ANOTHER. Mary Robinson (née Darby) 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. T100118 Robinson, Mary, 1758-1800. Poems by Mrs. Robinson [poems only]. London Printed for C. Parker, the Upper Part of New Bond-Street 1775 pp. 11-15. [8],134p.,plate; 8⁰.

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ANOTHER . I Ye myrtles and woodbines so green , Your fragrance no longer beguile , Ye bow'rs that with rapture I've seen , When Damon did tenderly smile . When his heart beat with every look , His charmer did kindly bestow ; When he left both his pipe and his crook , O'er the meadows with Delia to go . II Each hour he employ'd for his dear , In gathering fruit of the best , The sweet bryar , and violet did rear , To make poesies for Delia's breast . With roses , and hiacynths fair , With myrtle , and ever green bay , Sweet chaplets he wove for her hair , And her charms were the theme of his lay . III At noon's scorching heat we retir'd , To the grove at the foot of the hill , Or else to the wood he admir'd , By the side of a murmuring rill . With his song did the shepherd delight , His reed did resound through the grove , My steps did the charmer invite , And each accent was blended with love . IV But ah ! to my sorrow I find , ( What grieves my fond heart to relate ; ) That Damon is false as the wind , His passion is changed to hate . With scorn doth he slight all my charms , Such contempt ev'ry look doth impart , With hatred he flies from my arms , With disdain he rejects my soft heart . V The garland he wove for my hair , Of laurel , and ever green bay , The crook that he bought at the fair , He has given to Phillis the gay . The bow'r which for Delia he made , The lambkins he lov'd for my sake , Of the grot , and the silver cascade , No longer must Delia partake . VI My flocks can no longer delight , In vain do they frolick and play , For when Damon is out of my sight , No pleasure I feel through the day . No more do I sport on the plain , No comfort my bosom can prove , 'Till Damon doth pity my pain , For pity is sister to love .