THE IDYLLIUMS' OF THEOCRITUS WITH RAPIN'S Discourse OF PASTORALS Done into English.  
Hic igitur versus, & caetera ludicra pono;  
Quod verum atque bonum est inquiro, & totus in hoc sum.  
OXFORD, Printed by L. LICHFIELD, Printer to the University, for ANTHONY STEPHEN'S Bookseller near the Theatre 1684.   

To His Honoured Friend ARTHUR CHARLET A.M. Fellow of Trinity College in OXON.  
SIR,  
THis in its several parts being addressed to my Intimate Acquaintance, desires a Patron of the same rank; and hath pitched on You as the most able to endure, and most ready to oblige by accepting a greater trouble than the rest: It is the defence of the Whole that you must be engaged in, whilst the others singly are charged only with a Part: and in this I have followed the example of the Ancients, who though they had one of the Lares to preside over every little room, yet the whole house was dedicated to some Common Guardian: This Distinction proceeded either from a real inequality of Power in the Protectors, or from the difference of those benefits which They were supposed to have actually bestowed: As to the former consideration, every one that knows my Friends will easily allow that each singly is sufficient for the whole, though, by reason of my imperfections, a great task: But the latter, Sir, gives You the preference, and Gratitude forceth me to believe his power to be greatest, who hath most often, and most signally expressed it: Innumerable private Favours I must acknowledge the same way they were bestowed, and spare your Modesty and my own: for otherwise it w●uld seem that I thought there was some thing in my self worth your notice; or else I must publicly proclaim, that You (which though 'tis really your Case, yet very few can boast) are kind and generous without any prospect of return: But those which properly relate to the present occasion I must beg leave to mention, since Pliny, and all agree, hath severely noted as the greatest Ingratitude not to acknowledge to whom we owe what we have attained; and it would argue stupidity to run wilfully on that Censure, which hath been so justly passed, and so much applauded.  
You may remember Sir how often, when the public Cares of your well-managed Office would permit you to retreat, we have retired to a Grove, where Quiet spreads all around, and a springing verdure, and chequered variety to raise the Thoughts and recreate the Fancy; whilst soft breezes murmured thro' the Trees, which, like our Affections, served only to intermix, but never to shatter or disturb: There I have enjoyed whatever the Poets could imagine, a free innocent, and instructive discourse, such as reformed my Errors, and encouraged those Essays which you was pleased to think endeavours after virtue; till than I envied the happiness of the described Swains, and looked on Virgil and Theocritus as disturbers of Man kind, who elaborately described the most perfect and surprising Beauties, but gave us no Hopes either to see or to enjoy. The Golden age was their scene, and 'twas necessary to look beyond Jupiter himself to find any thing innocent or pleasing; and how tedious such a search must be; every one may imagine, who considers that 'tis very hard to take so large a prospect, especially when there is nothing but a bare Contemplation to excite, and reward his Diligence. The time Sir, I found brought back again by your conversation, and all those difficulties (〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉) which were so even to a Proverb, practically explained: so that whatever in this performance is drawn soft, innocent, and pleasing; is but a Copy from You the Original: This is the happiness that attends polite Learning, it smooths all the natural Asperities of Humour and Passion, and spreads an obliging tenderness thro' the whole Man, And where the Cause is in so eminent a degree, and the Effect too necessary, what can hinder the Production? These are the reasons that have determined my acknowledgements for former, and given me encouragement to beg a new Obligation, To accept this, and pardon its defects will be a very considerable one to  
Sir, Your most Humble Servant THOMAS CREECH. All-Souls Coll. July 12. 1684.   

A TREATISE de CARMINE PASTORALI Written by RAPINE.  

The First Part.  
TO be as short as possible in my discourse upon the present Subject, I shall not touch upon the Excellency of Poetry in general; nor repeat those high Encomiums, (as that 'tis the most divine of all human Arts, and the like) which Plato in his Jone, Aristotele in his Poetica, and other Learned men have copiously insisted on: And this I do that I might more closely and briefly pursue my present design, which, no doubt▪ will not please every man; for since I treat of that part of Poetry, which (to use Quintilians words) by reason of its Clownishness, is afraid of the Court and City; some may imagine that I follow Nichocaris his humour, who would paint only the most ugly and deformed, and those too in the meanest and most frightful dress, that real, or fancied Poverty could put them in.  
For some think that to be a Shepherd is in itself mean, base, and sordid; And this I think is the first thing that the graver and soberer sort will be ready to object.  
But if we consider how honourable that employment is, our Objectors from that Topick will be easily answered: for as Heroic Poems owe their dignity to the Quality of Heroes, so Pastorals to that of Sheapards.  
Now to manifest this, I shall not rely on the authority of the Fabulous, and Heroic Ages, though, in the former, a God fed Sheep in Thessaly, and in the latter, Hercules the Prince of Heroes, (as Paterculus styles him) grazed on mount Aventine: These Examples, 'tis true, are not convinceing, yet they sufficiently show that the employment of a Shepherd was sometime looked upon to be such, as in those Fabulous times was not altogether unbecomeing the Dignity of a Hero, or the Divinity of a God: which consideration if it cannot be of force enough to procure excellence, yet certainly it may secure it from the imputation of baseness, since it was sometime looked upon as fit for the greatest in Earth or Heaven.  
But not to insist on the authority of Poets, sacred Writ tells us that Jacob and Esau, two great men, were Sheapards; And Amos, one of the Royal Family, asserts the same of himself, for He was among the Sheapards of Tecua, following that employment: The like by Gods own appointment prepared Moses for a Sceptre, as Philo intimates in his life, when He tells us, that a Sheapards' Art is a suitable preparation to a Kingdom; the same He mentions in the Life of Joseph, affirming that the care a Shepherd hath over his Cattle, very much resembles that which a King hath over his Subjects: The same Basil in his Homily de S. Mamm. Martyr hath concerning David, who was taken from following the Ewes great with young ones to feed Israel, for He says that the Art of feeding and governing are very near akin, and even Sisters: And upon this account I suppose 'twas, that Kings amongst the Greeks reckoned the name of Shepherd one of their greatest titles, for, if we believe Varro, amongst the Ancients, the best and bravest was still a Shepherd: Every body knows that the Romans the worthiest and greatest Nation in the World sprang from Sheapards: The Augury of the Twelve Praetors placed a Sceptre in Romulus' hand which held a Crook before; and at that time, as Ovid says, His own small Flock each Senator did keep.  
Lucretius' mentions an extraordinary happiness, and as it were Divinity in a Sheaperd's life, Thro' Sheapards' ease, and their Divine retreats.  
And this is the reason, I suppose, why the solitude of the Country, the shady Groves, and security of that happy Quiet was so grateful to the Muses, for thus Horace represents them, The Muses that the Country Love.  
Which Observation was first made by Mnasalce the Sicyonian in his Epigram upon Venus.  The Rural Muse upon the Mountains feeds. 
For sometimes the Country is so raveshing and delightful, that 'twill raise Wit and Spirit even in the dullest Clod, And in truth, amongst so many heats of Lust and Ambition which usually fire our Cities, I cannot see what retreat, what comfort is left for a chaste and sober Muse.  
And to speak from the very bottom of my heart, (not to mention the integrity and innocence of Sheapards upon which so many have insisted, and so copiously declaimed) methinks he is much more happy in a Wood, that at ease contemplates this universe, as his own, and in it, the Sun and Stars, the pleasing Meadows, shady Groves, green Banks, stately Trees, flowing Springs, and the wanton windings of a River, fit objects for quiet innocence, than he that with Fire and Sword disturbs the World, and measures his possessions by the waist that lies about him: Augustus in the remotest East fights for peace, but how tedious were his Voyages? how troublesome his Marches? how great his disquiets? what fears and hopes distracted his designs? whilst Tityrus contented with a little, happy in the enjoyment of his Love, and at ease under his spreading Beech.  Taught Trees to sound his Amaryllis name. 
On the one side Melibaeus is forced to leave his Country, and Antony on the other; the one a Shepherd, the other a great man, in the Commonwealth; how disagreeable was the Event? the Shepherd could endure himself, and sit down contentedly under his misfortunes, whilst lost Antony, unable to hold out, and quitting all hopes both for himself and his Queen, became his own barbarous Executioner: Than which sad and deplorable fall I cannot imagine what could be worse, for certainly nothing is so miserable as a Wretch made so from a flourishing & happy man; by which 'tis evident how much we ought to prefer before the gaiety of a great and shining State, that Idol of the Crowd, the lowly simplicity of a Sheapards' Life: for what is that but a perfect image of the state of Innocence, of that golden Age, that blessed time, when Sincerity and Innocence, Peace, Ease, and Plenty inhabited the Plains?  
Take the Poet's description 
Here Lowly Innocence makes a sure retreat,  
A harmless Life, and ignorant of deceit,  
And free from fears with various sweet's increase,  
And all's o'er spread with the soft wings of Peace:  
Here Oxen low, here Grots, and purling Streams,  
And spreading shades invite to easy dreams.   
And thus Horace.  
Happy the man beyond pretence  
Such was the state of Innocence, etc.  
And from this head I think the dignity of Buoolicks is sufficiently cleared, for as much as the Golden Age is to be preferred before the Heroic, so much Pastorals must excel Heroic Poems: yet this is so to be understood, that if we look upon the majesty and loftiness of Heroic Poems, it must be confessed that they justly claim the pre-eminence; but if the unaffected neatness, elegant, graceful smartness of the expression, or the polite dress of a Poem be considered, than they fall short of Pastorals: for this sort flows with Sweet, Elegant, neat and pleasing fancies; as is too evident to every one that hath tasted the sweeter muses, to need a farther explication: for 'tis not probable that Asinius Pollio, Cinna, Varius, Cornelius Gallus, men of the neatest Wit, and that lived in the most polite Age, or that Augustus Caesar the Prince of the Roman elegance, as well as of the common Wealth, should be so extremely taken with Virgil's Bucolics, or that Virgil himself a man of such singular prudence, and so correct a judgement, should dedicate his Eclogues to those great Persons; unless he had known that there is somewhat more than ordinary Elegance in those sort of Composures, which the wise perceive, though far above the understanding of the Crowd: nay if Ludovicus Vives, a very learned man, and admired for politer studies may be believed, there is somewhat more sublime and excellent in those Pastorals, than the Common sort of Grammarians imagine: This I shall discourse of in an other place, and now inquire into the Antiquity of Pastorals.  
Since Linus, Orpheus, and Eumolpus were famous for their Poems, 
The Antiquity of Pastoral●.  before the Trojan wars; those are certainly mistaken, who date Poetry from that time; I rather incline to their opinion who make it as old as the World itself; which Assertion as it ought to be understood of Poetry in general, so especially of Pastoral, which, as Scaliger delivers, was the most ancient kind of Poetry, and resulting from the most ancient way of Living: Singing first began amongst Sheapards as they fed their Flocks, either by the impulse of nature, or in imitation of the notes of Birds, or the whispering of Trees.  
For since the first men were either Sheapards or Ploughman, and Sheapards, as may be gathered out of Thucydides and Varro, were before the others, they were the first that either invited by their leisure, or (which Lucretius thinks more probable) in imitation of Birds, began a tune.  
Thro all the Woods they heard the pleasing noise  
Of chirping Birds, and tried to frame their voice,  
And Imitate, thus Birds instructed man,  
And taught them Songs before their Art began.  
In short, 'tis so certain that Verses first began in the Country that the thing is in itself evident, and this Tibullus very plainly signifies, 
First weary at his Plough the labouring Hind  
In certain feet his rustic words did bind:  
His dry reed first he tuned at sacred feasts  
To thank the bounteous Gods, and cheer his Guests.   
In certain feet according to Bern Cylenius of Verona his interpretation in set measures: for Censorinus tells us, that the ancient Songs were loose and not tied up to any strict numbers, and afterwards by certain laws and acknowledged rules were confined to such and such measures: for this is the method of Nature in all her works, from imperfect and rude beginnings things take their first rise, and afterwards by fit and apposite additions are polished, and brought to perfection: such were the Verses which heretofore the Italian Sheapards and Ploughmen, as Virgil says, sported amongst themselves.  
Italian Ploughmen sprung from ancient Troy  
Did sport unpolished Rhymes—  
Lucretius in his Fifth Book de Natura Rerum, says, that Sheapards were first taught by the rushing of soft Breezes amongst the Canes to blow their Reeds, and so by degrees to put their Songs in tune.  
For Whilst soft Evening Gales blew o'er the Plains  
And shook the sounding Reeds, they taught the Swains,  
And thus the Pipe was framed, and tuneful Reed,  
And whilst the Flocks did then securely feed,  
The harmless Sheapards tuned their Pipes to Love,  
And Amaryllis name filled every Grove.  
From all which 'tis very plain that Poetry began in those days, when Sheapards took up their employment: to this agrees Donatus in his Life of Virgil, and Pontanus in his Fifth Book of Stars, as appears by these Verses.  
Here underneath a shade by purling Springs  
The Sheapards' Dance, whilst sweet Amyntas sings;  
Thus first the new found Pipe was tuned to Love,  
And Ploughmen taught their Sweet hearts to the Grove,  
Thus the Fescennine jests when they sang harvest-home, and then too the Grape-gatherers and Reapers Songs began, an elegant example of which we have in the Tenth Idyllium of Theocritus.  
From this birth, as it were, of Poetry, Verse began to grow up to greater matters; For from the common discourse of Ploughmen and Sheapards, first Comedy, that Mistress of a private Life, next Tragedy, and then Epic Poetry which is lofty and Heroical arrose, This Maximus Tyrius confirms in his Twenty first dissetation, where he tells us that Ploughmen just coming from their work, and scarce cleansed from the filth of their employment, did use to flirt out some sudden and extempore Catches; and from this beginning Plays were produced, and the Stage erected: Thus much concerning the Antiquity, next of the Original of this sort.  
About this Learned men cannot agree, for who was the first Author, is not sufficiently understood; Donatus, 'tis true, tells us 'tis proper to the Golden Age, and therefore must needs be the product of that happy time: but who was the Author, where, what time it was first invented hath been a great Controversy, and not yet sufficiently determined: Epicharmus one of Pythagoras his School, in his 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 mentions one Diomus a Sicilian, who, if we believe Athoenoeus was the first that wrote Pastorals: those that fed Cattle had a peculiar kind of Poetry, called Bucolics, of which Dotimus a Sicilian was inventor:  
Diodorus Siculus 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, seems to make Daphnis the son of Mercury and a certain Nymph, to be the Author; and agreeable to this, Theon an old Scholiast on Theocritus, in his notes upon the first Idyllium mentioning Daphnis, adds, he was the Author of Bucolics, and Theocritus himself calls him the Muse's Darling: and to this Opinion of Diodorus Siculus Polydore Virgil readily assents.  
B●r Mnaseas of Patara in a discourse of his concerning Europa, speaks thus of a Son of Pan the God of Sheapards: Panis Filium Bubulcum à quo & Bucolice canere: Now whether Mnaseas by that Bubulcum, means only a Herdsman, or one skilled in Bucolics, is uncertain: but if Valla's judgement be good, 'tis to be taken of the latter: yet Aelian was of another mind, for he boldly affirms that Stesichorus called Himeroeus was the first, and in the same place adds, that Daphnis the Son of Mercury was the first Subject of Bucolics.  
Some ascribe the Honour to Bacchus the Precedent of the Nymphs, Satyrs, and the other Country Gods, perhaps because he delighted in the Country; and others attribute it to Apollo called Nomius the God of Sheapards, and that he invented it then when he served Admetus in Thessaly, and fed his Herds: For, 'tis likely, he to recreate himself, and pass away his time, applied his mind to such Songs as were best suitable to his present condition: Many think we owe it to Pan the God of Sheapards, not a few to Diana that extremely delighted in solitude and Woods; and some say Mercury himself: of all which whilst Grammarians prattle, according to their usual custom they egregiously trifle; they suffer themselves to be put upon by Fables, and resign their judgement up to foolish pretensions, but things and solid truth is that we seek after.  
As about the Author, so concerning the place of its Birth there is a great dispute, some say Sparta, others Peloponesus, but most are for Sicily.  
Valla the Placentine, a curious searcher into Antiquity, thinks this sort of Poetry first appeared amongst the Lacedæmonians, for when the Persians had wasted almost all Greece, the Spartans' say that they for fear of the Barbarians fled into Caves and lurking holes; and that the Country Youth than began to apply themselves in Songs to Diana Caryatis, together with the Maids, who midst their Songs offered Flowers to the Goddess: which custom containing somewhat of Religion was in those places a long time very scrupulously observed.  
Diomedes the Grammarian, in his treatise of Measures, declares Sicily to be the Place: for thus he says, the Sicilian Sheapards in time of a great Pestilence, began to invent new Ceremonies to appease incensed Diana, whom afterward, for affording her help, and stopping the Plague they called 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉: i. e. the Freer from their Miseries. This grew into custom, and the Sheapards used to meet in Companies, to sing their deliverer Diana's praise, and th●se afterwards passing into Italy we●e there named Bucoliastoe.  
Pomponius Sabinus tells the story thus: When the Hymns the Virgins used to sing in the Country to Diana were left off, because, by reason of the present Wars, the Maidens were forced to keep close within the Towns; the Shepherds met, and sang those kind of Songs, which are now called Bucolics, to Diana; to whom they could not give the usual worship by reason of the Wars: But Donatus says, that this kind of Verses was first sung to Diana by Orestes, when he wandered about Italy; after he fled from Scythia Taurica, and had taken away the Image of the Goddess, and hid it in a bundle of sticks, whence she received the name of Pascelina, or Phacelide 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉; At whose Altar, the very same Orestes was afterward expiated by his Sister Iphigenia: But how can any one rely on such Fables, when the inconsiderable Authors that propose them disagree so much amongst themselves?  
Some are of Opinion that the Shepherds, were wont in solemn and set Songs about the Fields and Towns to celebrate the Goddess Pales; and beg her to bless their flocks and fields with a plenteous increase, and that from hence the name, and composure of Bucolics continued.  
Other prying ingenious Men make other conjectures, as to this mazing Controversy thus Vossius delivers himself; The Ancients cannot be reconciled, but I rather incline to their opinion who think Bucolics were invented either by the Sicilians or Peloponesians, for both those use the Doric Dialect, and all the Greek Bucolics are writ in that: As for myself I think, that what Horace says of Elegies may be applied to the present Subject.  
But who soft Elegies was the first that wrote  
Grammarians doubt, and cannot end the doubt:  
For I find nothing certain about this matter, since neither Valla a diligent inquirer after, and a go●d judge in such things, nor any of the late writers produce any thing upon which I can safely rely: yet what beginning this kind of Poetry had, I think I can pretty well conjecture: for 'tis likely that first Shepherds used Songs to recreate themselves in their leisure hours whilst they fed their Sheep; and that each man, as his wit served, accommodated his Songs to his present Circumstances: to this Solitude invited, and the extreme leisure that attends that employment absolutely required it: For as their retirement gave them leisure, and Solitude a fit place for Meditation, Meditation and Invention produced a Verse, which is nothing else but a Speech fit to be sung, and so Songs began: Thus Hesiod was made a Poet, for he acknowledges himself that he received his inspiration; Whilst under Helicon he fed his Lambs. for either the leisure, or fancy of Shepherds seems to have a natural aptitude to Verse.  
And indeed I cannot but agree with Lucretius that accurate Searcher into Nature, who delivers that from that state of Innocence the Golden Age, Pastorals continued down to his time, for after he had in his fifth book described that most happy age, he adds, For then the Rural Muses reigned.  
From whence 'tis very plain, that as Donatus himself observed, Pastorals were the invention of the simplicity and innocence of that Golden age, if there was ever any such, or certainly of that time which succeeded the beginning of the World: For though the Golden Age must be acknowledged to be only in the fabulous times, yet 'tis certain that the Manners of the first Men were so plain and simple, that we may easily derive both the innocent employment of Shepherds, and Pastorals from them.   

