTORAL.
Thyrsis and Corydon.
Cor.
OUR Flocks beside you' Mountain cooly graze,
And joyful bleatings Echo from the place:
The roaming Ewes to the cool shadows run,
And the soft Lambs avoid the scorching Sun,
Beneath this Hawthorn-Tree let us sit down,
And talk of pleasures we can call our own:
For the same Fate our roving Flocks does keep,
At once does aid the Shepherd, and his Sheep.
Thyr.
There was time, indeed, when I cou'd sing,
With charming Notes could stop the hasty Spring;
Talk of my pleasures in the Myrtle shade,
Where the good Shepherds all supinely laid:
Made a resounding Chorus, charm'd the Wood,
And, like lov'd Orpheus, stopt the list'ning Flood.
To entertain her honest civil Guest,
Nature her self prepar'd a pompous Feast:
Sleep from the Grass we took, Drink from the Flood,
Solwes from the Hedge, and Wildings from the Wood.
Cool were the days, our Heads with Ivy Crown'd;
To each glad Swain a lasting Health went round:
But now, Alas! my pleasing Joy is fled,
And Grief, resistless Grief! come in its stead.
Cor.
Now by that mighty God, whose Blessings can
Augment the jolly Fold, our mighty Pan;
If Love has made you sad, your cruel grief
Shall from my sollid comfort find relief.
If hurtful Seasons have destroy'd your Fold,
Half of my Flock is at your service told.
Thyr.
My Flocks are healthful, and their number great,
The thriving Twins about their Mothers bleat.
No rave'nous Wolf of late has fill'd his Paws
With my young Lambs, or with 'em try'd his Jaws:
But angry Cupid — Curst be the Fatal Name!
Has fir'd my Breast with an Eternal Flame.
Ah! why should Shepherds such disasters prove?
Why should mean Swains be plagu'd with melting Love?
Curst be the Light, that usher'd in the Day!
And Curst these Eyes, that did my Heart betray!
Ah! Corydon, 'tis Love.
Cor.
Love let it be:
'Tis Love that makes us like the Deity.
I know you're young, in Lovers Art unskill'd;
What's one Man's pleasure, has another kill'd.
You grieve for Love, which does my time devour,
And fills the empty space of every hour.
Were't not for Love, I'd quit this World below,
And to the Tombs of senseless Lovers go:
If after Death we're empty shadows made,
Rather than not b' in Love, I'll court a Shade.
Happy's that Man, whom Love does make its friend;
Does in his active Breast its gentle fire send.
Thyr.
Wisely you talk of Love, who never felt
The flame so long has in my bosom dwelt:
Fondly to Love at the extreamest rate,
And to receive again Disdain and Hate.
Witness, ye Heavens! how oft have I sate down
On the cold Earth, and sadly griev'd alone.
Sadly the Winds and Clouds above me fly;
But neither sigh'd or wept so much as I.
The Floods that use'd in hollow murmurs groan,
Slid silent by; and pitied my sad moan.
The neighb'ring Philomel, late lost her young,
Fills not the Woods with a more mournful Song:
But yet for all the toilsome Love I've born,
I meet with cold neglect, and publick scorn.
Cor.
Disdain and Hate the Lover oft does prove;
Yet Hatred often turns to kindest Love.
Were she a Goddess, and of Race Divine,
Her lofty Head should stoop to Cupid's shrine:
I tell thee, Shepherd, she will soon relent,
And all her offer'd injuries repent.
She'll Love that Man she now disdains to own;
And like an humble suppliant stooping down,
On Cupid's Altar, offer up a Prayer;
And for each angry Word, sha'll shed a Tear:
Believe me, Shepherd, for I well do know,
The deepest mysteries of Love below:
Full Twenty years its Sacred Books I've read,
And of its force a long experience had.
Trust then to Love, for sure 'twill ne're disdain,
So blithe a Shepherd, and so good a Swain.
Thyr.
Had you but seen, my Corydon, how she,
My cruel fair one, cast disdain at me;
You'd sink beneath the pressure of the pain:
No more with wonted Notes would fill the Plain.
In her hard Breast Disdain and Anger strove;
Just like the Thunder of Almighty Jove.
Lightning flew from her Eyes, a Bolt each Word;
And in my pensive Breast it loudly roar'd.
Ah! who can live, when angry Woman's skill,
With each disdainful Word, can slily kill?
I thought, when first I saw her, she had been,
A gentle Nymph, companion of the Green.
Good Gods! how well she Danc'd? How low she Bow'd?
And paid obeisance to the gazing Crowd?
Smil'd on each lovely Swain, and look'd such Words,
As kindest Strephon to his Dear affords.
Who could imagine Laurels would become
A scornful Nymph, Born at prouder Rome?
She boasts her Worth, and Rome's exalted place;
Her high-born Blood, and Priam's mighty Race:
Vilely she makes a Virtue of Disdain,
And loaths the very name of Country Swain.
