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And stormy winds are heard, think winter near,
Woe, then, alack! befall the spendthrift swain, When frost, and snow, and hail, and sleet, and rain, By turns chastise him, while, through little care, His sheep, unshelter'd, pine in nipping air. 40
Full fain, o bless'd Eliza! would I praise 45 Thy maiden-rule, and Albion's golden days: Then gentle Sidney liv'd, the shepherd's friend. Eternal blessings on his shade attend.
I love, in secret all, a beauteous maid,
This coming night she plights her troth to me:
Soft on a cowslip-bank my love and I Together lay; a brook ran murmuring by : A thousand tender things to me she said ; And I a thousand tender things repaid.
LANQUET. In summer-shade, behind the cocking hay, 65 What kind endearing words did she not say! Her lap, with apron deck’d, she fondly spread, And strok'd my cheek, and lull'd my leaning head.
Breathe soft, ye winds; ye waters, gently flow; Shield her, ye trees; ye flowers, around her grow: Ye swains, I beg you, pass in filence by; 71 My love, in yonder vale, asleep does lie.
LANQUET. Once Delia slept on easy moss reclin'd, Her lovely limbs half bare, and rude the wind: 1
I smooth'd her coats, and stole a filent kiss :
As Marian bath’d, by chance I passed by; She blush'd, and at me cast a fidelong eye: Then, cowering in the treacherous stream, she try'd Her tempting form, yet still in vain, to hide. 80
LANQUET. As I, to cool me, bath'd one sultry day, Fond Lydia, lurking, in the fedges lay: The wanton laugh’d, and seem'd in haste to fly, Yet oft she stopt, and oft she turn’d her eye.
When first I saw, would I had never seen,
LANQUET. When Lucy decks with flowers her swelling breast, And on her elbow leans, dissembling rest, 90 Unable to refrain my madding mind, Nor herds, nor pasture, worth my care I find.
Come Rosalind, O come! for, wanting thee, Our peopled vale a desert is to me.
Come, Rosalind, O come! My brinded kine,
LANQUET. Come, Rosalind, o come! Here shady bowers, Here are cool fountains, and here springing flowers, Come, Rosalind ! Here ever let us stay, And sweetly waste the live-long time away.
In vain the seasons of the moon I know, The force of healing herbs, and where they grow : No herb there is, no season, to remove From my fond heart the racking pains of love.
LANQUET. What profits me, that I in charms have skill, And ghosts, and goblins, order as I will, 106 Yet have, with all my charms, no power to lay The sprite that breaks my quiet night and day?
O, that, like Colin, I had skill in rhimes, To purchase credit with succeeding times ! Sweet Colin Clout! who never, yet, had peer; Who sung through all the seasons of the year.
LANQUET. Let me, like Merlin, sing : his voice had power To free the 'clipfing moon at midnight hour :
And, as he fung, the fairies with their queen,
Last eve of May did I not hear them fing,
Here end your pleasing strife. Both victors are;