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| MY time, O ye Muses! was happily spent, | |
| When Phebe went with me wherever I went, | |
| Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast; | |
| Sure, never fond Shepherd like Colin was blest. | |
| But now she is gone, and left me behind; | 5 |
| What a marvellous change on a sudden I find; | |
| When things were as fine as could possibly be, | |
| I thought ’twas the Spring; but, alas! it was she. | |
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| With such a companion, to tend a few sheep, | |
| To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep; | 10 |
| I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay, | |
| My heart was as light as a feather all day. | |
| But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, | |
| So strangely uneasy, as never was known. | |
| My Fair One is gone, and my joys are all drowned, | 15 |
| And my heart—I am sure, it weighs more than a pound. | |
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| The fountain, that wont to run sweetly along | |
| And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, | |
| Thou know’st, little Cupid, if Phebe were there, | |
| ’Twas pleasure to look at, ’twas music to hear. | 20 |
| But now she is absent, I walk by its side, | |
| And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; | |
| ‘Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? | |
| Peace there, with your bubbling, and hear me complain!’ | |
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| My lambkins, around me would oftentimes play, | 25 |
| And Phebe and I were as joyful as they; | |
| How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, | |
| When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime. | |
| But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, | |
| I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass. | 30 |
| ‘Be still, then!’ I cry, ‘for it makes me quite mad, | |
| To see you so merry, while I am so sad.’ | |
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| My dog I was ever well pleasèd to see | |
| Come wagging his tail to my Fair One and me; | |
| And Phebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, | 35 |
| ‘Come hither, poor fellow,’ and patted his head. | |
| But now, when he’s fawning, I with a sour look, | |
| Cry, ‘Sirrah!’ and give him a blow with my crook: | |
| And I’ll give him another; for why should not Tray | |
| Be as dull as his master, when Phebe’s away? | 40 |
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| When walking with Phebe, what sights have I seen! | |
| How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! | |
| What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, | |
| The cornfields and hedges, and every thing, made. | |
| But now she has left me, though all are still there, | 45 |
| They none of them now so delightful appear; | |
| ’Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes | |
| Made so many beautiful prospects arise. | |
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| Sweet music went with us both, all the wood through, | |
| The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too. | 50 |
| Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat; | |
| And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. | |
| But now she is absent, though still they sing on, | |
| The woods are but lonely, the melody’s gone; | |
| Her voice in the consort, as now I have found, | 55 |
| Gave every thing else its agreeable sound. | |
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| Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? | |
| And where is the violet’s beautiful blue? | |
| Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? | |
| That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? | 60 |
| Ah, rivals! I see what it was, that you drest | |
| And made yourselves fine for! a place in her breast; | |
| You put on your colours to pleasure her eye; | |
| To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. | |
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| How slowly time creeps till my Phebe returns! | 65 |
| While amidst the soft zephyr’s cool breezes I burn. | |
| Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread; | |
| I could breathe on his wings, and ’twould melt down the lead. | |
| Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, | |
| And rest so much longer for’t, when she is here. | 70 |
| Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay; | |
| Nor will budge one foot faster, for all thou canst say. | |
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| Will no pitying power that hears me complain, | |
| Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? | |
| To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy Passion remove; | 75 |
| But what swain is so silly to live without love? | |
| No, Deity! bid the dear Nymph to return, | |
| For ne’er was poor Shepherd so sadly forlorn. | |
| Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair; | |
| Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your Fair! | 80 |
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