The Second PART.  
NOw let us inquire into the nature of Pastoral, in what its excellencies consist, and how it must be made to be exact: And this must needs be a hard Task, since I have no guide, neither Aristotle nor Horace to direct me, for both they, whatever was the matter, speak not one word of this sort of Verse. And I am of opinion that none can treat well and clearly of any kind of Poetry if he hath no helps from these two: But since they lay down some general Notions of Poetry which may be useful in the present case, I shall follow their steps as close as possible I can.  
Not only Aristotle but Horace too hath defined that Poetry in general is Imitation; I mention only these two, for though Plato in his Second Book de Rep. and in his Timoeus delivers the same thing, I shall not make use of his Authority at all: Now as Comedy according to Aristotle is the Image and Representation of a gentiel and City Life, so is Pastoral Poetry of a County and Sheapards' Life; for since Poetry in general is Imitation; its several Species must likewise Imitate, take Aristotle's own words Cap. 1. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉; And these Species are differenced either by the subject matter, when the things to be imitated are quite different, or when the manner in which you imitate, or the mode of imitation is so: 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉: Thus though of Epic Poetry and Tragedy the Subject is the same, and some great illustrious Action is to be imitated by both, yet since one by representation, and the other by plain narration imitates, each makes a different Species of imitation. And Comedy and Tragedy, though they agree in this, that both represent, yet because the Matter is different, and Tragedy must represent some brave action, and Comedy a humour; these Two sorts of imitation are Specifically different. And upon the same account, since Pastoral chooses the man's of Sheapards for i●s imitation, it takes from its matter a peculiar difference, by which it is distinguished from all others.  
But here Benius in his comments upon Aristotle hath started a considerable query: which is this; Whether Aristotle, when be reckons up the different Species of Poetry Cap 1. doth include Pastoral, or no? And about this I find learned men cannot at all agree: which certainly Benius should have determined, or not raised: some refer it to that sort which was sung to Pipes, for that Pastorals were so Apuleius intimates, when at the marriage Feast of Phyche He brings in Paniscus singing Bucolics to his Pipe: But since they did not seriously enough consider, what Aristotle meant by that which he calls 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 they trifle, talk idly, and are not to be heeded in this matter; For suppose some Musician should sing Virgil's Aenoeis to the Harp, (and Ant. Lullus says it hath been done,) should we therefore reckon that divine and incomparable Master of Heroic Poetry amongst the Lyrics?  
Others with Coesius Bassus and Isacius Tzetzes hold that that distribution of Poetry, which Aristotle and Tully hath left us, is deficient and imperfect▪ and that only the chief Species are reckone●, but the more inconsiderable not mentioned: I shal● not here interest myself in that quarrel of the Critics, whether we have all Aristotle's books of Poetry o● no●● this is a considerable difficulty I confess, fo● Laertius who accurately weighs this ●●tte●, says that he wrote two books of Poetry, the one l●st, and the other we have, though Mutinensis is of an other mind: but to end this dispute, I must agree wit● Vossius, who says the Philosopher comprehended these Species not expressly mentioned, under a higher and more noble head: and tha● therefore Pastoral was contained in Epic. for these are his o●n words, besides there are Epicks of an inferior rank, such as the Writers of Bucolics. Sincerus, as Minturnus quotes him, is of the same mind, for thus he delivers his opinion concerning Epic Verse: The matters about which these numbers may be employed is various, either mean and low, as in Pastorals, great and lofty, as when the Subject is Divine Things, or Heroic Actions, or of a middle rank, as when we use them to deliver precepts in: And this likewise ●e signifies before, where he sets down three sorts of Epicks one of which, says he, is divine, and the most excellent by much in all Poetry; the other the lowest but most pure, in which Theocritus excelled, which indeed shows nothing of Poetry beside the bare numbers: These points being thus settled, the remaining difficulties will be more easily dispatched.  
For as in Dramatic Poetry the Dignity and meanness of the Persons represented make two diffferent Species of imitation the one Tragic▪ ●●ch agrees to none but great and ●lustrious persons, the other Comic, which suits with common and gentile humours: so in Epic too there may be reckoned two sorts of Imitation, one of which belongs to Heroes, and that makes the heroic; the other to Rustics and Sheapards and that constitutes the Pastoral, now as a Picture imitates the Features of the face, so Poetry doth action, and ●is not a representation of the Person but the Action. From all which we may gather this definition of Pastoral: 
The Definition of Pastoral.  It is the imitation of the Action of a Shepherd, or of one taken under that character: Thus Virgil's Gallus, though not ●eally a Shepherd, for he was a man of great quality in Rome, ●et belongs to Pastoral, because he is represented like a Shepherd: hence the ●oet: 
The Goatherd and the heavy Herdsmen came,  
And asked what raised the deadly ●lame.   
The Scene lies amongst Sheapards, the Swains are brought in, the Herdsmen come to see his misery, and the fiction is suited to the real condition of a Shepherd; the same is to be said for his Silenus, who though he seems lofty, and to sound to loud for an oaten reed, yet since what he sings he sings to Sheapards, and suits his Subject to their apprehensions, his is to be acknowledged Pastoral. ●his rule we must stick to, that we might infallibly discern what is strictly ●astoral in Virgil and Theocritus, and what not: for in Theocritus there are some more lofty thoughts which not having any thing belonging to Sheapards for their Subject, must by no means be accounted Pastoral, But of this more in its proper place.  
My present inquiry must be what is the Subject Matter of a Pastoral, about which it is not easy to resolve; since neither from Aristotle, nor any of the Greeks who have written Pastorals, we can receive certain direction. For sometimes they treat of high and sublime things, like Epic Poets; what can be loftier than the whole Seaventh Idyllium of Bias in which Myrsan urges Lycidas the Shepherd to sing the Loves of Deidamia, and Achilles. For he begins from Helen's rape, and goes on to the revengful fury of the Atrideses, and shuts up in one Pastoral, all that is gre●t and sounding in Homer's Iliad.  
Sparta was fired with Rage  
And gathered Greece to prosecute Revenge.  
And Theocritus his verses are sometimes as sounding and his thoughts as high: for upon serious consideration I cannot mind what part of all the Heroics is so strong and sounding as that Idyllium on hercules' 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 in which Hercules himself tells ●hyleus how he killed the Lion whose Skin he w●re: for, not to m●●●●on many, what can be greater than this expression.  And gaping ●ell received his mighty Soul: 
Why should▪ instance in the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, which hath no●●n●●●ne below Heroick; the greatness of this is almost inexpressible.  〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. 
And some other pieces are as strong as these, such is the Panegyric on Ptolemy, Helen's Epithalamium, and the fight of young Hercules and the Snakes: now how is it likely that such Subjects should be fit for Pastorals, of which, in my opinion, the same may be said which Ovid doth of his Cydippe.  Cydippe, Homer, doth not fit thy Muse. 
For certainly Pastorals ought not to rise to the Majesty of Heroics: but who on the other side dares reprehend such great and judicious Authors, whose very doing it is Authority enough? What shall I say of Virgil? who in his Sixth Eclogue hath put together almost all the particulars of the fabulous Age; what is so high to which Silenus that Master of Mysteries doth not soar?  
For lo! he sung the World's stupendious birth,  
How scattered seeds of Sea, of Air, and Earth,  
And purer Fire thro' universal night  
And empty space did fruitfully unite:  
From whence th' innumerable race of things  
By circular successive order springs:  
And afterward 
How Pyrras Stony race rose from the ground,  
And Saturn reigned with Golden plenty crowned,  
How bold Prometheus (whose untamed desire,  
Rivaled the Sun with his own Heavenly Fire)  
Now doomed the Scythian Praetors endless prey  
Severely pays for Animating Clay.   
So true, so certain 'tis, that nothing is so high and lofty to which Bucolics may not successfully aspire. But if this be so, what will become of Macrobius, Georgius Valla, Julius caliger, Vossius, and the whole company of Grammarians? who all affirm that simplicity and meanness is so essential to Pastorals that it ought to be confi●'d to the State, Manners, Apprehension and even common phrases of Sheapards: for nothing c●n be said to be Pastoral, which is not accommodated to their condition: and for this Reason Nannius Alcmaritanus in my opinion is a trifler, who, in his comments on Virgil's Eclogues, thinks that those sorts of Composures may now and then be lofty, and treat of great subjects: where he likewise divides the matter of Bucolics, into Low, Middle, and High and makes Virgil the Author of this Division, who in his Fourth Eclogue, (as he imagines) divides the matter of Bucolics into Three sorts, and intimates this division by these three words: Bushes, Shrubs and Woods.  
Sicilian Muse begin a loftier strain,  
The Bushes and the Shrubs that shade the Plain  
Delight not all; if I to Woods repair  
My Song shall make them worth a Consuls Care.  
By Woods, as he fancies, as Virgil means high and stately Trees, so He would have a great and lofty Subject to to be employed, such as he designed for the Consul: by Bushes, which are almost even with the ground, the meanest and lowest argument; and by Shrubs a Subject not so high as the one, nor so low as the other, as the thing it-self is. And therefore these lines 
If I to Woods repair  
My Song shall make them worth a Consul's care.  are thus to be understood, That if we choose high and sublime arguments, our work will be fit for the Patronage of a Consul, This is Nanniu's interpretation of that place; too pedantial and subtle I'm afraid, for 'tis not credible that ever Virgil thought of reckoning great and lofty things amongst the Subjects of bucolics especially since 
When his Thalia raised her bolder Voice  
And Kings and Battles were her lofty choice,  
Phoebus did twitch his Ear, mean thoughts infuse,  
And with this whisper checked th' inspiring Muse:  
A Shepherd, Tityrus, his Sheep should feed,  
And choose a Subject suited to his reed,   
This certainly was a serious admonition employed by the twitching of his Ear, and I believe if he had continued in this former humour and not obeyed the smarring admonition. He had still felt it: so far was he from thinking Kings and Battles fit Themes for a Sheapards' song: and this evidently shows that in Virgil's opinion, contrary to Nanniu's fancy, great things cannot in the least be comprehended within the subject matter of Pastorals; no, it must be low and humble, which Theocritus very happily expresseth by this word 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 i. e. as the interpreters explain it, sing humble Strains.  
Theefore let Pastoral never venture upon a lofty subject, let it not recede one jot from its proper matter, but be employed about Rustic affairs: such as are mean and humble in themselves; and such are the affairs of Shepherds, especially their Loves, but those must be pure and innocent; not disturbed by vain suspicious jealousy, nor polluted by Rapes; The Rivals must not fight, and their emulations must be without quarrelings: such as Vida meant.  
Whilst on his Reed he Shepherds stifes conveys,  
And soft complaints in smooth Sicilian lays.  
To these may be added Sports, Jests, Gifts, and Presents; but not costly, such are yellow Apples, young stock-Doves, Milk, Flowers, and the like; all things must appear delightful and easy, nothing vicious and rough: A perfidious Pimp, a designing Jilt, a gripeing Usurer, a crafty factious Servant must have no room there, but every part must be full of the simplicity of the Golden-Age, and of that Candour which was then eminent: for as Juvenal affirms Baseness was a great wonder in that Age; Sometimes Funeral-Rites are the subject of an Eclogue, where the Shepherds scatter flowers on the Tomb, and sing Rustic Songs in honour of the Dead: Examples of this kind are left us by Virgil in his Daphnis, and Bion in his Adonis, and this hath nothing disagreeable to a Shepherd: In short whatever, the decorum being still preserved, can be done by a Shepherd, may be the Subject of a Pastoral.  
Now there may be more kinds of Subjects than Servius or Donatus allow, for they confine us to that Number which Virgil hath made use of, though Minturnus in his second Book de Poetâ declares against this opinion: But as a glorious Heroic action must be the Subject of an Heroic Poem, so a Pastoral action of a Pastoral; at least it must be so turned and wrought, that it might appear to be the action of a Shepherd; which caution is very necessary to be observed, to clear a great many difficulties in this matter: for though as the Interpreters assure us; most of Virgil's Eclogues are about the Civil war, planting Colonies, the murder of the Emperor, and the like, which in themselves are too great and too lofty for humble Pastoral to reach, yet because they are accommodated to the Genius of Shepherds, may be the Subject of an Eclogue, for that sometimes will admit of Gods and Heroes so they appear like, and are shrouded under the Persons of Shepherds: But as for these matters which neither really are, nor are so wrought as to seem the actions of Shepherds, such are in Moschus' Europa, Theocritus' Epithalamium of Helen, and Virgil's Pollio, to declare my opinion freely, I cannot think them to be fit Subjects for Bucolics: And upon this account I suppose 'tis that Servius in his Comments on Virgil's Bucolics reckons only seven of Virgil's ten Eclogues, and only ten of Theocritus' thirty, to be pure Pastorals, and Salmasius upon Solinus says, that amongst Theocritus' Poems there are some which you may call what you please Beside Pastorals: and Heinsius in his scholia upon Theocritus will allow but Ten of his Idylliums' to be Bucoliks', 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.11. for all the rest are deficient either in matter or form, and from this number of pure pastoral Idylliums' I am apt to think, that Theocritus seems to have made that Pipe, on which he tuned his Pastorals and which he consecrated to Pan of ten Reeds, as Salmasius in his notes on Theocritus' Pipe hath learnedly observed: in which two Verses always make one Reed of the Pipe, therefore all are so unequal, like the unequal Reeds of a Pipe, that if you put two equals together which make one Reed, the whole inequality consists in ten pairs; when in the common Pipes there were usually no more than seven Reeds, and this the less curious observers have heedlessly passed by  
Some are of opinion that whatever is done in the Country, and in one word, every thing that hath nought of the City in it may be treated o● in Pastorals; and that the discourse of Fishers, Ploughmen, Reapers, Hunters, and the like, belong to this kind of Poetry: which according to the Rule that I have laid down cannot be true for, as I before hinted nothing but the action of a Shepherd can be the Subject of a Pastoral.  
I shall not here inquire, though it may seem proper whether we can decently bring into an Eclogue Reapers, Vinedressers, Gardeners, Fowlers, Hunters, Fishers, or the like, whose lives for the most part are taken up with too much business and employment to have any vacant time for Songs, and idle Chat, which are more agreeable to the leisure of a Sheapards' Life: for in a great many Rustic affairs, either the hardship and painful Labour will not admit a song, as in Ploughing, or the solitude as in hunting, Fishing, Fowling, and the like; but of this I shall discourse more largely in another place.  
Now 'tis not sufficient to make a Poem a true Pastoral, that the Subject of it is the action of a Shepherd, for in Hesiods 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 and Virgil's Georgics there are a great many things that belong to the employment of a Shepherd, yet none fancy they are Pastorals; from whence 'tis evident, that beside the matter, which we have defined to be the action of a Shepherd, there is a peculiar Form proper to this kind of Poetry by which 'tis distinguished from all others.  
Of Poetry in General Socrates, as Plato tells us, would have Fable to be the Form: Aristotle Imitation: I shall not dispute what difference there is between these two, but only inquire whether Imitation be the Form of Pastoral: 'Tis certain that Epic Poetry is differenced from Tragic only by the manner of imitation, for the latter imitates by action, and the former by bare narration: But Pastoral is the imitation of a Pastoral action either by bare narration, as in Virgil ●s Alexis, and Theocritus' 7th Idyllium, in which the Poet speaks all along in his own Person: or by action as in Virgil's Tityrus and the first of Theocritus, or by both mixed, as in the Second and Eleventh Idylliums', in which the Poe● partly speaks in his own Person, and partly makes, others speak, and I think the old Scholiast on ●heocritus took an hint from these when he says, that ●astoral is a mixture made up of all sorts, for 'tis Narrative, Dramatic, and mixed, and Aristotle, though obscurely, seems to h●nt in those words, In every one of the mentioned Arts there is Imitation, in some simple, in some mixed; now this latter being peculiar to Bucolics makes its very form and Essence: and therefore Scaliger, in the 4 th' Chapter of his first Book of Poetry, reckons up three Species of Pastorals, the first hath but one Person, the second several, which sing alternately; the third is mixed of both the other: And the same observation is made by Heinsius in his Notes on Theocritus, for thus he very plainly to our purpose, the Character of Bucolics is a mixture of all sorts of Characters, Dramatic, Narrative, or mixed: from all which 'tis very manifest that the manner of Imitation which is proper to Pastorals is the mixed: for in other kinds of Poetry 'tis one and simple, at least not so manifold; as in Tragedy Action: in Epic Poetry Narration.  
Now I shall explain what sort of Fable; Manners, Thought, Expression, which four are necessary to consstitute every kind of Poetry, are proper to this sort.  Concerning the Fable which Aristotle calls 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, 
I have but one thing to say: this, as the Philosopher hints, as of all other sorts of Poetry, so of Pastoral is the very Soul: and therefore Socrates in Plato says, that in those Verses which he had made there was nothing wanting but the Fable: therefore Pastorals as other kinds of Poetry must have their Fable, if they will be Poetry: Thus in Virgil's Silenus which contains the Stories of almost the whole Fabulous Age, two Shepherds whom Silenus had often promised a Song, and as often deceived, seize upon him being drunk and asleep, and bind him with wreathed Flowers; Aegle comes in and incourages the timorous youths, and stains his jolly red F●ce with Black berries, Silenus laughs at their innocent contrivance, and desires to be unbound, and then with a premeditated Song satisfies the Nymphs and Boys Curiosity; The incomparable Poet sings wonders, the Rocks rejoice, the Vales echo, and happy Eurotas as if Phoebus himself sang, hears all, and bids the Laurels that grow upon his Banks listen to, and learn the Song.  
Happy Eurotas as he flowed along  
Herd all, and bad the Laurels learn the Song.  
Thus every Eclogue or Idyllium must have its Fable, which must be the groundwork of the whole design, but it must not be perplexed with sudden and unlooked for changes, as in Marinus' Adonis: for that, though the Fable be of a Shepherd, yet by reason of the strange Bombast under Plots, and wonderful occurences, cannot be accounted Pastoral; for that it might be agreeable to the Person it treats of, it must be plain and simple, such as Sophocles' Ajax, in which there ls not so much as one change of Fortune.  
As for the Manners, let that precept, which Horace lays down in his Epistle to the Pisones, be principally observed.  Let each be graced with that which suits him best. 
For this, as 'tis a rule relateing to Poetry in general, so it respect this kind also of which we are treating; and against this Tasso in his Amyntas, Bonarellus in his Phyllis, Guarinus in his Pastor Fido, Marinus in his Idylliums', and most of the Italians grievously offend, for they make their Shepherds too polite, and elegant, and clothe them with all the neatness of the Town, and Compliment of the Court, which though it may seem very pretty, yet amongst good Critics, let Veratus say what he will in their excuse, it cannot be allowed: For 'tis against Minturnus' Opinion, who in his second Book de Poetâ says thus: Mean Persons are brought in, those in Comedy indeed more polite, those in Pastorals more unelegant, as supposed to lead a rude life in Solitude; and Jason Denor a Doctor of Milan takes notice of the same as a very absurd Error: Aristotle heretofore for a like fault reprehended the Megarensians, who observed no Decorum in their Theatre, but brought in mean persons with a Train fit for a King, and clothed a Cobbler or Tinker in a Purple Robe: Invain doth Veratus in his Dispute against Jason Denor, to defend those elaborately exquisite discourses, and notable sublime sentences of his Pastor Fido, bring some lofty Idylliums' of Theocritus, for those are not acknowledged to be Pastoral; Theocritus and Virgil must be consulted in this matter, the former designdly makes his Shepherd's discourse in the Doric i. e. the Rustic Dialect, sometimes scarce true Grammar; & the other studiously affects ignorance in the persons of his Shepherds, as Servius hath observed, and is evident in Meliboeus, who makes Oaxes to be a River in Crete when 'tis in Mesopotamia: and both of them take this way that the Manners may the more exactly suit with the Persons they represent, who of themselves are rude and unpolisht: And this proves that they scandalously err, who make their Shepherds appear polite and elegant, nor can I imagine what Veratus who makes so much ado about the polite manners of the Arcadian Shepherds, would say to Polybius who tells us that the Arcadians by reason of the Mountainousness of the Country and hardness of the weather, are very unsociable and austere.  
