hon, O Strephon, once the jolliest lad,
That with shrill pipe did ever mountain glad;
Whilome the foremost at our rural plays,
The pride and envy of our holidays:
Why dost thou sit now musing all alone,
Teaching the turtles, yet a sadder moan?
Swell'd with thy tears, why does the neighbouring brook
Bear to the ocean, what she never took?
Thy flocks are fair and fruitful, and no swain,
Than thee, more welcome to the hill or plain.

STREPHON.

I could invite the wolf, my cruel guest,
And play unmov'd, while he on all should feast:
I cou'd endure that very swain out-run,
Out-threw, out-wrestled, and each nymph shou'd shun
The hapless Strephon.----

THIRSIS.

Tell me then thy grief,
And give it, in complaints, some short relief.

STREPHON.

Had killing mildews nipt my rising corn,
My lambs been all found dead, as soon as born;
Or raging plagues run swift through every hive,
And left not one industrious bee alive;
Had early winds, with an hoarse winter's found
Scattered my rip'ning fruit upon the ground:
Unmov'd, untoucht, I cou'd the loss sustain,
And a few days expir'd, no more complain.

THIRSIS.

E'er the sun drank of the cold morning dew,
I've known thee early the tuskt boar pursue:
Then in the evening drive the bear away,
And rescue from his jaws the trembling prey.
But now thy flocks creep feebly through the fields,
No purple grapes, thy half-drest vineyards yields:
No primrose nor no violets grace thy beds,
But thorns and thistles lift their prickly heads.
What means this change?

STREPHON

Enquire no more;
When none can heal, 'tis pain to search the sore;
Bright Galatea, in whose matchless face
Sat rural innocence, with heavenly grace;
In whose no less inimitable mind,
With equal light, even distant virtues shin'd;
Chaste without pride, and charming without art,
Honour the tyrant of her tender heart:
Fair goddess of these fields, who for our sports,
Though she might well become, neglected courts:
Belov'd of all, and loving me alone,
Is from my sight, I fear, for ever gone.

THIRSIS.

Thy case indeed is pitiful, but yet
Thou on thy loss too great a price dost set.
Women like days are, Strephon, some be far
More bright and glorious than others are:
Yet none so gay, so temperate, so clear,
But that the like adorn the rowling yea