The Fourth Pastoral
MICO. ARGOL.
MICO.
This Place may seem for Shepherd's Leisure made,
So lovingly these Elms unite their Shade.
Th' ambitious Woodbine, how it climbs, to breath
Its balmy Sweets around on all beneath!
The Ground with Grass of cheerful Green bespread,
Thro' which the springing Flow'r up-rears its Head
Lo here the King-Cup, of a golden Hue,
Medly'd with Daisies white, and Endive blue.
Hark how the gaudy Goldfinch, and the Thrush,
With tuneful Warblings fill that Bramble-Bush!
In pleasing Consorts all the Birds combine,
And tempt us in the various Songs to join.
Up, Argol , then; and to thy Lip apply
Thy mellow Pipe, or vocal Musick try:
And, since our Ewes have graz'd, no harm, if they
Lye round and listen, while their Lambkins play.
ARGOL.
The Place indeed gives Pleasance to the Eye;
And Pleasance works the Singer's Fancy high:
The Fields breath sweet; and now the gentle Breez
Moves ev'ry Leaf, and trembles thro' the Trees.
So sweet a Scene ill suits my rugged Lay,
And better fits the Musick thou canst play.
MICO.
No Skill of Musick can I, simple Swain,
No fine Device thine Ear to entertain;
Albeit some deal I pipe, rude tho' it be,
Sufficient to divert my Sheep and me.
Yet Colinet (and Colinet has Skill)
My Fingers guided on the tuneful Quill,
And try'd to teach me on what Sounds to dwell,
And where to sink a Note, and where to swell
ARGOL.
Ah Mico ! half my Flock would I bestow,
Would Colinet to me his Cunning show.
So trim his Sonnets are, I prithee, Swain,
Now give us once a Sample of his Strain:
For, Wonders of that Lad the Shepherds say,
How sweeThis Pipe, how ravishing his Lay:
The Sweetness of his Pipe and Lay reherse,
And ask what Gift thou pleasest for thy Verse.
MICO.
Since then thou list, a mournful Song I chuse;
A mournful Song becomes a mournful Muse.
Fast by the River on a Bank he sate,
To weep a lovely Maid's untimely Fate,
Fair Stella hight: A lovely Maid was she,
Whose Fate he wept; a faithful Shepherd he.
Awake my Pipe; in ev'ry Note express
Fair Stella's Death, and Colinet's Distress.
O woeful Day! O Day of Woe! quoth he;
And woful I, who live the Day to see!
That ever she could die! O most unkind,
To go, and leave thy Colinet behind!
And yet, why blame I her? Full fain would she,
With dying Arms, have clasp'd her self to me:
I clasp'd her too; but Death was all too strong,
Nor Vows, nor Tears, could fleeting Life prolong.
Teach me to grieve, with bleating Moan, my Sheep;
Teach me, thou ever-flowing Stream, to weep;
Teach me, ye faint, ye hollow Winds, to sigh;
And let my Sorrows teach me how to die:
Nor Flock, nor Stream, nor Winds, can e'er relieve
A Wretch like me, for ever born to grieve.
Awake, my Pipe; in ev'ry Note express
Fair Stella's Death, and Colinet's Distress.
Ye brighter Maids, faint Emblems of my Fair,
With Looks cast down, and with dishevel'd Hair,
In bitter Anguish beat your Breasts, and moan
Her Hour untimely, as it were your own.
Alas! the fading Glories of your Eyes
In vain we doat upon, in vain you prize:
For, tho' your Beauty rule the silly Swain,
And in his Heart like little Queens you reign;
Yet Death will ev'n that ruling Beauty kill,
As ruthless Winds the tender Blossoms spill.
If either Musick's Voice, or Beauty's Charm,
Could make him mild, and stay his lifted Arm;
My Pipe her Face, her Face my Pipe should save,
Redeeming thus each other from the Grave.
Ah fruitless Wish! Cold Death's up-lifted Arm,
Nor Musick can persuade, nor Beauty charm:
For see (O baleful Sight!) See where she lyes!
The budding Flow'r, unkindly blasted, dies.
Awake, my Pipe; in ev'ry Note express
Fair Stella's Death, and Colinet's Distress.
