A PASTORAL BALLAD.
DID ever Swain, a Nymph adore, As I ungrateful NANNY do! Was ever Shepherd's heart so sore! Was ever broken heart so true!
My eyes are swelled with tears; but she Has never shed a tear for me!
If NANNY called, did ROBIN stay! Or linger, when she bid me run! She only had the word to say; And all she asked was quickly done! I always thought on her; but she Would ne'er bestow a thought on me!
To let her cows my clover taste, Have I not rose by break of day! When did her heifers ever fast,
If ROBIN in his yard had hay!
Though to my fields they welcome were; I never welcome was to her!
If NANNY ever lost a sheep, I cheerfully did give her two! Did not her lambs in safety sleep
Within my folds, in frost and snow!
Have they not there from cold been free; But NANNY still is cold to me!
Whene'er I climbed our orchard trees, The ripest fruit was kept for NAN! O, how those hands that drowned her bees Were stung! I'll ne'er forget the pain!
Sweet were the combs, as sweet could be; But NANNY ne'er looked sweet on me!
If NANNY to the well did come, 'Twas I that did her pitchers fill! Full as they were, I brought them home! Her corn I carried to the Mill!
My back did bear her sacks; but she Would never bear the sight of me!
To NANNY'S poultry, oats I gave;
I'm sure, they always had the best! Within this week, her pigeons have Eat up a peck of peas at least! Her little pigeons kiss; but she Would never take a kiss from me!
Must ROBIN always NANNY woo;
And NANNY still on ROBIN frown? Alas, poor wretch! What shall I do? If NANNY does not love me soon, If no relief to me she'll bring; I'll hang me in her apron-string!
Written in the year 1732.
WHEN DELIA on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears, I would approach; but dare not move! Tell me, my heart! if this be Love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear No other voice but hers can hear! No other wit but hers approve! Tell me, my heart! if this be Love?
If she, some other Youth commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove!
Tell me, my heart! if this be Love?
When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before, The clearest spring, or shadiest grove! Tell me, my heart! if this be Love?
When fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for ev'ry Swain I strove to hate, but vainly strove! Tell me, my heart! if this be Love?
Written in the year 1733.
'THE heavy hours are almost past That part my Love and me ; My longing eyes may hope, at last, Their only wish to see!
'But how, my DELIA! will you meet The man you've lost so long? Will love in all your pulses beat, And tremble on your tongue?
'Will you, in ev'ry look, declare Your heart is still the same; And heal each idly-anxious care Our fears, in absence frame?
Thus, DELIA! thus, I paint the scene, When shortly we shall meet;
And try what yet remains between
Of loit'ring time to cheat.
'But if the dream, that soothes my mind, Shall false and groundless prove;
If I am doomed, at length to find You have forgot to love:
'All I of VENUS ask is thisNo more to let us join;
But grant me here, the flatt'ring bliss To die, and think you mine!'
Written in the year 1732.
SAY, MYRA! why is gentle Love A stranger to that mind, Which pity and esteem can move? Which can be just and kind?
Is it because you fear to share The ills that Love molest? The jealous doubt, the tender care, That rack the am'rous breast?
Alas, by some degree of woe,
We ev'ry bliss must win!
The heart can ne'er a transport know, That never feels a pain!
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