Now as too much neatness in Pastoral is not to be allowed, so rusticity (I do not mean that which Plato, in his Third Book of a Commonwealth, mentions which is but a part of a down right honesty) but Clownish stupidity, such as Theophrastus, in his Character of a Rustic, describes; or that disagreeable unfashionable roughness which Horace mentions in his Epistle to Lollius, must not in my opinion be endured: On this side Mantuan errs extremely, and is intolerably absurd, who makes Shepherds blockishly sottish, and insufferably rude: And a certain Interpreter blames Theocritus for the same thing, who in some men's opinion sometimes keeps too close to the Clown, and is rustic and uncouth; But this may be very well excused because the Age in which he sang was not as polite as now.  
But that every Part may be suitable to a Shepherd, we must consult unstained, uncorrupted Nature; so that the manners might not be too Clownish nor too Caurtly: And this mean may be easily observed if the manners of our Shepherds be represented according to the Genius of the golden Age, in which, if Guarinus may be believed, every man followed that employment: And Nannius in the Preface to his Comments on Virgil's Bucolics is of the same opinion, for he requires that the manners might represent the Golden Age: and this was the reason that Virgil himself in his Pollio describes that Age, which he knew very well was proper to Bucolics: For in the whole course of a Shepherd's life there can be no form more excellent than that which was the practice of the Golden Age; And this may serve to moderate and temper the affections that must be expressed in this sort of Poetry, and sufficiently declare the whole Essence of it, which in short must be taken from the nature of a Shepherd's life to which a Courtly dress is not agreeable.  
That the Thought may be commendable, it must be suitable to the manners; as those must be plain and pure that must be so too: nor must contain any, ●eep, exquisite, or elaborate fancies: And against this the Italians offend, who continually hunt after smart witty sayings, very foolishly in my opinion; for in the Country, where all things should be full of plainess and simplicity who would paint or endeavour to be gaudy when such appearances would be very disagreeable and offend? Pontanus in this matter hath said very well, The Thought must not be to exquisite and witty, the Comparisons obvious and common, such as the State of Persons and Things require: Yet though too scrupulous a Curiosity in Ornament ought to be rejected, yet lest the Thought be cold and flat, it must have some quickness of Passion, as in these. 
Cruel Alexis can't my Verses move?  
Hast thou no Pity? I must die for Love.  And again,  He neither Gods, nor yet my Verse regards. 
The Sense must not be long, copious, and continued, For Pastoral is weak, and not able to hold out; but of this more when I come to lay down rules for its Composure: But though it ought to imitate Comedy in its common way of discourse, yet it must not choose old Comedy for its pattern, for that is too impudent, and licentiously abusive: Let it be free and modest, honest and ingenuous, and that will make it agreeable to the Golden Age.  
Let the Expression be plain and easy, but elegant and neat, and the purest which the language will afford; Pontanus upon Virgil's Bucolics gives the very same rule, In Bucolics the Expression must be humble, nearer common discourse than otherwise, not very Spirituous and vivid, yet such as shows life and strength: 'tis certain that Virgil in his Bucolics useth the same words which Tully did in the Forum or the Senate: and Tityrus beneath his shady Beech speaks as pure and good Latin as Augustus in his Palace, as Modicius in his Apology for Virgil hath excellently observed: This rule, 'tis true; Theocritus hath not so strictly followed, whose Rustic and Pastoral Muse, as Quintilian phraseth it, not only is afraid to appear in the Forum, but the City: and for the very same thing an Alexandrian flouts the Syracucusian Women in the Fifteenth Idyllium of Theocritus, for when they, being then in the City, spoke the Doric Dialect, the delicate Citizen could not endure it, and found fault with their distasteful, as he thought, pronunciation: and his reflection was very smart.  Like Pigeons you have mouths from Ear to Ear. 
So intolerable did that broad way of pronunciation, though exactly fit for a Clown's discourse, seem to a Citizen: and hence Probus observes that 'twas much harder for the Latins to write Pastorals, than for the Greeks; because the Latins had not some Dialects peculiar to the Country, and others to the City, as the Greeks had; Besides the Latin Language, as Quintilian hath observed, is not capable of the neatness which is necessary to Bucolics, no, that is the peculiar privilege of the Greeks: We cannot, says he, be so low, they exceed us in subtlety, and in propriety they are at more certainty than We: and again, in pat and close Expressions we cannot reach the Greeks. And, if we believe Tully, Greek is much more fit for Ornament than Latin, for it hath much more of that neatness, end and ravishing delightfulness, which Bucolics necessarily require.  
Yet of Pastoral, with whose Nature we are not very well acquainted, what that Form is which the Greeks call the Character, is not very easy to determine; yet that we may come to some certainty, we must stick to our former observation, viz. that Pastoral belongs properly to the Golden Age: For as Tully in his Treatise de Oratore says, in all our disputes the subject is to be measured by the most perfect of that kind, and Syncsius in his Encomium on Baldness hints the very same, when he tells us that Poetry fashions its subject as Men imagine it should be, and not as really it is: 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉: Now the Life of a Shepherd, that it might be raised to the highest perfection, is to be referred to the manners and age of the world whilst yet innocent, and such as the Fables have described it: And as Simplicity was the principal virtue of that Age, so it ought to be the peculiar Grace, and as it were Character of Bucolics: in which the Fable, Manners, Thought, and Expression ought to be full of the most innocent simplicity imaginable: for as Innocence in Life, so purity and simplicity in discourse was the Glory of that Age: So as gravity to Epicks, Sweetness to Lyrics, Humour to Comedy, softness to Elegies, and smartness to Epigrams, so simplicity to Pastorals is proper; and one upon Theocritus says, that the Idea of his Bucolics is in every part pure, and in all that belongs to simplicity very happy: Such is this of Virgil, unwholesome to us Singers is the shade Of Juniper, 'tis an unwholesome shade: Than which in my opinion nothing can be more simply; nothing more rustically said; and this is the reason I suppose why Macrobius says that this kind of Poetry is creeping and upon mean subjects: and why too Virgil's Tityrus lying under his shady Beech displeaseth some; Excellent Critics indeed, whom I wish a little more sense, that they might not really be, what they would not seem to be, Ridiculous: Theocritus excels Virgil in this, of whom Modicius says, Theocritus deserves that greatest commendation for his happy imitation of the simplicity of his Shepherds, Virgil hath mixed Allegories, and some other things which contain too much learning, and deepness of Thought for Persons of so mean a Quality: Yet here I must obviate their mistake who fancy that this sort of Poetry, because in itself low and simple, is the proper work of mean Wits, and not the most sublime and excellent perfections: For as I think there be can nothing more elegant than easy naked simplicity, so likewise nothing can require more strength of Wit, and greater pains; and he must be of a great and clear judgement, who attempts Pastoral, and comes of with Honour: For there is no part of Poetry that requires more spirit, for if any part is not close and well compacted the whole Fabric will be ruined, and the matter, in itself humble, must creep; unless it is held up by the strength and vigour of the Expression.  
Another qualification and excellence of Pastoral is to imitate Timanthes' Art, of whom Pliny writes thus; Timanthes was very Ingenious, in all his pieces more was to be understood than the Colours expressed, and though his Art was very extraordinary yet his fancy exceeded it: In this Virgil is peculiarly happy, but others, especially raw unexperienced Writers, if they are to describe a Rainbow, or a River, pour out their whole stock, and are unable to contain: Now 'tis properly requisite to a Pastoral that there should be a great deal couched in a few words, and every thing it says should be so short, and so close, as if its chiefest excellence was to be spareing in Expression: such is that of Virgil; 
These Fields and Corn shall a Barbarian share?  
See the Effects of all our Civil War.   
How short is that? how concise? and yet how full of sense in the same Eclogue.  
I wondered why all thy complaints were made,  
Absent was Tityrus:  
And the like you may every where meet with, as Mopsus weds Nisa, what mayn't Lovers hope? and in the second Eclogue.  
Whom dost thou fly ah frantic! oft the Woods  
Hold Gods, and Paris equal to the Gods.  
This Grace Virgil learned from Theocritus, almost all whose Periods; especially in the third Idyllium have no conjunction to connect them, that the sense might be more close, and the Affection vehement and strong: as in this 
Let all things change, let Pears the Firs adorn  
Now Daphnis dies.   
And in the third Eclogue.  But when she saw, how great was the surprise! etc. 
And any one may find a great many of the like in Theocritus and Virgil, if with a leisurely delight he nicely examines their delicate Composures: And this I account the greatest grace in Pastorals, which in my opinion those that write Pastorals do not sufficiently observe: 'tis true Ours (the French) and the Italian language is to babbling to endure it; This is the Rock on which those that write Pastorals in their Mother tongue are usually split, But the Italians are inevitably lost; who having store of Wit, a very subtle invention and flowing fancy, cannot contain; every thing that comes into their mind must be poured out, nor are they able to endure the least restraint: as is evident from Marinus' Idylliums', and a great many of that nation who have ventured on such composures: For unless there are many and break off in the series of a Pastoral, it can neither be pleasing nor artificial: And in my Opinion Virgil excels Theocritus in this, for Virgil is neither so continued, nor so long as Theocritus; who indulges too much the garrulity of his Greek; nay even in those things which he expresseth he is more close, and more cautiously conceals that part which ought to be dissembled: And this I am sure is a most admirable part of Eloquence; as Tully in his Epistle to Atticus says, 'tis rare to speak Eloquently, but more rare to be eloquently silent: And this unskillful Critics are not acquainted with, and therefore are wont oftener to find fault with that which is not fitly expressed, than commend that which is prudently concealed: I could heap up a great many more things to this purpose, but I see no need of such a trouble, since no man can rationally doubt of the goodness of my Observation: Therefore, in short, let him that writes Pastorals think brevity, if it doth not obscure his sense, to be the greatest grace which he can attain.  
Now why Bucolics should require such Brevity, and be so essentially sparing in Expression, I see no other reason but this; It loves Simplicity so much that it must be averse to that Pomp and Ostentation which Epic Poetry must show, for that must be copious and flowing, in every part smooth, and equal to itself: But Pastoral must dissemble, and hide even that which it would show, like Damon's Galatea, who flies then when she most desires to be discovered.  And to the Bushes flies, yet would be seen. 
And this doth not proceed from any malicious ill-natured Coyness, as some imagine, but from an ingenuous modesty and bashfulness, which usually accompanies, and is a proof of Simplicity: 'tis very rare, says Pliny, to find a man so tightly skilful, as to be able to show those Features in a Picture which he hides; and I think it to be so difficult a task, that none but the most excellent Wits can attempt it with success: For small Wits usually abound with a multitude of words.  
The third Grace of Bucolics is Neatness, which contains all the taking prettiness and sweetness of Expression, and whatsoever is called the Delicacies of the more delightful and pleasing Muses: This the Rural Muses bestowed on Virgil, as Horace in the tenth satire of his first Book says, 
And Virgil's happy Muse in Eclogues plays,  
Soft and facetious;  Which Fabius takes to signify the most taking neatness and most exquisite Elegance imaginable: For thus he explains this place, in which he agrees with Tully, who in his Third Book de Oratore, says, the Atticks are Facetious i. e. elegant: Tho the common Interpreters of these words are not of the same mind: But if by Facetious Horace had meant jesting, and such as is designed to make men laugh, and applied that to Virgil, nothing could have been more ridiculous; 'tis the design of Comedy to raise laughter, but Eclogue should only delight, and charm by its taking prettiness: All ravishing Delicacies of Thought, all sweetness of Expression, all that Salt from which Venus, as the Poet's Fable, rose; are so essential to this kind of Poetry, that it cannot endure any thing that is scurillous, maliciously biteing, or ridiculous: There must be nothing in it but Honey, Milk, Roses, Violets, and the like sweetness, so that when you read you might think that you are in Adonis' Gardens, as the Greeks speak, i. e. in the most pleasant place imaginable: For since the subject of Eclogue must be mean and unsurprizing, unless it maintains purity and neatness of Expression, it cannot please.  
Therefore it must do as Tully says his friend Atticus did, who entertaining his acquaintance with Leeks and Onions, pleased them all very well, because he had them served up in wicker Chargers, and clean Baskets; So let an Eclogue serve up its fruits and flowers with some, though no costly embellishment, such as may answer to the wicker Chargers, and Baskets; which may be provided at a cheap rate, and are agreeable to the Country: yet, (and this rule if you aim at exact simplicity, can never be too nicely observed,) you must most carefully avoid all paint and gawdiness of Expression, and, (which of all sorts of Elegancies is the most difficult to be avoided) you must take the greatest care that no scrupulous trimness; or artificial finessess appear: For, as Quintilian teaches, in some cases diligence and care are most troublesomly perverse; and when things are most sweet they are next to loathsome and many times degenerate: Therefore as in Women a careless dress becomes some extremely. Thus Pastoral, that it might not be uncomely, ought sometimes to be negligent, or the finess of its ornaments ought not to appear and lie open to every body's view: so that it ought to affect a studied carelessness, and designed negligence: And that this may be, all gawdiness of Dress, such as Paint and Curls, all artificial shining is to be despised, but in the mean time care must be taken that the Expression be bright and simply clean, not filthy and disgustful, but such as is varnished with Wit and Fancy: Now to perfect this, Nature is chiefly to be looked upon, (for nothing that is disagreeable to Nature can please) yet that will hardly prevail naked, by itself, and without the polishing of Art.  
Then there are three things in which, as in its parts, the whole Character of a Pastoral is contained: Simplicity of Thought and expression: Shortness of Periods full of sense and spirit: and the Delicacy of a most elegant ravishing unaffected neatness.  
Next I will inquire into the Efficient, and then into the Final Cause of Pastorals.  
Aristotle assigns two efficient Causes of Poetry, The natural desire of Imitation in Man whom he calls the most imitative Creature; and Pleasure consequent to that Imitation: Which indeed are the Remote Causes, but the Immediate are Art and Nature; Now according to the differences of Genius's several Species of Poetry have been introduced: For as the Philosopher hath observed, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Thus those that were lofty imitated great and Illustrious; those that were low spirited and grovelling mean Actions: And every one, according to the various inclination of his Nature, followed this or that sort of Poetry: This the Philosopher expressly affirms, And Dio Chrysostomus says of Homer that he received from the Gods a Nature fit for all sorts of Verse: but this is an happiness which none partake but, as he in the same place intimates, Godlike minds.  
Not to mention other kinds of Poetry, what particular Genius is required to Pastoral I think, is evident from the foregoing Discourse, for as every part of it ought to be full of simple and inartificial neatness, so it requires a Wit naturally neat and pleasant, born to delight and ravish, which are the qualifications certainly of a great and most excellent Nature: For whatsoever in any kind is delicate and elegant, that is usually most excellent: And such a Genius that hath a sprightfulness of Nature, and is well instructed by the rules of Art, is fit to attempt Pastorals.  
Of the end of Pastorals 'tis not so easy to give an account: For as to the end of Poetry in General: The Enemies of Poets run out into a large common place, and loudly tell us that Poetry is frivolous and unprofitable. Excellent men! that love profit perchance, but have no regard for Honesty and Goodness; who do not know that all excellent Arts sprang from Poetry at first.  
Which what is honest, base, or just, or good,  
Better than Crantor, or Chrysippus showed.  
For 'tis Poetry that like a chaste unspotted Virgin, shows men the way, and the means to live happily, who afterward are depraved by the immodest precepts of vitiated and impudent Philosophy. For every body knows, that the Epic sets before us the highest example of the Bravest man; the Tragedian regulates the Affections of the Mind; the Lyric reforms Manners, or sings the Praises of Gods, and Heroes; so that there's no part of Poetry but hath its proper end, and profits.  
But grant all this true, Pastoral can make no such pretence: if you sing a Hero, you excite men's minds to imitate his Actions, and notable Exploits; but how can Bucolics apply these or the like advantages to its self? He that reads Heroic Poems, learns what is the virtue of a Hero▪ and wishes to be like him; but he that reads Pastorals, neither learns how to feed sheep, nor wishes himself a Shepherd: And a great deal more to this purpose you may see in Modicius, as Pontanus citys him in his Notes on Virgil's Eclogues.  
But when 'tis the end of Comedy, as Jerom in his Epistle to Furia says, to know the Humours of Men, and to describe them; and Demea in Terence intimates the same thing, 
To look on all men's Lives as in a Glass,  
And take from those Examples for our Own,  so that our Humours and Conversations may be bettered, and improved; why may not Pastoral be allowed the same Privilege, and be admitted to regulate and improve a Shepherd's life by its Bucolics? For since 'tis a product of the Golden Age, it will show the most innocent manners of the most ancient Simplicity, how plain and honest, and how free from all varnish, and dece●t, to more degenerate, and worse times: And certainly for this 'tis commendable in its kind, since its design in drawing the image of a Country and Shepherd's life, is to teach Honesty, Candour, and Simplicity, which are the virtues of private men; as Epicks teach the highest Fortitude, and Prudence, and Conduct, which are the virtues of Generals, and Kings. And 'tis necessary to Government, that as there is one kind of Poetry to instruct the Citizens, there should be another to fashion the manners of the Rustics: which if Pastoral, as it does, did not do, yet would it not be altogether frivolous, and idle, since by its taking prettinesses it can delight, and please. It can scarce be imagined, how much the most flourishing times of the Roman Commonwealth, in which Virgil wrote, grew better and brisker by the use of Pastoral: with it were Augustus, Maecenas, Asinius Pollio, Alphenus Varus, Cornelius Gallus, the most admired Wits of that happy Age, wonderfully pleased; for whatever is sweet, and ravishing, is contained in this sweetest kind of Poetry. But if we must slight every thing, from which no profit is to be hoped, all pleasures of the Eye and Ear are presently to be laid aside; and those excellent Arts, Music, and Painting, with which the best men use to be delighted, are presently to be left off. Nor is it indeed credible, that so many excellent Wits, as have devoted themselves to Poetry, would ever have meddled with it, if it had been so empty, idle, and frivolous, as some ridiculously morose imagine; who forsooth are better pleased with the severity of Philosophy, and her harsh, deformed impropriety of Expressions. But the judgements of such men are the most contemptible in the world; for when by Poetry men's minds are fashioned to generous Humours, Kindness, and the like: those must needs be strangers to all those good qualites, who hate, or proclaim Poetry to be frivolous, and useless.   