Unhappy Colinet ! What boots thee now
To weave fresh Garlands for the Damsel's Brow?
Throw by the Lilly, Daffadil and Rose;
One of black Yew, and Willow pale, compose,
With baneful Henbane, deadly Night-shade drest;
A Garland, that may witness thy Unrest.
My Pipe, whose soothing Sound could Passion move,
And first taught Stella's Virgin Heart to love,
Untun'd shall hang upon this blasted Oak,
Whence Owls their Dirges sing, and Ravens croak:
Nor Lark, nor Linnet shall by day delight,
Nor Nightingale divert my Moan by Night;
The Night and Day shall undistinguish'd be,
Alike to Stella , and alike to me.
Thus sweetly did the gentle Shepherd sing,
And heavy Woe within soft Numbers bring:
And now that Sheep-hook for my Song I crave.
ARGOL.
Not this, but one much fairer shalt thou have,
Of season'd Elm; where Studs of Brass appear,
To speak the Giver's Name, the Month and Year;
The Hook of polish'd Steel, the Handle turn'd,
And richly by the Graver's Skill adorn'd.
O, Colinet , how sweet thy Grief to hear!
How does thy Verse subdue the list'ning Ear!
Not half so sweet are Midnight Winds, that move
In drowsie Murmurs o'er the waving Grove;
Nor dropping Waters, that in Grots distil,
And with a tinkling Sound their Caverns fill:
So sing the Swans, that in soft Numbers waste
Their dying Breath, and warble to the last.
And next to thee shall Mico bear the Bell,
That can repeat thy peerless Verse so well.
But see; the Hills increasing Shadows cast:
The sun, I ween, is leaving us in haste:
His weakly Rays but glimmer thro' the Wood,
And blueish Mists arise from yonder Flood.
MICO.
Then send our Curs to gather up the Sheep:
Good Shepherds with their Flocks betimes should sleep:
For, he that late lyes down, as late will rise,
And, Sluggard like, 'till Noon-day snoring lyes;
While in their Folds his injur'd Ewes complain,
And after dewy Pastures bleat in vain.
MICO.
This Place may seem for Shepherd's Leisure made,
So lovingly these Elms unite their Shade.
Th' ambitious Woodbine, how it climbs, to breath
Its balmy Sweets around on all beneath!
The Ground with Grass of cheerful Green bespread,
Thro' which the springing Flow'r up-rears its Head
Lo here the King-Cup, of a golden Hue,
Medly'd with Daisies white, and Endive blue.
Hark how the gaudy Goldfinch, and the Thrush,
With tuneful Warblings fill that Bramble-Bush!
In pleasing Consorts all the Birds combine,
And tempt us in the various Songs to join.
Up, Argol , then; and to thy Lip apply
Thy mellow Pipe, or vocal Musick try:
And, since our Ewes have graz'd, no harm, if they
Lye round and listen, while their Lambkins play.
ARGOL.
The Place indeed gives Pleasance to the Eye;
And Pleasance works the Singer's Fancy high:
The Fields breath sweet; and now the gentle Breez
Moves ev'ry Leaf, and trembles thro' the Trees.
So sweet a Scene ill suits my rugged Lay,
And better fits the Musick thou canst play.
MICO.
No Skill of Musick can I, simple Swain,
No fine Device thine Ear to entertain;
Albeit some deal I pipe, rude tho' it be,
Sufficient to divert my Sheep and me.
Yet Colinet (and Colinet has Skill)
My Fingers guided on the tuneful Quill,
And try'd to teach me on what Sounds to dwell,
And where to sink a Note, and where to swell
ARGOL.
Ah Mico ! half my Flock would I bestow,
Would Colinet to me his Cunning show.
So trim his Sonnets are, I prithee, Swain,
Now give us once a Sample of his Strain:
For, Wonders of that Lad the Shepherds say,
How sweeThis Pipe, how ravishing his Lay:
The Sweetness of his Pipe and Lay reherse,
And ask what Gift thou pleasest for thy Verse.
MICO.
Since then thou list, a mournful Song I chuse;
A mournful Song becomes a mournful Muse.
