Classic Poem

My fair, Cornutus, to the country's flown;
Oh, how insipid is the city grown!
No taste have they for elegance refin'd;
No tender bosoms, who remain behind:
Now Cytherea glads the laughing plain,
And smiles and sports compose her silvan train.
Now Cupid joys to learn the ploughman's phrase,
And, clad a peasant, o'er the fallows strays.
Oh! how the weighty prong I'll busy wield,
Should the fair wander to the labour'd field;
A farmer then, the crooked ploughshare hold,
Whilst the dull ox prepares the vigorous mould:
I'd not complain though Phaebus burnt the lands,
And painful blisters swell'd my tender hands.
Admetus' herds the fair Apollo drove,
In spite of med'cine's power, a prey to love;
Nor aught avail'd to soothe his amorous care,
His lyre of silver sound, or waving hair.
To quench their thirst, the kine to streams he led,
And drove them from their pasture to the shed.
The milk to curdle, then, the fair he taught;
And from the cheese to strain the dulcet draught.
Oft, oft, his virgin-sister blush'd for shame,
As bearing lambkins o'er the field he came:
Oft would he sing, the listening vales among,
Till lowing oxen broke the plaintive song.
To Delphi, trembling anxious chiefs repair,
But got no answer; Phaebus was not there.
Thy curling locks that charm'd a step-dame's eye,
A jealous step-dame, now neglected fly.
To see thee, Phaebus, thus disfigur'd stray!
Who could discover the fair god of day?
Constrain'd by Cupid in a cot to pine,
Where was thy Delos, where thy Pythian shrine?
Thrice happy days! when love almighty sway'd,
And openly the gods his will obey'd.
Now love's soft powers became a common jest —
Yet those, who feel his influence in their breast,
The prude's contempt, the wise man's sneer despise,
Nor would his chains forego to rule the skies.
Curs'd farm! that forc'd my Nemesis from town,
Blasts taint thy vines, and rains thy harvests drown.
Though hymns implore your aid, great god of wine!
Assist the lover, and neglect the vine;
To shades, unpunish'd, ne'er let beauty stray;
Not all your vintage can its absence pay;
Rather than harvest should the fair detain,
May rills and acorns feed the' unactive swain!
The swains of old, no golden Ceres knew;
And yet how fervent was their love and true!
Their melting vows the Paphian queen approv'd,
And every valley witness'd how they lov'd.
Then lurk'd no spies to catch the willing maid;
Doorless each house; in vain no shepherd pray'd.
Once more, ye simple usages obtain!
No — lead me, drive me to the cultur'd plain!
Enchain me, whip me, if the fair command:
Whip'd and enchain'd, I'll plough the stubborn land!