The Third PART. Rules for writing Pastorals.  
IN delivering Rules for writing Pastorals, I shall not point to the streams, which to look after argues a small creeping Genius, but lead you to the fountains. But first I must tell you, how difficult it is to write Pastorals, which many seem not sufficiently to understand: For since its matter is low, and humble, it seems to have nothing that is troublesome, and difficult. But this is a great mistake, for, as Horace says of Comedy, It is by so much the more difficult, by how much the less pardonable are the mistakes committed in its composure: and the same is to be thought of every thing, whose end is to please, and delight. For whatsoever is contrived for pleasure, and not necessarily required, unless it be exquisite, must be nauseous, and distasteful; as at a Supper, scraping Music, thick Ointment, or the like, because the Entertainment might have been without all these: For the sweetest things, and most delicious, are most apt to satiate; for though the sense may sometimes be pleased, yet it presently disgusts that which is luscious, and, as Lucretius phraseth it, 
Even in the midst and fury of the Joys,  
Some thing that's better riseth, and destroys.   
Beside, since Pastoral is of that nature, that it cannot endure too much negligence, nor too scrupulous diligence, it must be very difficult to to be composed, especially since the expression must be neat, but not too exquisite, and fine: It must have a simple native beauty, but not too mean: it must have all sorts of delicacies, and surprising fancies, yet not be flowing, and luxuriant. And certainly, to hit all these excellencies is difficult enough, since Wit, whose nature it is to pour itself forth, must rather be restrained than indulged; and that force of the Mind, which of itself is so ready to run on, must be checked, and bridled: Which cannot be easily performed by any, but those who have a very good Judgement, and practically skilled in Arts, and Sciences: And lastly, a neat, and as it were a happy Wit; not that curious sort, I mean, which Petronius allows Horace, lest too much Art should take off the Beauty of the Simplicity. And therefore I would not have any one undertake this task, that is not very polite by Nature, and very much at leisure. For what is more hard than to be always in the Country, and yet never to be Clownish? to sing of mean, and trivial matters, yet not trivially, and meanly? to pipe on a slender Reed, and yet keep the sound from being harsh, and squeaking? to make every thing sweet, yet never satiate?. And this I thought necessary to premise, in order to the better laying down of such Rules as I design. For the naked simplicity both of the Matter and Expression of a Pastoral, upon bare Contemplation, might seem easily to be hit, but upon trial 'twill be found a very hard task: Nor was the difficulty to be dissembled, lest Ignorance should betray some into a rash attempt. Now I must come to the very Rules; for as nothing excellent can be brought to perfection without Nature, (for Art unassisted by that, is vain, and ineffectual,) so there is no Nature so excellent, and happy, which by its own strength, and without Art and Use can make any thing excellent, and great.  
But 'tis hard to give Rules for that, for which there have been none already given; for where there are no footsteps nor path to direct, I cannot tell how any one can be certain of his way. Yet in this difficulty I will follow Aristotle's Example, who being to lay down Rules concerning Epicks, proposed Homer as a Pattern, from whom he deduced the whole Art: So I will gather from Theocritus and Virgil, those Fathers of Pastoral, what I shall deliver on this account. For all the Rules that are to be given of any Art, are to be given of it as excellent, and perfect, and therefore aught to be taken from them in whom it is so.  
The first Rule shall be about the Matter, which is either the Action of a Shepherd, or contrived and fitted to the Genius of a Shepherd; for though Pastoral is simple, and bashful, yet it will entertain lofty subjects, if it can be permitted to turn and fashion them to its own proper Circumstances, and Humour: which though Theocritus hath never done, but kept close to pastoral simplicity, yet Virgil hath happily attempted; of whom almost the same Character might be given, which Quintilian bestowed ●n Stesichorus, who with his Harp bore up the most weighty subjects of Epic Poetry; for Virgil sang great and lofty things to his Oaten Reed, but yet suited to the Humour of a Shepherd, for every thing that is nor agreeable to that, cannot belong to Pastoral: of its own nature it cannot treat of lofty and great matters.  
Therefore let Pastaral be smooth and soft, not noisy and bombast; lest whilst it raiseth its voice, and opens its mouth, it meet with the same fate that, they say, an Italian Shepherd did, who having a very large mouth, and a very strong breath, broke his Pipe as often as he blowed it. This is a great fault in one that writes Pastorals: for if his words are too sounding, or his sense too strong, he must be absurd, because indecently loud. And this is not the rule of an unskilful impertinent Adviser, but rather of a very excellent Master in this Art; for Phoebus twitched Virgil by the Ear, and warned him to forbear great Subjects: but if it ventures upon such, it may be allowed to use some short Invocations, and, as Epicks do, modestly implore the assistance of a Muse. This Virgil doth in his Pollio, which is a Composure of an unusual loftiness: Sicilian Muse begin a loftier strain.  
So he invocates Arethusa, when Cornelius Gallus Proconsul of Egypt and his Amours, matters above the common reach of Pastoral, are his Subject.  One Labour more O Arethusa yield. 
Why he makes his application to Aretheusa is easy to conjecture, for she was a Nymph of Sicily, and so he might hope that she could inspire him with a Genius fit for Pastorals which first began in that Island, Thus in the seventh and eighth Eclogue, as the matter would bear, he invocates the Nymphs and Muses: And Theocritus does the same, Tell Goddess, you can tell.  
From whence 'tis evident that in Pastoral, though it never pretends to any greatness, Invocations may be allowed: But whatever Subject it chooseth, it must take care to accommodate it to the Genius and Circumstances of a Shepherd.  
Concerning the Form, or mode of Imitation, I shall not repeat what I have already said, viz. that this is in itself mixed; for Pastoral is either Alternate, or hath but one Person, or is mixed of both: yet 'tis properly and chiefly Alternate, as is evident from that of Theocritus.  
Sing Rural strains, for as we march along  
We may delight each other with a Song.  
In which the Poet shows that alternate singing is proper to a Pastoral: But as for the Fable, 'tis requisite that it should be simple, lest in stead of Pastoral it put on the form of a Comedy, or Tragedy if the Fable be great, or intricate: It must be One; this Aristotle thinks necessary in every Poem, and Horace lays down this general Rule, Be every Fable simple, and but one: For every Poem, that is not One, is imperfect, and this Unity is to be taken from the Action: for if that is One, the Poem will be so too. Such is the Passion of Corydon in Virgil's second Eclogue, Meliboeus' Expostulation with Tityrus about his Fortune; Theocritus' Thyrsis, Cyclops, and Amaryllis, of which perhaps in its proper place I may treat more largely.  
Let the third Rule be concerning the Expression, which cannot be in this kind excellent unless borrowed from Theocritus' Idylliums', or Virgil's Eclogues; let it be chiefly simple, and ingenuous: such is that of Theocritus, A Kid belongs to thee, and Kids are good, Or that in Virgil's seventh Eclogue, 
This Pail of Milk, these Cakes (Priapus) every year  
Expect; a little Garden is thy care:  
thou'rt Marble now, but if more Land I hold,  
If my Flock thrive, thou shalt be made of Gold,  than which I cannot imagine more simple, and more ingenuous expressions. To which may be added that out of his Palemon, 
And I love Phyllis, for her Charms excel;  
At my departure O what tears there fell!  
She sighed, Farewell Dear Youth, a long Farewell.   
Now, That I call an ingenuous Expression which is clear and smooth, that swells with no insolent words, or bold metaphors, but hath something familiar, and as it were obvious in its Composure, and not disguised by any studied and affected, dress: All its Ornament must be like the Corn and fruits in the Country, easy to be gotten, and ready at hand, not such as requires Care, Labour, and Cost to be obtained: as Hermogenes on Theocritus observes; See how easy and unaffected this sounds, Pines murmurings, Goatherd, are a pleasing sound, and most of his expressions, not to say all, are of the same nature: for the ingenuous simplicity both of Thought and Expression is the natural Characteristick of Pastoral. In this Theocritus and Virgil are admirable, and excellent, the others despicable, and to be pitied: for they being enfeebled by the meaness of their subject, either creep, or fall flat. Virgil keeps himself up by his choice and curious words, and though his matter for the most part (and Pastoral requires it) is mean, yet his expressions never flag, as is evident from these lines in his Alexis: 
The glossy Plums I'll bring, and juicy Pear,  
Such as were once delightful to my Dear:  
I'll crop the Laurel, and the Myrtle tree,  
Confusedly set, because their Sweets agree.   
For since the matter must be low, to avoid being abject, and despicable, you must borrow some light from the Expression; not such as is dazzling, but pure, and lambent, such as may shine thro' the whole matter, but never flash, and blind. The words of such a Style we are usually taught in our Nurse's arms, but 'tis to be perfected and polished by length of time, frequent use, study, and diligent reading of the most approved Authors: for Pastoral is apt to be slighted for the meaness of its Matter, unless it hath some additional Beauty, be pure, polished, and so made pleasing, and attractive. Therefore never let any one, that designs to write Pastorals, corrupt himself with foreign manners; for if he hath once vitiated the healthful habit, as I may say, of Expression, which Bucolics necessarily require, 'tis impossible he should be fit for that task. Yet let him not affect pompous or dazzling Expressions, for such belong to Epicks, or Tragedians Let his words sometimes taste of the Country, not that I mean, of which Volusius' Annals, upon which Catullus hath made that biting Epigram, are full; for though the Thought ought to be rustic, and such as is suitable to a Shepherd, yet it ought not to be Clownish, as is evident in Corydon, when he makes mention of his Goats.  
Young sportive Creatures, and of spotted hue,  
Which suckled twice a day, I keep for you:  
These Thestilis hath begged, and begged in vain,  
But now they're Hers, since You my Gifts disdain.  
For what can be more Rustical, than to design those Goats for Alexis, at that very time when he believes Thestylis' winning importunity will be able to prevail? yet there is nothing Clownish in the words. In short, Bucolics should deserve that commendation which Tully gives Crassus, of whose Orations he would say, that nothing could be more free from childish painting, and affected finery. So let the Expression in Pastoral be without gaudy trappings, and all those little fineries of Art, which are used to set off and varnish a discourse: But let an ingenuous Simplicity, and unaffected pleasing Neatness appear in every part; which yet will be flat, if 'tis drawn out to any length, if not close, short, and broken, as that in Virgil, He that loves Bavius Verses, hates not Thine: And in the same Eclogue, 
— It is not safe to drive too nigh,  
The Bank may fail, the Ram is hardly dry:  And in Corydon, To learn this Art what won't Amyntas do?  
And in Theocritus much of the same nature may be seen; as in his other Pastoral Idylliums', so chiefly in his fifth. Thus Battus in the fourth Idyllium, complaining for the loss of Amaryllis, Dear Nymph, dear as my Goats, you died. And how soft and tender is that in the third Idyllium, 
And she may look on me, she may be won,  
She may be kind, She is not perfect Stone,  And in this concise, close way of Expression lies the chiefest Grace of Pastorals: for in my opinion there's nothing in the whole Composition that can delight more than those frequent stops, and break off. Yet lest in these too it become dull and sluggish, it must be quickened by frequent lively touches of Concernment: such as that of the Goatherd in the third Idyllium, — I see that I must die: Or Daphnis' despair, which Thyrsis sings in the first Idyllium, 
Ye Wolves, and Pards, and Mountain Boars adieu,  
The Herdsmen now must walk no more with You.  How tender are the lines, and yet what passion they contain! And most of Virgil's are of this nature, but there are likewise in him some touches of despairing Love, such as is this of Alphesiboeus, Nor have I any mind to be relieved: Or that of Damon, I'll die, yet tell my Love even whilst I die: Or that of Corydon, He loved, but could not hope for Love again. For though Pastoral doth not admit any violent passions, such as proceed from the greatest extremity, and usually accompany despair; yet because Despairing Love is not attended with those frightful and horrible consequences, but looks more like grief to be pitied, and a pleasing madness, than rage and fury, Eclogue is so far from refusing, that it rather loves, and passionately requires them. Therefore an unfortunate Shepherd may be brought in, complaining of his successless Love to the Moon, Stars, or Rocks, or to the Woods, and purling Streams, mourning the unsupportable anger, the frowns and coyness of his proud Phyllis; singing at his Nymphs door, (which Plutarch reckons among the signs of Passion) or doing any of those fooleries, which are familiar to Lovers. Yet the Passion must not rise too high, as Polyphemus', Galateas' mad Lover, of whom Theocritus divinely thus, as almost of every thing else: 
His was no common flame, nor could he move  
In the old Arts, and beaten paths of Love,  
No Flowers nor Fruits sent to oblige the Fair,  
His was all Rage, and Madness:  For all violent Perturbations are to be diligently avoided by Bucolics, whose nature it is to be soft, and easy: For in small matters, and such must all the strifes and contentions of Shepherds be, to make a great deal of ado, is as unseemly, as to put Herculeses Vizard and Buskins on an Infant, as Quintilian hath excellently observed. For since Eclogue is but weak, it seems not capable of those Commotions which belong to the Theatre, and Pulpit; they must be soft, and gentle, and all its Passion must seem to flow only, and not break out: as in Virgil's Gallus, 
Ah, far from home and me You wander o'er  
The Alpine snows, the farthest Western shore,  
And frozen Rhine. When are we like to meet?  
Ah gently, gently, lest thy tender feet  
Sharp Ice may wound.   
To these he may sometimes join some short Interrogations made to inanimate Being's, for those spread a strange life and vigour thro' the whole Composure. Thus in Daphnis, Did not You Streams, and Hazels, hear the Nymphs? Or give the very Trees, and Fountains sense, as in Tityrus, 
Thee (Tityrus) the Pines, and every Vale,  
The Fountains, Hills, and every Shrub did call:  for by this the Concernment is expressed; and of the like nature is that of Thyrsis, in Virgil's Melibaeus, When Phyllis eomes, my wood will all be green.  
And this sort of Expressions is frequent in Theocritus, and Virgil, and in these the delicacy of Pastoral is principally contained, as one of the old Interpreters of Theocritus hath observed on this line, in the eighth Idyllium, Ye Vales, and Streams, a race Divine: But let them be so, and so seldom used, that nothing appear vehement, and bold, for Boldness and Vehemence destroy the sweetness which peculiarly commends Bucolics, and in those Composures a constant care to be soft and easy should be chief: For Pastoral bears some resemblance to Terence, of whom Tully, in that Poem which he writes to Libo, gives this Character, His words are soft, and each expression sweet. In mixing Passion in Pastorals, that rule of Longinus, in his golden Treatise 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, must be observed, Never use it, but when the matter requires it, and then too very sparingly.  
Concerning the Numbers, in which Pastoral should be written, this is my opinion; the Heroic Measure, but not so strong and sounding as in Epicks, is to be chosen. Virgil and Theocritus have given us examples; for though Theocritus hath in one Idyllium mixed other Numbers, yet that can be of no force against all the rest; and Virgil useth no Numbers but Heroick, from whence it may be inferred, that those are the fittest.  
Pastoral may sometimes admit plain, but not long Narrations, such as Socrates in Plato requires in a Poet; for he chiefly approves those who use a plain Narration, and commends that above all other which is short, and fitly expresseth the nature of the Thing. Some are of opinion that Bucolics cannot endure Narrations, especially if they are very long, and imagine there are none in Virgil: but they have not been nice enough in their observations, for there are some, as that in Silenus: 
Young Chromis and Mnasylus chanced to stray,  
Where (sleeping in a Cave) Silenus lay,  
Whose constant Cups fly fuming to his brain,  
And always boil in each extended vein:  
His trusty Flagon, full of potent Juice,  
Was hanging by, worn out with Age, and Use, etc.   
But because Narrations are so seldom to be found in Theocritus, and Virgil, I think they ought not to be often used; yet if the matter will bear it, I believe such as Socrates would have, may very fitly be made use of.  
The Composure will be more suitable to the Genius of a Shepherd, if now and then there are some short turns and digressions from the purpose: Such is that concerning Pasiphae in Silenus, although 'tis almost too long; but we may give Viogil a little leave, who takes so little liberty himself.  
Concerning Descriptions I cannot tell what to lay do●n, for in this matter our Guides, Virgil, and Theocritus▪ do not very well agree. For he in his first Idyllium makes such a long immoderate description of his Cup, that Critics find fault with him, but no such description appears in all Virgil; for how sparing is he in his description of Melibaeus' Beechen Pot, the work of Divine Alcimedon? He doth it in five verses, Theocritus runs out into thirty, which certainly is an argument of a wit that is very much at leisure, and unable to moderate his force. That shortness which Virgil hath prudently made choice of, is in my opinion much better; for a Shepherd, who is naturally incurious, and unobserving, cannot think that 'tis his duty to be exact in particulars, and describe every thing with an accurate niceness: yet Roncardus hath done it, a man of most correct judgement, and, in imitation of Theocritus, hath, considering the then poverty of our language, admirably and largely described his Cup; and Marinus in his Idylliums' hath followed the same example. He never keeps within compass in his Descriptions, for which he is deservedly blamed; let those who would be thought accurate, and men of judgement, follow Virgil's prudent moderation. Nor can the Others gain any advantage from M●schus's Europa, in which the description of the Basket is very long, for that Idyllium is not Pastoral: yet I confess, that some descriptions of such trivial things, if not minutely accurate, may, if seldom used, be decently allowed a place in the discourses of Shepherds.  
But though you must be sparing in your Descriptions, yet your Comparisons must be frequent, and the more often you use them, the better and more graceful will be the Composure; especially if taken from such things, as the Shepherds must be familiarly acquainted with: They are frequent in Theocritus, but so proper to the Country, that none but a Shepherd dare use them. Thus Menalcas in the eighth Idyllium: 
Rough Storms to Trees, to Birds the treacherous Snare,  
Are frightful Evils; Springs to the Hare,  
Soft Virgins Love to Man, etc.  And Damaetas in Virgil's Palaemon, 
Woolves Sheep destroy, Winds Trees when newly blown,  
Storms Corn, and me my Amaryllis frown.  And that in the eighth Eclogue, 
As Clay grows hard, Wax soft in the same fire,  
So Daphnis does in one extreme desire.  And such Comparisons are very frequent in him, and very suitable to the Genius of a Shepherd: as likewise often repetitions, and doublings of some words: which, if they are luckily placed, have an unexpressible quaintness, and make the Numbers extreme sweet, and the turns ravishing and delightful. An instance of this we have in Virgil's Meliboeus, 
Phyllis the Hazel loves; whilst Phyllis loves that Tree,  
Myrtles than Hazels of less fame shall be.   
As for the Manners of your Shepherds, they must be such as theirs who lived in the Islands of the Happy or Golden Age: They must be candid, simple, and ingenuous; lovers of Goodness, and Justice, affable, and kind; strangers to all fraud, contrivance, and deceit; in their Love modest, and chaste, not one suspicious word, no loose expression to be allowed: and in this part Theocritus is faulty, Virgil never; and this difference perhaps is to be ascribed to their Ages, the times in which the latter lived being more polite, civil, and gentile. And therefore those who make wanton Love-stories the subject of Pastorals, are in my opinion very unadvised; for all sort of lewdness or debauchery are directly contrary to the Innocence of the golden Age. There is another thing in which Theocritus is faulty, and that is making his Shepherds too sharp, and abusive to one another; Comatas and Lacon are ready to fight, and the railing between those two is as bitter as Billingsgate: Now certainly such Raillery cannot be suitable to those sedate times of the Happy Age.  
As for Sentences, if weighty, and Philosophical, common Sense tells us they are not fit for a Shepherd's mouth. Here Theocritus cannot be altogether excused, but Virgil deserves no reprehension But Proverbs justly challenge admission into Pastorals, nothing being more common in the mouths of Countrymen than old Sayings.  
Thus much seemed necessary to be premised out of RAPINE, for the direction and information of the Reader.   