Fast by the River on a Bank he sate,
To weep a lovely Maid's untimely Fate,
Fair Stella hight: A lovely Maid was she,
Whose Fate he wept; a faithful Shepherd he.
Awake my Pipe; in ev'ry Note express
Fair Stella's Death, and Colinet's Distress.
O woeful Day! O Day of Woe! quoth he;
And woful I, who live the Day to see!
That ever she could die! O most unkind,
To go, and leave thy Colinet behind!
And yet, why blame I her? Full fain would she,
With dying Arms, have clasp'd her self to me:
I clasp'd her too; but Death was all too strong,
Nor Vows, nor Tears, could fleeting Life prolong.
Teach me to grieve, with bleating Moan, my Sheep;
Teach me, thou ever-flowing Stream, to weep;
Teach me, ye faint, ye hollow Winds, to sigh;
And let my Sorrows teach me how to die:
Nor Flock, nor Stream, nor Winds, can e'er relieve
A Wretch like me, for ever born to grieve.
Awake, my Pipe; in ev'ry Note express
Fair Stella's Death, and Colinet's Distress.
Ye brighter Maids, faint Emblems of my Fair,
With Looks cast down, and with dishevel'd Hair,
In bitter Anguish beat your Breasts, and moan
Her Hour untimely, as it were your own.
Alas! the fading Glories of your Eyes
In vain we doat upon, in vain you prize:
For, tho' your Beauty rule the silly Swain,
And in his Heart like little Queens you reign;
Yet Death will ev'n that ruling Beauty kill,
As ruthless Winds the tender Blossoms spill.
If either Musick's Voice, or Beauty's Charm,
Could make him mild, and stay his lifted Arm;
My Pipe her Face, her Face my Pipe should save,
Redeeming thus each other from the Grave.
Ah fruitless Wish! Cold Death's up-lifted Arm,
Nor Musick can persuade, nor Beauty charm:
For see (O baleful Sight!) See where she lyes!
The budding Flow'r, unkindly blasted, dies.
Awake, my Pipe; in ev'ry Note express
Fair Stella's Death, and Colinet's Distress.
Unhappy Colinet ! What boots thee now
To weave fresh Garlands for the Damsel's Brow?
Throw by the Lilly, Daffadil and Rose;
One of black Yew, and Willow pale, compose,
With baneful Henbane, deadly Night-shade drest;
A Garland, that may witness thy Unrest.
My Pipe, whose soothing Sound could Passion move,
And first taught Stella's Virgin Heart to love,
Untun'd shall hang upon this blasted Oak,
Whence Owls their Dirges sing, and Ravens croak:
Nor Lark, nor Linnet shall by day delight,
Nor Nightingale divert my Moan by Night;
The Night and Day shall undistinguish'd be,
Alike to Stella , and alike to me.
Thus sweetly did the gentle Shepherd sing,
And heavy Woe within soft Numbers bring:
And now that Sheep-hook for my Song I crave.
ARGOL.
Not this, but one much fairer shalt thou have,
Of season'd Elm; where Studs of Brass appear,
To speak the Giver's Name, the Month and Year;
The Hook of polish'd Steel, the Handle turn'd,
And richly by the Graver's Skill adorn'd.
O, Colinet , how sweet thy Grief to hear!
How does thy Verse subdue the list'ning Ear!
Not half so sweet are Midnight Winds, that move
In drowsie Murmurs o'er the waving Grove;
Nor dropping Waters, that in Grots distil,
And with a tinkling Sound their Caverns fill:
So sing the Swans, that in soft Numbers waste
Their dying Breath, and warble to the last.
And next to thee shall Mico bear the Bell,
That can repeat thy peerless Verse so well.
But see; the Hills increasing Shadows cast:
The sun, I ween, is leaving us in haste:
His weakly Rays but glimmer thro' the Wood,
And blueish Mists arise from yonder Flood.
MICO.
Then send our Curs to gather up the Sheep:
Good Shepherds with their Flocks betimes should sleep:
For, he that late lyes down, as late will rise,
And, Sluggard like, 'till Noon-day snoring lyes;
While in their Folds his injur'd Ewes complain,
And after dewy Pastures bleat in vain.
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