Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew, And yet my numbers please the rural throng, See what delights in silvan scenes appear! Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours, When swains from shearing seek their nightly bowers; When weary reapers quit the sultry field, And crown'd with corn their thanks to Ceres yield. This harmless grove no lurking viper hides, But in my breast the serpent Love abides. Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew, The mossy fountains, and the green retreats! This mourned a faithless, that an absent love, And Delia's name and Doris' filled the grove Antunm p. 21 AUTUMN: THE THIRD PASTORAL, OR Hylas and Aegon. TO MR WYCHERLEY. BENEATH the shade a spreading beech displays, Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire, Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms, Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright, To Delia's ear the tender notes convey. As some sad turtle his lost love deplores, And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores; Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! |