ERRATA,  
p. 13. l. 15. read the wind. p. 15. l. 16. read sight. p. 60. l. 4. read Shoe. p. 95. l. 17. read whilst all. p. 112. l. 9 read of my Love.    

THEOCRITUS  

Idyllium I. Called Thyrsis, or 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
A Goatherd persuades the Shepherd Thrysis to bewail Daphnis who died for Love, and gives him a large Cup and Goat for a reward. The Scene Sicily, about the River Himera.  Thyrsis. 
GOatherd, that Pine-tree's boughs by yonder spring  
In pleasing murmurs mix, and sweetly sing:  
And Thou dost sweetly pipe, dear charming Swain,  
And well deserv'st the next reward to Pan:  
If He must have a Kid, a Goat's Thy due,  
If He a Goat, a Kid belongs to You:  
And that's no mean reward, for Kids are good,  
And till they're milked the flesh is dainty food.  Goatherd. 
And, Shepherd, sweeter Notes thy Pipe do fill  
Than murmuring springs that roll from yonder hill.  
When Muses claim a Sheep, a Lamb's thy due;  
When they a Lamb, thou shalt receive a Ewe.  Thyrsis. 
And will You, by the Nymphs, grant one desire,  
Will you to neighbouring shady banks retire,  
And sit and pipe? come show thy wondrous skill,  
I'll thank thee for't, and feed thy Goats the while.  Goatherd. 
I dare not, faith I dare not pipe at Noon,  
Afraid of Pan, for when his Huntings done,  
And He lies down to sleep by purling streams,  
He's very touchy if we break his dreams:  
But Thyrsis (for you know fair Daphnis pains,  
And singest the best of all the tuneful Swains)  
Let's go and sit beneath you Myrtle boughs,  
Where stands Priapus, and the Nymphs repose,  
Where thy Hut's built and many an Acorn grows,  
And there if thou wilt pipe as sweet a Lay  
As when you strove with 
† The name of a Shepherd.  Crome and wan the day,  
I'll give Thee my best Goat, a lovely white;  
She suckles Two, yet fills Three Pails at night;  
Besides a Cup with sweetest Wax o'er laid,  
A fine Two-handled Pot, and newly made:  
Still of the Tool it smells, it neatly shines,  
And round the brim a creeping Ivy twines  
With Crocus mixed; where Kids do seem to bronze,  
The Berries crop, and wanton in the boughs:  
Within a Woman sits, a work divine,  
Thro envious vails her dazzling Beauty's shine,  
And all around neat Wooers offer Love,  
They strive, they quarrel, but they cannot move:  
Now smiling here, now there she casts her Eyes,  
And now to These, now Those her mind applies:  
Whilst They, their Eyes swollen big with watchful pain,  
Still Love, still beg, but all, poor hearts, in vain.  
Near These a Fisher on white Rocks is set,  
He seems to gather up to cast his Net:  
He stands as labouring, and his Limbs appear  
All stretched, and in his face mix hope and fear:  
The Nerves in's Neck are swollen, look firm and strong,  
Alltho He's old, and fit for one that's Young:  
Next him ripe Grapes in blushing Clusters twine,  
And a fair Boy sits by to keep the Vine:  
On either side a Fox; one widely gapes,  
He eyes the Vines, and spoils the ripening Grapes:  
The other minds the Skrip, resolved to seize  
And rob the Fondling of his Bread and Cheese;  
Whilst He sets idly busy, neatly ties  
Soft tender twigs, and frames a Net for Flies;  
Pleased with his vain designs, a careless Boy,  
And more than Grapes or Skrip he minds the Toy.  
Round all a Creeping Woodbine doth aspire,  
A 
† Some take 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, as relating to the Country, and would not have Calydon in the next line to be a proper Name.  curious sight, i'm sure you must admire:  
'Twas Calydons, but when he crossed the Seas  
I bought it for a Goat, and Rammel Cheese:  
It never touched my Lips, unsoild, and new,  
And this I freely will present to you,  

