[PASTORAL 01] THE FIRST PASTORAL. Ambrose Philips Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T142876 Dryden, John. Poetical miscellanies: the sixth part. Containing a collection of original poems, with several new translations. By the most eminent hands. London printed for Jacob Tonson, within Grays-Inn Gate, next Grays-Inn Lane 1709 pp. 1-7. [12],172,177-224,221-298,301-632,[2],723-751,[1]p.,plate; 8⁰.

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[ PASTORAL 01 ] THE FIRST PASTORAL . LOBBIN . If we , O Dorset , quit the City Throng , To meditate in Shades the Rural Song , By your Commands ; be present : And , O , bring The Muse along ! The Muse to you shall sing . Begin . — A Shepherd Boy , one Ev'ning fair , As Western Winds had cool'd the sultry Air , When as his Sheep within the Fold were pent , Thus plain'd him of his dreary Discontent ; So pitiful , that all the starry Throng Attentive seem'd to hear his mournful Song . Ah , well-a-day ! How long must I endure This pining Pain ? Or who shall speed my Cure ? Fond Love no Cure will have ; seeks no Repose ; Delights in Grief ; nor any Measure knows . And now the Moon begins in Clouds to rise ; The twinkling Stars are lighted in the Skies ; The Winds are hush'd ; the Dews distil ; and Sleep With soft Embrace has seized my weary Sheep . I only with the prouling Wolf , constrain'd All Night to wake . With hunger is he pain'd , And I with Love . His Hunger he may tame : But who in Love can stop the growling Flame ? Whilom did I , all as this Pop'lar fair , Up-raise my heedless Head , then void of Care , 'Mong rustick Routs the chief for wanton Game ; Nor could they merry make 'till Lobbin came . Who better seen than I , in Shepherds Arts , To please the Lads and win the Lasses Hearts ? How deffly to mine oaten Reed , so sweet , Wont they , upon the Green , to shift their Feet ? And , when the Dance was done , how would they yearn Some well devised Tale from me to learn ? For , many Songs and Tales of Mirth had I , To chase the lingring Sun adown the Sky . But , ah ! since Lucy coy has wrought her Spight Within my Heart ; unmindful of Delight , The jolly Grooms I fly ; and , all alone To Rocks and Woods pour forth my fruitless Moan . Oh quit thy wonted Scorn , relentless Fair ! E're , lingring long , I perish through Despair . Had Rosalind been Mistress of my Mind , Tho' not so fair , she would have been more kind . O think , unwitting Maid , while yet is Time , How flying Years impair our youthful Prime ! Thy Virgin Bloom will not for ever stay ; And Flow'rs , tho' left ungath'red , will decay . The Flow'rs anew returning Seasons bring ; But Beauty faded has no second Spring . My Words are Wind ! She , deaf to all my Cries , Takes Pleasure in the Mischief of her Eyes . Like frisking Heifers , loose in flow'ry Meads , She gads where-e'er her roving Fancy leads ; Yet still from me . Ah me , the tiresome Chace ! While , wing'd with Scorn , she flied my fond Embrace . She flies indeed : but ever leaves behind , Fly where she will , her Likeness in my Mind . Ah turn thee then ! unthinking Damsel ! Why , Thus from the Youth , who loves thee , should thou fly ? No cruel Purpose in my Speed I bear : 'Tis all but Love ; and Love why should'st thou fear ? What idle Fears a Maiden Breast alarm ! Stay , simple Girl ! a Lover cannot harm . Two Kidlins , sportive as thy self , I rear ; Like tender Buds their shooting Horns appear . A Lambkin too , pure white , I breed , as tame , As my fond Heart could wish my scornful Dame . A Garland , deck'd with all the Pride of May , Sweet as thy Breath , and as thy Beauty gay , I'll weave . But why these unavailing Pains ? The Gifts alike and Giver she disdains . Oh would my Gifts but win her wanton Heart ! Or could I half the Warmth I feel impart ! How would I wander ev'ry Day to find The ruddy wildings ! Were but Lucy kind , For glossy Plumbs I'd climb the knotty Tree , And of fresh Honey rob the thrifty Bee . Or , if thou deign to live a Shepherdess , Thou Lobbin's flock , and Lobbin , shalt possess . Fair is my flock ; nor yet uncomely I , If liquid Fountains flatter not : and why Should liquid Fountains flatter us ? yet show The bord'ring Flowers less beauteous than they grow . O ! come , my Love ! nor think th' Employment mean , The Dams to milk , and little Lambkins wean , To drive a-Field by morn the fat'ning Ewes , E're the warm Sun drinks up the cooly Dews . How would the Crook beseem thy beauteous Hand ! How would my Younglings round thee gazing stand ! Ah witless Younglings ! gaze not on her Eye : Such heedless Glances are the Cause I die . Nor trow I when this bitter Blast will end ; Or if kind Love will ever me befriend . Sleep , sleep , my Flock : For happy you may take Your rest , tho' nightly thus your Master wake . Now , to the waining Moon , the Nightingale In doleful Ditties told her piteous Tale . The Love-sick Shepherd list'ning found Relief , Pleas'd with so sweet a Partner in his Grief : 'Till by degrees her Notes and silent Night To Slumbers soft his heavy Heart invite .