A BALLAD. Robert Lloyd Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1137 K093079.004 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. IV. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 102-104. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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A BALLAD . BY THE SAME . YE shepherds so careless and gay , Who sport with the nymphs of the plain , Take heed lest you frolic away , The peace you can never regain . Let not Folly your bosoms annoy ; And of Love , the dear mischief , beware . You may think 'tis all sunshine and joy , — I know 'its o'ershadow'd with care . Love's morning how blithsome it shines , With an aspect deceitfully fair ; Its day oft in sorrow declines , And it sets in the night of despair . Hope paints the gay scene to the sight , While Fancy her visions bestows , And gilds every dream with delight , But to wake us to sensible woes . How hard is my lot to complain Of a nymph whom I yet must adore , Tho' she love not her shepherd again , Her Damon must love her the more . For it was not the pride of her sex , That treated his vows with disdain , For it was not the pleasure to vex , That made her delude her fond swain . 'Twas His , the fair nymph to behold , He hop'd — and he rashly believ'd . 'Twas Hers to be fatally cold ; — He lov'd — and was fondly deceiv'd . For such is of lovers the doom , While passions their reason beguile , 'Tis warrant enough to presume , If they catch but a look or a smile . Yet surely my Phillis would seem To prize me most shepherds above ; But that might be only esteem , While I foolishly construed it love . Yet others , like Damon , believ'd The nymph might have favour'd her swain , And others , like Him , were deceiv'd , Like Him , tho' they cannot complain . Of Phyllis was always my song , For she was my pride and my care ; And the folks , as we wander'd along , Would call us the conjugal pair . They mark'd how I walk'd at her side , How her hand to my bosom I prest , Each tender endearment I try'd , And I thought none was ever so blest . But now the delusion is o'er , These day-dreams of pleasure are fled , Now Her Damon is pleasing no more , And the hopes of her shepherd are dead . May he that my fair shall obtain , May He , as thy Damon , be true ; Or haply thou'lt think of that swain , Who bids thee , dear maiden , adieu .