* Heinsius reads 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, right no doubt, but it matters little.  If you will sing how in the shady Grove  
Young Daphnis pined, and how He died for Love.  
I am in Earnest, I will love Thee long,  
And surely mind the favour of thy song.  Thyrsis. 
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the rural song:  
'Tis Thyrsis song, Thyrsis from Aetna came,  

† Some read, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 some 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  Sweet is his voice, and sounding as his fame:  
Where were you Nymphs? Where did the Nymphs reside,  
Where were you then when Daphnis pined and died?  
On Pindus' Top, or Tempe's open plain?  
Where careless Nymphs forgetful of the Swain?  
For not one Nymph by swift Asopus stood,  
Nor Aetna's Cliff, nor Acis sacred flood.  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue.  
Begin, sweet Muse, begin the Rural Song:  
For him the Woolves, the Pards, and Tigers moaned,  
For Him with frightful grief the Lions groaned:  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the Rural Song.  
A thousand Heifers, Bulls, and Cows, and Steers  
Lay round his feet, and melted into Tears:  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the Rural Song.  
First Hermes came, and with a gentle touch  
He raised, and and asked him whom he loved so much?  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the Rural Song.  
The Plowmen, Herdsmen, and the Sheapherds came,  
And asked what ill? and what had raised the flame?  
Priapus came from neighbouring shades, and said,  
Poor Daphnis, why dost pine? why hang thy head?  

† I follow Heinsius his Comment, which seems to be the best, and most agreeable to the Poet's design.  Mean while they Nymph doth o'er the fields complain,  
She calls the Woods, and chides the perjured Swain;  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the Rural song.  
Ah Daphnis lose and wanton in thy Love!  
A Herdsman thought, thou dost a Goatherd prove!  
A Goatherd when he sees the Kids at rut  
Sits down, and grieves that He's not born a Goat;  
Thus when you see the Virgin's dance, you grieve  
Because refused, and now disdain to live:  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the Rural Song.  
All this young Daphnis heard, but mute he sat,  
Indulged his grief, and hastened to his Fate:  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the Rural Song.  
Then Venus came, a Smile her face possessed,  
A faint half smile; fierce anger filled her breast:  
And said, well Daphnis you could fight with Love,  
With what success the haughty Shepherd strove!  
You scorned his Bow, and you his Darts Disgraced;  
But Daphnis was not Love too strong at last?  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the Rural Song.  
And thus the Youth replied, disdainful foe,  
Ah cruel Venus, cursed by all below?  
The Sun hath told, I fall, but still shall prove  
Midst shades below a deadly plague to Love:  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the Rural Song:  
Go, go to Ida, there, as story goes,  
Are Scenes of Pleasure, there Anchises does:—  
Go Venus, there are shades, and Cypress bowers,  
And labouring Bees buzz o'er the rising flowers:  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the rural song:  
There lives Adonis, there the wondrous fair,  
There feeds his Sheep, shoots Beasts, and hunts the Hare: 
† This reading seems best, though against the opinion of several of the Critics.   
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the rural song:  
Go now stout Diomedes, go soon pursue,  
Go nose him now, and boast, my Arts o'erthrew  
Young Daphnis, fight, for I'm a match for you:  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the rural song:  
Ye Woolves, ye Lions, and ye Boars adieu,  
For Daphnis walks no more in Woods with you;  
Adieu fair Arethuse, fair streams that swell  
Thro Thymbrian plains, ye silver streams farewel:  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the rural song:  
That Daphnis I that here my Oxen fed,  
That here my Bulls and Cows to water led:  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the rural song:  
Pan, Pan, where e'er you keep your Sylvan court  
Whether on Lyce's tops the Satyr's sport,  
Or wanton o'er the high Menalian hill;  
We beg Thee visit Sicily's fair Isle,  
Leave Helick's Cliff, from Licon's Tomb remove,  
A Tomb to be admired by Gods above,  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the rural song:  
Come mighty King, come Pan, and take my Pipe  
Well joined with Wax, and sitted to my Lip,  
For now 'tis useless grown, Love stops my Breath,  
I cannot Pipe, but must be mute in death:  
Pan raise my voice, Pan move my learned tongue,  
Begin sweet Muse, begin the rural song:  
On every Shrub and Thorn let Lilies smile,  
Let Privet berries slain the Daffadil;  
Let all things change, the Pine trees lofty head  
Let mellow Pears adorn, since Daphni's dead,  
Let Deer pursue the Dogs, on ever● bush  
Let Screech-owls sit, and chatter with the Thrush:  
Pan raise my voice no more, Pan stop my tongue,  
End Muses, end, end Muse, the rural song:  
This said He died, fair Venus rubbed the Swain,  
And idly strove to bring him back again;  
For cruel Fate had broken every thread  
And o'er the Stygian Lake young Daphni fled:  
The cruel waves enclosed the lovely Boy  
The Nymph's delight, and Muse's chiefest joy:  
Pan raise my voice no more, Pan stop my tongue,  
End Muses, end, end Muse the rural song  
Give me the Cup the promised Goat produce,  
That I may milk, and offer to my Muse;  
Hail, Muses, hail, all hail ye sacred Nine,  
I'll still improve, and make my Song divine.  Goatheard, 
Dear Thyrsis! O! may Hony drops distil,  
And Honey Combs, thy mouth, dear Sheaperd, fill!  
It fits thy sweetness, youth, for Thyrsis sings  
More sweet than Infects bred in flowery springs:  
Here take the Cup, view it, how rare the smell!  
As sweet as washed in the Springs fragrant well:  
Come 
* The name of the Goat.  Browning, milk her; Kids, forbear to skip,  
The Goat is wanton, Kids, and he may leap.   

Idyllium II. Or the Enchantment.  
Samoetha being forsaken by Delphis resolves to try the force of Charms to recover his affection; applies herself to the Moon as a powerful Goddess in both those matters, and after she hath sent away her maid, tells the story of her misfortune.  
To GEORGE PITT Jun. Esquire.  
MAid, where's my Laurel? Oh my raging Soul!  
Maid, where's the Potion? fill the Basin full,  
And crown the narrow brim with Purple wool:  
That I might charm my false, my perjured Swain,  
And force him back into my arms again:  
For Cruel he these Twelve long days hath fled,  
And knows not whether I'm alive or dead:  
He hath not broke my Doors these Twelve long days,  
Ah me! perhaps his varying Love decays,  
Or else he dotes upon another face.  
I'll run to morrow to the Fencing house,  
And ask him what he means to use me thus:  
But now I'll charm him, Moon, shine brignt and clear,  
To thee I will direct my secret prayer;  
To Thee, and Hecate, whom Dogs do dread  
When stained with gore, she stalks amidst the dead:  
Hail frightful Hecate, assist me still  
Make mine as great as famed Medea's skill:  

* A Bird sacred to Venus much used in Love Charms  Jynx restore my false, my perjured Swain  
And force him back into my Arms again.  
First burn the Flower, then strew the 
* 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  other on,  
Strew it. How? where's your sense and duty gone?  
Base Thestylis! and am I so forlorn,  
And grown so low that I'm become your scorn!  
But strew the 
* 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 not 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  Salt, and say in angry tones  
I scatter Delphids', perjured Delphids' bones.  
Jynx restore my false, my perjured Swain  
And force him back into my Arms again.  
First Delphid injured me, he raised my flame,  
And now I burn this Bough in Delphids' name:  
As this doth blaze, and break away in fume,  
How soon it takes! let Delphids' Flesh consume.  
Jynx restore my false, my perjured Swain,  
And force him back into my Arms again.  
As this devoted Wax melts o'er the Fire  
Let Mindian Delphy melt in warm desire,  
And, Venus, as I whirl this brazen bowl,  
Before my doors let perjured Delphid roll:  
Jynx restore my false, my perjured Swain,  
And force him back into my Arms again.  
Now now I strew the Flower, Moon you can bow  
Even Rhadamant, and all that's fierce below,  
Hark Thestilis our Dogs begin to howl,  
The Goddess comes, go beat the brazen bowl.  
Jynx restore my false, m● perjured Swain,  
And force him back into my Arms again.  
The Sea grows smooth, and ease becalms my Wind,  
But griefs still rage, and toss my troubled mind:  
I burn for Him, for Him whose Arts betrayed  
And wrought my shame, for I'm no more a maid.  
Jynx restore my false, my perjured Swain,  
And force him back into my arms again.  
Thrice, thrice I pour, and thrice repeat my charms,  
What ever Boy or Maid now fills his arms,  
Let dark oblivion spread o'er Delphids' mind,  
As dark as that, that once did 
* The story ●f Theseus and Ariadne is known.  Theseus blind  
When he at Naxos left his Love behind.  
Hippomanes a Plant Arcadia bears,  
This makes Steeds mad, and this excites the Mares,  
And Oh that I could see my Delphid come  
From th' Oily Feneing House so raving home.  
Jynx restore my false, my perjured Swain,  
And force him back into my Arms again.  
This piece from dear false Delphids' garment torn  
I tear again, and am resolved to burn,  
Ah cruel Love! ah most relentless God,  
Why like a Leech still eager on his food,  
Dost wound my heart, and suck out all my blood?  
Jynx restore my false, my perjured Swain,  
And force him back into my A●ms again.  
A Lizzard squeezed shall make a powerful bowl  
To morrow, strong to tame his stubborn Soul:  
Now take these Poisons, I'll procure thee more,  
And strew them at the Threshold of his door,  
That door where violent Love hath fixed my mind,  
Tho he regards not; Cruel and Unkind!  
Strew them, and spitting say in angry tones,  
I scatter Delphids', perjured Delphids' bones.  
Jynx restore my false, my perjured Swain,  
And force him back into my arms again.  
Now I'm alone shall I lament my state?  
But where shall I begin? what wrought my Fate?  
Anaxo Eubul's daughter neatly dressed  
Begged me to go and see Diana's feast,  
For fame had to●d, Wild beasts must there be shown  
In solemn pomp, a Lioness was one.  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise thy flame,  
And whence my Pain, and whence my Passion came.  
With Hers my Nurse, did all her vows unite,  
And bade me go, for 'twould be worth my ●ight,  
So forced, and finely dressed, in Pomp and State  
I went, attended by an evil Fate.  
Tell Sacred Moon what first did raise my flame  
And whence my Pain, and whence my Passion came.  
Near Lyco's House break thro' the yielding throng,  
I saw my Delphis, vigorous, stout, and young,  
A Golden Down spread o re his youthful Chin,  
His breast, bright Moon, was brighter far than thine:  
For spread with glorious Oil he lately came  
From noble Fenceing, and from winning Fame:  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise my flame  
And whence my Pain, and whence my Passion came.  
Oh when I saw, how did the sight surprise!  
My Soul took Fire, and sparkeld thro' my eyes,  
My Colour changed, regardless of the show  
I hasted home, but came I know not how;  
A burning fever seized my thoughtful head,  
And Twelve long days and nights I kept my bed,  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise my flame,  
And whence my Pain, and whenc● my Passion came  
My Rosy Colour d'yd into a Pale,  
My Eyes grew dim, my hair began to fall,  
Mere Skin and Bones, I lived, I breathed and prayed,  
And sought to every Cunning man for aid:  
All charms were tried, and various Figures cast,  
But ah no help, and time did swiftly waste:  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise my flame,  
And whence my Pain, and whence my passion came.  
At last I told my Maid the naked truth,  
Go Thestilis, have pity on my youth;  
Go find some cure to ease my raging smart;  
Young Delphid is the Tyrant of my Heart:  
Go to the Fenceing House, there's his delight,  
For there he walks, and there he loves to sit.  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise my flame,  
And whence my Pain, and whence my Passion came.  
And if alone, give him a gentle Nod,  
And softly tell him that Samaetha would  
(Speak, speak, though modest fear doth strike thee dumb)  
Enjoy him here, and beg him he would come.  
She went, she found, and told him what I said,  
He Gladly heard, and eagerly obeyed.  
But when he came, how great was the surprise  
Chills shaken my Soul, and I grew cold as Ice:  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise my flame,  
And whence my Pain, and whence my Passion came.  
Cold sweat slowed down my Cheeks like driving rain,  
And when I strove to speak, I strove in vain;  
No noise would come, not such as lulled in rest  
Young Infants murmur o'er their mother's breast:  
No sign of Life did thro' my Limbs appear,  
But I grew stiff, stiff as this Gold I wear:  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise my flame,  
And whence my Pain, and whence my Passion came.  
Then cruel he sat down, he pressed my bed,  
His eyes were fixed, and as he sat he said,  
Samoetha you do me as far surpass,  
As I Philistus when we ran the race;  
Too quick for me in this your kind intent,  
You did my haste, though not my wish prevent.  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise my flame,  
And whence my Pain, and whence my Passion came.  
For I had come at night, by Love 'tis true,  
Unsent for I had come to wait on you:  
With Apples in my Lap, with 
* This was the Custom to wait on their beloved with these Love Toys, as Apples, and Garlands to perform their Ceremony called 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, His was to be of Poplar as befiting ● Wrestler, being a Tree sacred to Hercules.  Poplar crowned  
With Ivy twined, and Ribbons neatly bound:  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise my flame,  
And whence my Pain, and whence my Passion came.  
Where if admitted it had been kindly done  
For I am thought the beauty of the Town;  
And though perhaps I wished for greater bliss  
I would have been contented with a kiss;  
But if denied, or flamed with dull delay  
Straight fire and force had come, and broke a way:  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise my flame,  
And whence my Pain, and whence my Passion came.  
But now to Venus my first thanks are due,  
The next Samoetha must be paid to you,  
To you Samoetha, you, whose gentle hand  
From raging fires secured the flaming brand,  
And saved poor half-burnt Me, for Love doth raise  
Fires fierce as those that in hot Aetna blaze;  
Tell sacred Moon what first did raise my flame,  
And whence my Pain, and whence my Passion came.  
Young tender Maids to unknown Madness drives,  
And from warm Husbands Arms it forces Wives:  
Thus He, and heedless I believed too soon,  
He pressed My hand in His, and laid me down  
On the soft bed, when straight locked Arm in Arm  
In strict embraces both grew gently warm;  
Our breath was hot and short, we panting lay,  
We looked, we murmured, and we died away:  
Our Cheeks did glow, and fainting virtue strove,  
At last it yielded to the force of Love:  
But what need all this talk? bright sacred Moon,  
Both were well pleased, and some strange thing was done:  
And ever since we loved, and lived at ease,  
No sullen Minutes broke our Happiness;  
Till ●oon this morning ere the Sun could rise,  
And drive his Chariot thro' the yielding Skies  
To fetch the Rosy Morn from waves below,  
I heard the fatal news, and knew my woe:  
My Maids own Mother, she that lives hard by  
An Honest Woman, and she scorns to lie;  
She came and asked me, is your Delphid kind?  
And have you firm possession of his Mind?  
For I am sure, but whether Maid or Boy  
I cannot tell, he courts another joy:  
For he drinks Healths, and when those Healths are past,  
He must be gone, and goes away in haste:  
Besides with Garlands all his Rooms are dressed,  
And he prepares, as for a Marriage Feast;  
This as as she walked last night she chanced to view,  
And told it me, and oh, I fear 'tis true!  
For He was wont to come twice, thrice a day,  
He saw me still as he returned from play;  
But now since he was here twelve nights are past,  
Am I forgotten? am I left at last?  
Whilst perjured he for other Beauty burns,  
My Love I'm sure deserved more kind returns,  
But now I'll Charm, but if he scorns me still  
I'll force him down to Hell, by Fate, I will:  
Such powerful drugs a Witch did once impart  
She taught me such strange Charms, such force of Art:  
But now farewell bright Moon, turn lovely Moon  
To Waves below, and drive thy Chariot down,  
Go lovely Moon, and wake the sleepy Morn:  
I'll bear my trouble still, as I have born;  
Farewell, and you attending Stars that wheel  
Round Nights black Axletree, bright Stars, farewell.   