But yet, Alas! I'm doom'd to Love her still.
Cor.
You're led not by your Reason, but your Will;
Are there not Nymphs enough here of our own?
What need have we to court the stupid Town?
From Stinks and Pride, ignoble Povertie,
And all the Plagues damn'd Citizens do see,
Good God Almighty Pan, deliver me!
Take this fine Fool, has overcome thy Heart,
And home to the inglorious Town depart:
There hug thy Chains, thy painted Slaverie;
Damon and's Chloe ne're shall envy thee.
Thyr.
Now kindest Fate to Thyrsis put an end;
I ne're shall gain my Love, yet lose my Friend.
On me bestow your angry Bolts in store;
No wrethed Mortal e're cou'd wish 'em more. Exit.
Amoretta and Ephelia.
Amor.
Ho, Corydon! did not I meet Thyrsis?
Sure I did; and paler far he look't,
Than some dead Corps, that's carrying to its Cell.
What means it, Corydon? Is he in Love?
His Eyes look'd languid, and he walk'd along
Just like a shadow, or an empty Ghost.
Cor.
How soon these Women find out Love's Disease?
Dear Nymph! did not you feel his Pulse,
Observe its Motion?
Amor.
By Pan, I did not!
Cor.
Yes sure; 'tis Love does grieve his troubled mind:
Restless he lies at Night, and all the Day,
With Groans and Sighs, lie fills the wonted Plains:
He 'as broke his Pipe, and quite forgot to Sing;
There's nought of Man left in him but the Name.
Eph.
We came not here to talk of Love, but Sport.
Where are the jolly Swains, must Dance the Ring?
And where the Bays, the Victor's Sacred Meed?
I long to see the nimble Youths unstrip,
And take their chosen Nymphs into their Hands.
But now we talk of Mirth, where's old Damaetas,
My good adopted Father?
Damaetas:
Dam.
Here I am!
I must confess, I'm Old and Feeble grown;
But yet my Mirth and Age encrease together:
Winter has seiz'd my Brow, but yet some heat
Informs my aged Breast: and though it cannot
Melt down my Snowy Hairs, and turn 'em black;
Yet I can Kiss as well as e're I could.
Eph.
What! with that Beard so like a prickly Furz?
Sure it must be some wretch has bought her Grave,
And given Death its Fee already, that would take
Deucalion's Grand-Father to be her Bride.
Am.
What pleasure can it be to Wed a Lout,
Whose only Exercise is Hunting Snails:
And their dull nimble course so far exceeds
Thy awkard Limbs, they've broke thy aged wind.
Dam.
Well — I will give you leave to jeer me too;
For 'tis the property of your weak Sex
To laugh at Age— But I would have you know,
But t'other day, I Danc'd at Damon's Door,
And leap'd quite o're the Threshold.
Eph.
Had it any?
Amor.
Did not you tumble o're, and make it pass
For a good Leap?
Dam.
Women and Fools are the worst sort of Cattel;
So head-strong, so unruly, and so proud!
You scorn my grizly Hairs, my awkard Limbs:
Yet I must tell you, Nymph, I've been a Man,
Could Dance, and Sing a jolly Roundelay:
And though my Age has made me leave the sport,
Yet I desire it still, and love to see
The bonny Youths and Wenches trip't away
Over the Green: You know not half the Mirth,
The gladsome pleasure whileome I enjoy'd.
Here's my Friend Corydon does know full well:
He has seen me Dance, old as I am, and stood
Astonished to see my Comick sport.
Cor.
By yonder Plain, I have! I've seen this Man,
For all his Age, Blithe as a Woman, Merry as a God.
Not long since he and I together meet,
(Where lov'd Cayister cuts its winding way)
Encamp'd upon the Plain, an Host of Swains:
An Army, not design'd for Martial Work,
But all for Love. The amorous Ground
Gladly receiv'd us, and the hollow Vale,
As if grown covetous of what we Sang,
Lengthn'd in Echo's every charming Note.
Each River-God rais'd up a downy Wave:
On watry Chairs of State they proudly sate;
And view'd with envious Eyes our homely Joy.
The River-Nymphs poep'd out their curled Heads
From amongst the Reeds, and slunk them in again;
As if they griev'd to see themselves out-done.
The nimble Satyrs all stood silent by,
Wondring to see such things more swift than they;
And raging beat, with their cloven Feet, the Ground.
You know not half the Mirth we Country Swains enjoy.
Dam.
No; if they did, they'd prize me more.
Eph.
Sure, Father, what we say, we speak in jest;
We honour your Grey Hairs; by Pan, we love you!
You are the Soul of Mirth, our only Joy.
Dam.
Then come, my Friends, this day is Damon's Sheep-shear:
There you'll see acted all the joys we're told:
Joys, that can make the meanest Shepherd Great;
Can banish Grief, and make damn'd Care retreat. Exeunt.
Finis Actus Primi.