Idyllium III. The Goatherd.  
He repines at the coyness of his Mistress and ends in despair.  
I go to Phyllis, and on yonder Rock  
My Goats are fed, and Tityrus keeps my flock;  
Dear Tityrus watch, and see the Goats be fed,  
To morning Pastures, Evening Waters led,  
But ' ware the Lybian Ridgling's butting head:  
Ah lovely Phyllis why so wondrous coy!  
Why won't you take me to the promised joy?  
Why won't you meet me now in yonder Grove  
Lean on my Breast, and Kiss, and call me Love?  
Dost hate me, Phyllis? does my Nose when near  
Seem hooked, too long my Beard, and rough my hair?  
Am I deformed? displeasing to thy Eye!  
Grown ugly now! I see that I must die:  
Ten Apples I have sent, you showed the Tree,  
Ten more to morrow; all I pluck for Thee;  
Could I enjoy what e'er my wish can crave,  
I'd turn that Bee that flies into thy Cave,  
There softly thro' thy shady Garland creep,  
And steal a Kiss when you are fast asleep;  
I know what Love is now, a cruel God,  
A Tygress bore, and nursed him in a Wood;  
A cruel God, he shoots thro' every vein,  
And fires my bones, have pity on my pain:  
Dear, black eyed sweet, all stone, ah lovely face,  
Be kind again, and grant one kind embrace;  
Do, clasp thy humble Swain, and grant one Kiss,  
Even empty Kisses have a secret bliss.  
I rave, and I shall tear the Crowns I made,  
Of Fragrant Parsley twined, to grace your head;  
Ah me! unhappy me! what pains I bear?  
Ah me! undone! yet you refuse to hear:  
My Jerkin's off, I'll leap into the flood  
From you high Rock, where Olpis often stood  
To snare his Trout; and though I do not drown  
'Twill please Thee Phyllis, sure, to hear 'twas done:  
All this I knew: when I designed to prove  
Whether I should be happy in my Love,  
I pressed the Long-live, but invain did press,  
It gave no lucky sound of good success:  
To Agrio too I made the same demand,  
A cunning Woman she, I crossed her hand;  
She turned the Sieve and Shears, and told me true,  
That I should love, but not be loved by you:  
I have a pretty Goat, a lovely white,  
She bears two Kids, yet fills three Pails at night,  
This tawny Bess hath begged, and begged in vain,  
But now 'tis hers since you my gifts disdain:  
My right Eye itches now, and shall I see  
My Love? I'll sit and pipe by yonder tree,  
And she may look on me, she may be won,  
She may be kind, she is not perfect Stone:  
When young Hippomanes sought the Maids embrace,  
He took the Golden fruit, and ran the race.  
But when she viewed, how strong was the surprise!  
Her Soul took Fire, and sparkled thro' her Eyes,  
How did her passions, how her fury move!  
How soon she leapt into the deepest Love!  
From Aetna's top to Pyle Melampus drove  
His tender Flock, and met a noble Love:  
Wise Alphisb's mother opened all her charms  
To Bias Eyes, and wantoned in his Arms:  
Adonis lived a Swain, and yet the Boy  
Fired Venus breast, She proved so mad for joy  
That it her lap she warmed his dying Head,  
Kissed his cold Lips, and would not think him dead:  
Tho young Endymion fed ten Thousand Sheep,  
I envy nothing but his lasting sleep:  
I envy Jason's happy dreams, my Dear,  
They tasted joys which no profane must hear,  
Joys too divine for an unhallowed Ear:  
Ah me my head! but who regards my pain!  
I'll fall, despair, and never pipe again:  
A prey to Woolus, 'twill be a dainty feast,  
And sweeter far than Honey to thy taste.   

Idyllium IU.  
Battus and Corydon in a pastoral way discourse of several things.  
To His good friend Mr. E. Lyde of Horspath.  B. 
WHose Herds? Philonda's? tell whose Herds they are,  C. 
Aegon's, for Aegon gave them to my care,  B. 
Don't you play false, and sometimes milk a Cow,  
By stealth?  C. 
No, my old Master eyes me so,  
Gives the Calves suck, and watches what I do:  B. 
But where is Aegon? where's the Herdsman gone?  C. 
What han't you heard? for sure the story's known,  B. 
Not I, I live out of the road of Fame:  C. 
Milo hath him drawn to th' Olympian game:  B. 
And what will He do there, rude artless Swain?  C. 
But yet his strength is famed o'er all the plain;  
As big as Hercules, as stout and strong,  B. 
More known for brutal force, than famed for Song:  C. 
He ne'er played Cudgels but he broke a head,  
Stout Castor's match I'm sure my mother said:  
A score of 
* For diet and exercise before he Wrestled.  Sheep he carried, and a Spade,  B. 
What will not Milo do, that can persuade  
This Clown to leave his wealth, and court a shade?  C. 
His Cows here want him, and mourn o'er the plain:  B. 
Poor Beasts! and how unhappy in a Swain!  C. 
Poor beasts! they will not eat, but idly low;  B. 
Ah careless Herdsman! look on yonder Cow,  
Poor Beast I pity her, how ghastly thin!  
Her bones are creeping thro' the famished skin:  
See you may tell her Ribs, her entrails view:  
What, like an Insect, doth she feed on Dew?  C. 
No; and I hope to see her shortly prove,  
She sometimes doth in Latym's shady Grove  
And sometimes o'er Asarus pastures stray,  
And there I feed her at a rack of Hay:  B. 
Look that red Bull is jean, mere skin and bone,  
May the Lampridoe, when they would atone  
Great Juno's anger; meet with such a one;  
Lean be his aged flesh, corrupt his blood,  
For they deserved, ah 'tis a cursed brood:  C. 
And yet I feed him, by the Springs He goes,  
Or in Neoetha's plains, where plenty flows,  
The Gilcup Cowslip, and the Dazy grows:  B. 
Ah wretched Aegon here thy Oxen die  
Whilst you pursue a foolish Victory:  
Thy best new Pipe is spoiled, 'tis mouldy grown,  
Alas it must be spoiled now Thou art gone:  C. 
No fear of that, for when He went away  
He gave it me, and, Battus, I can play:  
I sing smooth Pyrrhus' songs, I gain renown  
To Croto, Zacynth is a pretty Town,  
Lacinius rises proudly to the East,  
There Aegon once eat eighty Cakes at least:  
There did I see him whilst He bravely strove,  
Draw down the Bull, and give him to his love,  
To Amaryllis, all with joy were filled  
The Women shouted, and the Herdsman smiled:  B. 
Ah lovely Amaryllis, you alone  
Do still possess my mind, though dead and gone;  
Dear as my Goats you died, and left me here  
Ah me how hard's my Fate, and how severe!  C. 
Cheer up, dear Battus, better days may come  
To morrow, chance, may bring a milder doom:  
Th● alive may hope, the dead are hopeless, lost;  
Jove sometimes smiles, and sometimes frowns in frost:  B. 
I do cheer up, but drive your Heifers down  
They spoil my Olives, Browning, Hist, begun:  C. 
Ha, Colly, to the bank: not stir by Jove?  
If I come to ye, In faith, I'll make ye move:  
See now she runs this way; a cursed Cow!  
Had I my Paddle thou shouldst feel me now:  B. 
Look here for God's sake, oh it pricks, it pricks!  
I've caught a thorn, oh me how deep it sticks!  
Pray pull it out, dost see it? look 'tis there;  
Pox take the Cow, I'm sure 'twas long of her:  C. 
I have it out, 'twas this, come, all is well,  B. 
How small the wound, yet what vast Courage fell!  C. 
ne'er walk o'er mountains, Swain, without your Shoe,  
For there are thorns, and there sharp prickles grow:  B. 
But Swain, does thy old Master still pursue  
His old Sweetheart, or doth he court a new;  C. 
His old one still, poor wretch! in yonder grove  
I traced, and found them in a Scene of Love:  B. 
Oh brave old lusty Goat! thy race may vie  
With small shanked Pan's, or Satyr's Lechery!   

Idyllium V.  
The Goatherd Comatas, and Herdsman Laco contend in Singing, They lay a Wager, and choose Morso Judge: The victory is determined on the Goatherd's side.  
To Owen Salisbury Esquire.  C. 
FLY Goats fly Laco, fly, and safely feed;  
He stole my skin last night, dear Goats take heed:  L. 
Lamb's don't you fly the springs? Lamb's don't you fear,  
When He that lately stole my Pipe's so near?  C. 
Thy Pipe! what Pipe hadst Thou, thou slavish lout,  
Couldst Thou and Corydon do aught but to't  
On Oaten straws, to please the foolish rout?  L. 
The Pipe that Lycon gave, free haughty fool;  
But pray what skin was that that Laco stole?  
What skin Comatas? where couldst thou have one?  
Thy master wants a skin to sleep upon:  C. 
That spotted skin which, when He killed a Goat  
To th' Nymphs, Dick gave; which you, you envious Sot,  
Then grieved to see; and now by knavish theft  
Hast robbed me of, 'twas all that I had left:  L. 
By Pan not Laco, not Calaithis Son  
Did steal thy Pipe, or know by whom 'twas done;  
If this be'nt true, may I grow frantic, leap  
From yonder Rocks, and sink into the Deep:  C. 
And by the Fountain Nymphs, (those Nymphs I find  
My constant friends, still generous and kind)  
Comatas did not steal thy Pipe, believe  
That this is true, and I thy fault forgive:  L. 
If I believe Thee may I bear the pains  
That Daphnis bore, but since you boast your strains,  
Come stake a Goat, I'll pipe when ere you will,  
Till you grow weary, and confess my skill:  C. 
A Sow, Minerva: I'm content to lay  
A Kid, you stake a Lamb, and then let's play:  L. 
And how's that equal? oh you crafty fool,  
Pray who Goats hair did ever shoer for Wool?  C. 
He that's as sure as you are to excel,  
(Tho Wasps with Grasshoppers may strive as well)  
But since you think a Kid no equal stake,  
Look there's a fullgrown Goat, you shan't draw back:  L. 
Soft, soft, good Sir; and let us hence remove,  
There's better singing in that shady Grove;  
For there cold water flows, there Herbs do spring,  
And there are grassy beds, and locusts sing:  C. 
I'm not in haste, but yet I'm vexed to see,  
That Thou shouldst dare at last to strive with me;  
With me who when a Boy did teach thee strains,  
Are these the kind returns for all my pains?  
But breed a Wolf, or an ungrateful Bear,  
And He'll devour Thee for thy former care:  L. 
Pray when did I, you envious railing Sot,  
ere learn, or hear from you one graceful Note?  
But pray come hither, here are beds of grass  
And here we'll sing, 'tis a convenient place:  C. 
I'll not go thither, here are Cypress bowers,  
Here labouring Bees buzz o'er the rising flowers;  
Here two cold streams, and here a fountain flows,  
And prattling Birds do murmur thro' the boughs:  
Thy shades not half so good, here Pines do grow,  
Rear lofty heads, and scatter Nuts below:  L. 
No rather go with me, and every step  
Shall tread on Lamb skins Wool more soft than Sleep;  
In thine are Goat skin's spread of ghastly hue,  
They smell as rank, nay almost worse than you:  
One bowl of Milk I to the Nymphs will crown,  
And one of Oil, if that will draw Thee on:  C. 
No, go with me, for mine are fairer bowers;  
There Thou shalt tread upon the sweetest flowers:  
Besides o'er all I'll spread a lovely Skin,  
'Tis ten times softer, and as sweet as thine:  
Eight Bowls of Milk to Pan I'll freely Crown,  
Of Honey eight, if that will draw Thee on:  L. 
Come then I'll go, the doubt at last is cleared  
Your skins, your shades shall be for once preferred;  
But who shall judge, and who shall hear us play?  
I wish the Herdsman Licop came this way:  C. 
I don't care much for him, but here's as good  
Morson the Keeper of our Master's Wood,  
He makes your Faggots, and if you'll consent  
we'll call him, He shall be our Judge,  L. 
content:  C. 
Then call him:  L. 
Friend, come here, we now contest:  
Which tunes the Rural Pipe, which Sings the best,  
Whose Art is greatest must be judged by Thee,  
Judge right, and neither favour him, nor me:  C. 
No, Morson, let desert thy judgement guide,  
Be fair to both, and lean to neither side;  
This flock is Thurius flock, and these forsooth  
Eumara's Goats; that you may know us both:  L. 
Did any ask to whom These flocks belong,  
To me, or Thurius? oh Thou hast a Tongue!  C. 
What ere I say, I'm sure, is nought but Truth,  
I scorn to boast; But you've a railing mouth:  L. 
Sing, sing, but let thy friend return again,  
Alive; Comatas! Oh how sweet a Swain!  C. 
Me more than Daphnis all the Muse's love,  
Two Kids I lately offered in a Grove:  L. 
And me Apollo loves, a wanton Steer  
I feed to offer, for his feast is near:  C. 
I milk two Goats; A maid in yonder Plain:  
Looked on, and sighed, dost milk thyself, poor Swain!  L. 
Ha, Laco, hah, full twenty fats can fill  
With Cheese, and hath a lovely youth at will:  C. 
The fair Calistris, as my Goats I drove,  
With Apples pelts me, and still murmurs Love:  L. 
And me smooth Cratid, when He meets me, fires;  
I burn, I rage, and am all wild desires:  C. 
Who with the Rose, whose flower the bush adorns,  
Compares the meaner beauties of the Thorns?  L. 
And who will Sloes with Damzen Plums compare?  
For those are black, and these are lovely fair:  C. 
I'll give my Dear a Dove, in yonder woods  
I'll climb, and take her down, for there she brood's:  L. 
A fleece to make a Coat, when first I sheer  
Black Rams, I will present unto my Dear:  C. 
Goats from the Olives, come and feed below,  
By this declineing bank; there Myrtles grow:  L. 
Ho, Sharp-horn, Browning, leave those hurtful weeds '  
And come and graze this way, where Colly feeds:  C. 
I have a Cypress Pail, and Cup; 'tis new,  
Well wrought, and this, my Love, I keep for you:  L. 
I have a sturdy Spock, it Woolus will seize,  
With this my Boy may hunt what Beasts He please:  C. 
You Locusts, you, that o'er my fences throng,  
Hurt not my Vines too much, for they are young:  L. 
See Grasshoppers, see how I nearly touch  
The Goatherd, Reapers you provoke as much:  C. 
I hate the brush tailed Fox, He comes at night,  
Eats Myco's Vines; and then prepares for flight:  L. 
I hate the Beetles, for they always pray  
On my Philonda's Figgs; then whisk away:  C. 
And don't you mind, when I— you know the trick—,  
You wantoned, laughed, and clung to yonder stick:  L. 
Not that: but when your Master used to bind  
And lash you there, I know; for that I mind:  C. 
He's angry, Morson: art Thou frantic Swain?  
Go gather Scylla, that will purge thy brain:  L. 
Morson, I nettle him, I vex him more,  
Swain thou art Mad, go gather Helebore:  C. 
With milk Himera, and let Crathis slow  
With purple Wine; let Figgs on Brambles grow:  L. 
Let Sybaris roll Hony, every Urn  
My Servant dips with flowing Combs return:  C. 
My Goats eat Thyme, on Figgs they freely browse,  
They walk on Flags, and lie on tender Boughs:  L. 
My Sheep eat Parsley, thro' the fields they stray,  
They crop sweet flowers, and Daisies all the day:  C. 
I love not Alcipp; (She I hoped would prove  
More kind) when I presented Her a Dove,  
She did not clasp, and kiss, and call me Love;  L. 
I love Eumedes much, I gave my Pipe,  
How sweet a kiss he gave; ah charming Lip!  C. 
Thou art contentious, Lacon, end thy strains;  
Pies should not strive with Thrushes, Owls with Swans:  Morson. 
End, Shepherd, end thy strains, and die for shame,  
For Morson says Comatas wins the Lamb:  
Go offer to the Muse, and send a Peice  
To Morson, for He claims it as his fees:  Comatas. 
I will by Pan, my Goats all leap for joy:  
And I'll frisk too, I'll leap into the Sky:  
I'll to't at Lacon, I have won the Lamb,  
Go foolish Shepherd, pine, and die for shame▪  
Frisk, Goats, and leap; in Sybaris purling spring  
I'll wash you all, and all the while I'll sing:  
Push not the Kids, you Goat, till I have done  
The Sacrifice, if you dare push but one,  
Thou shalt— how now? well, thou shalt smart for this,  
Or may Comatas, He that won the prize,  
Forget his Pipe, and lose his flock, be poor;  
And basely beg his bread at Laco's door.   

Idyllium VI.  
Damaetas and Daphnis, meeting at noon, sing; Daphnis applies his Song to Polyphemus, who was in Love with Galataea, and Damaetas in his Person answers.  
To Thomas Wyndham of Lincoln's Inn, Esquire.  
DAmaetas and the Herdsman Daphnis drove  
Their flocks to feed, and took one shady grove;  
The one was bearded, of a charming grace,  
The other young; Down clothed his lovely face;  
They sat and wantoned by a purling spring  
I'th' Middays heat; and thus began to sing;  
The lowing Herds lay round, and quenched their thirst;  
First: Daphnis sang, for He had challenged first:  Daphnis. 
Fair Galataea from the smiling deep  
With Apples, Polyphemus, pelts thy Sheep;  
(See from the shore they all with haste remove)  
And says a Goatherd's an unskilful Love:  
But you poor wretch, ah wretch! ne'er view the Maid,  
But sit, and pipe; and call to floods for aid:  
See there again, see how she pelts thy Spock,  
The faithful Dog that keeps thy wand'ring flock;  
Ha, how he barks! and in a wild amaze  
Looks o'er the flood! and whilst by shores he strays  
His shadow in the quiet water plays:  
Ah! call him back, lest when the Maid appears  
He rushes on, and her fair limbs he tears:  
But there she wantoness, she, the charming fair,  
As Down of thistles in the Summer Air;  
And driven still by an unlucky fate  
Flies those that love, and follows those that hate:  
Her ways are foolish, and in vain she tries;  
But, Polyphem, mean things do oft surprise,  
For Love is Magic, and deceives the Eyes:  Damaetas. 
And next Damaetas sang; I chanced to look,  
By Pan I did, whilst she did pelt my flock;  
She could not scape this Eye, this single one  
By which I see, and will, till Life is gone;  
Tho Tellemus foretells strange ills to come,  
Oh let him take, and keep his ills at home,  
And for his Children treasure up the Doom!  
But straightways I, to raise her flame the more,  
Seem not to see her trace the yielding shore;  
But can pretend I court another Miss;  
Then how she frets, Good God and how she dies!  
Oh with what eager hast she leaves the waves!  
My Folds she searches, and looks o'er my Caves:  
Besides, my Dog, He is at my command,  
Shall bark at her and gently bite her hand:  
For whilst she was my Love, the only she,  
He fawned, and laid his head upon her knee:  
This if I practise long, she'll strive to move,  
And send a Message to declare her Love:  
But I will shut my door, and scorn to heed,  
Unless she swears that she will grant her bed;  
For I'm not ugly, for last night I stood  
And viewed my Figure in a quiet stood;  
Let men say what they will, my face is fair,  
My Beard is fine, I'm sure; and neat my hair,  
And this one Eye, in my Opinion, rare:  
I have a set of Teeth, a finer white  
No Parian Marble boasts, a lovely sight:  
But lest she charm me, I have murmured thrice,  
Spit thrice for old Cocytto taught me this;  
She that of late in rich Hyppocoon's room  
Sat midsed the Reapers, and sang Harvest home:  
Thus sang Damaetas, and with eager joy  
Young Daphnis kissed, and clapsed the lovely Boy:  
I gave them gifts that suited with their youth,  
A Pipe, and Flute; and so I pleased them both:  
The jocund Heifers wantoned o'er the fields  
Whilst both unconquered stand, and neither yields:   

Idyllium. VII.  
Theocritus was entertained by Phrasidamus and Antigones Licop's Sons, and invited into the Country to a feast they then kept: As He was going He meets Lycidas the Cretan, and each sings of his Love.  
To Mr. Tho Curganven.  
Now Ceres feast, was come, the Corn was grown,  
When I, and dear Eumedes left the Town,  
Amyntas made a third; we all designed  
To pay a visit to a special friend,  
Rich Licop's Son, for than He kept the feast,  
And kindly bade me be a welcome guest:  
Rich Lycop's Son, the glory of the Plains,  
For generous blood runs thro' his noble veins;  
From Chalco down it came, the brave, the bold,  
And gathered still fresh honours as it rolled.  
From Chalco down, That He, by whose command  
The Bourian spring o' reflows the fruitful Land,  
Around it Daisies grow, and all above  
Tall Poplars spread, and make a shady Grove:  
Scarce had we gone thro' half the neighbouring Plain,  
By Brasil's Tomb we met a museing Swain:  
His name was Lycidas, the gay the young,  
A Cretan born, and famed for Rural Song:  
Soon as we saw him, He by all was known  
To be a Goatherd, for He looked like one:  
For o'er his shoulders hairy skins were spread,  
They smelled as newly tanned, or newly flayed;  
A tattered Mantle o'er his breast was cast,  
And tied with an old girdle to his waist;  
His right hand with a knotty Crab was filled;  
He looked on me, and as he looked, he smiled:  
Gay, vigorous, sweet, and in the pride of youth,  
And as he spoke a smile sat on his mouth:  
Where, Smichidas, where now at burning Noon,  
What urgent business makes Thee leave the Town?  
Whilst bleating flocks do seek the shades and cool,  
And every Lizzard creeps into his hole?  
What feast invites, or now I view your dress,  
Who treads his Grapes, and calls you to the press?  
Hark how at every step, you walk so fast,  
The Stones resound, and tell you are in haste:  
And I replied; dear glory of the Plains  
How great, how just a praise commends thy strains?  
Dear skilful Piper, Fame does loudly tell  
That you the Reapers, and the Swains excel,  
I'm glad on't, though I think I pipe as well.  
We go to Ceres' feast, this way we bend,  
And make a visit to a special friend,  
He keeps it now, for she hath thronged his floor;  
And pays the early tributes of his store:  
But since we walk one way, since time persuades,  
And we are far removed from gloomy shades;  
Let's Pipe, and wanton as we walk along,  
For we may please each other with a Song:  
For I can sing, and by our flattering Youth  
I'm praised, and called the charming Muses mouth;  
They say I pipe the best, and would deceive  
By praise; but I'm not easy to believe:  
My Songs are mean, my Pipe claims no repute  
Compared to Scelis or Phileta's Flute;  
They me, and thus convince the flattering vogue,  
As Locusts tunes excel the croaking Frog:  
Thus I designdly; then He smiled, and said,  
What glories, Smichidas, adorn thy head?  
Here take this Club, this token of my Love,  
'Tis justly thine, thou care of mighty Jove:  
I hate the Mason, that, to boast his skill,  
Would raise a house to equal yonder hill:  
And those that rival the Sicilian Swain,  
I hate as much, and think their hopes as vain:  
But come, let's sing the Song I lately made,  
My Goats fed round, and wantoned as I played;  
See if you like it; it hath pleased the Swains,  
And sounds the best and newest of the Plains:  
Kind breathing Gales to Mitylenian shores  
Shall waste my Agis, Nymphs shall guide his Oars;  
Tho rainy South-winds angry Waves do raise,  
And rough Orion steps into the Seas;  
Oh would he ease my pains, give just returns,  
And Love for Love, for him the Goatherd burns:  
Let Halcyons smooth the Seas, the Storms allay  
And skim the floods before him all the way:  
The Nymphs loved bird, of all that haunt the flood,  
Skim o'er the Waves, and dive for swimming food:  
Let my dear Agis, cut the angry Tide,  
And reach his Port, and there securely ride;  
For then with Violets or with Roses crowned  
I'll sport a Glass, and see his Health go round;  
I'll tossed my Beans, to raise palled Appetite.  
Make me drink on, and lengthen the Delight:  
Whilst stretched on Beds I'll spend my easy hours,  
And roll, till I have lost myself in flowers:  
Then to his Health I'll sport a lusty Bowl,  
And pour Dear Agis Love into my Soul:  
Two Swains shall Pipe, the best of all the youth,  
And skilful Richard's voice shall join with both,  
How Herdsman Daphnis did for Xenea burn,  
Trace o'er the Woods, complaining of her scorn:  
How Groves, and Echoes to his groans replied,  
And smooth Himera murmured when He died:  
For He, as Snow when Summer heats the Grove  
Of Aetna, melted by the flame of Love:  
And how when force weak Innocence oppressed,  
The Swain was shut alive into a Chest.  
And how the labouring Bees in every Plain  
Forsook their flowers, and buzzed about the Swain,  
Because the Muse had filled his charming mouth  
With Nectar, and preserved the pious youth:  
Happy Comatas, happy thou, the blessed  
And wondrous darling at the Muse's feast;  
Full twelve months nourished by the labouring Bee,  
Oh had I then been born and lived with Thee!  
Then had I fed thy flock, and heard thy Pipe,  
Paid with a tune, and hung upon thy Lip;  
Whilst by a shady Tree, or purling spring  
Divine Comatas, thou shouldst sit and sing:  
Thus He, than I, dear Swain, whilst o'er the hill  
I drove the Herds, the Muse improved my skill,  
Sweet tunes she taught, which same hath raised above,  
And bore on high to please the Ears of Jove:  
But this is choicest which I'll now produce  
To pleasure Thee, Thou darling of the Muse.  
Love sneezed on Smichid, for He Myrto loves  
As much as Goats the Spring, or Swains the Groves:  
Aratus too his dearest friend and joy,  
His dear Aratus deeply loves the Boy:  
And this sweet Acis knows, the gay, the young;  
Acis, a theme for great Apollo's Song:  
He knows how dear Aratus loves, he knows  
How great his flame, and how his passion grows:  
Pan, green Homala's Guardian, move the coy  
The soft Philinus; and inflame the Boy;  
Grown wanton, gay, and lavish of his Charms,  
Uncalled for let him fly into his Arms:  
Ye smiling Loves, fair Venus soft delight,  
Like ruddy Apples pleasing to the sight,  
Leave Bybli's fountain, leave her purling streams  
That scorch the fields with her forbidden flames,  
And shoot Philinus, wound his stubborn mind,  
Shoot; for he hath no pity for his friend;  
Tho soft as Parsley, tender as the Vine,  
And oh that he would clasp his Arms in mine!  
Mean while the women cry, and shake their heads  
Ah! ah! Philinus, ah thy Beauty fades!  
But dear Aratus let's endure no more  
Forget our Love, and fly the hated door:  
And when the Cock calls forth the morning beams,  
Let broken slumbers mixed with frightful dreams  
Disturb his thoughts, and by the neighbouring gate  
Ah! let him hang, and none bewail the Fate:  
Let us mind rest, and let's provide a charm  
To keep us safe, and free from future harm:  
Thes'e Songs we sung, and with a cheerful smile  
His Crook he gave me, to reward my skill;  
Take it, He said, 'tis mean, yet don't refuse,  
It is a pledge of friendship from a Muse:  
This said we parted, for invain we pressed  
We could not force him to the promised feast:  
There Lycop's son, and all his friends around  
With sweet Amyntas sat with Roses crowned:  
We lay, we wantoned on a flowery bed,  
Where fragrant Mastic, and where Vines were spread,  
And round us Poplars raised their shady head:  
Just by a spring with pleasing Murmurs flowed,  
In every bush, and thicket of the wood  
Sweet Infects sang, and sighing Turtles could.  
The labouring Bees buzzed round the purling spring,  
Their Honey gathered, and forgot their sting:  
Sweet Summer's choicest fruits, and Autum's pride  
Pears by our head, and Apples by our side  
Lay round in heaps; and loaden Plums did stand  
With bending boughs, to meet the reaching hand:  
To please us more he pierced a Cask of Wine,  
'twas four years old, and from a noble Vine;  
Castalian Nymphs, ye Nymphs that still reside  
On steep Parnassus, and command his pride,  
Did e'er old Chiron, did he ere produce  
For great Alcides such rich Bowls of juice?  
Did Polyphem the vast Sicilian Swain,  
That darted mountains o'er the frighted main,  
Drink Wine like this, did e'er such Bowls advance  
His Lovesick thoughts, and raise him to a dance?  
As than you gladly mixed to every guest,  
And poured on Cere's Altars at her feast?  
Oh may she often fill the fruitful Plain,  
And may I tread the Reeks, and fix the Fan;  
Whilst joyful she with smiles just thanks receives,  
And holds in either hand full bending Sheaves.   

Idyllium VIII.  
Daphnis and Menalcas sing for a Wager, a Goatherd is chosen Judge, who determines Daphnis his Song to be the best.  
To Richard Hicks of the Mid. T. Esquire.  
THE Herdsman Daphnis walking o'er the Plain  
The gay Menalcas met, a Shepherd Swain;  
Both yellow locks adorned, and both were young,  
Both rarely piped; and both divinely sung;  
Then first Menalcas raised his lovely head,  
And spoke, and smiled on Daphnis as he said;  M. 
Come, Herdsman Daphnis will you pipe with me,  
I vow I'm sure that I can conquer Thee;  
I'm sure I can excel Thee as I will:  D. 
And Daphnis thus replied; You boast your skill  
Menalcas, but I'm sure you can't excel,  
For pipe until you burst I pipe as well:  M. 
And shall we try?  D. 
Yes Swain, I know my skill;  M. 
And will you lay a wager?  D. 
Yes I will:  M. 
What will you lay, what equal to our fame?  D. 
I'll stake a Calf, you stake a fullgrown Lamb:  M. 
I cannot stake a Lamb, for should I lose,  
My Father's jealous, and my Mother cross;  
These watch, They know how many Lambs I keep,  
Both count my Lambs at night, and one my Sheep;  D. 
What then? and what shall He that conquers, gain?  M. 
I have a Pipe, 'tis new, of sounding Cane,  
Waxed at both ends, and though I'll stake no prize  
That is my Father's, yet I'll venture this:  D. 
And I have one, white Wax both ends secures  
It sounds as well, and is as new as yours:  
For when I made it, as I cloven the Reeds  
One pricked me, look even now my Finger bleeds;  
But since we venture, since such Pipes we lay  
Wha● Man shall judge, and who shall hear us play?  M. 
We'el call that Goatherd, look, the Swain is near,  
Our Dog barks at him, He perhaps will hear:  
The Sheapherds called, the Goatherd straight obeyed,  
The Goatherd judged, and thus the Sheapherds played:  
Menalcas first, than Daphnis tuned his Cane,  
By turns they sang, Menalcas first began:  M. 
Ye Vales, ye Springs that flow from distant Seas,  
If e'er the sweet Menalcas Songs did please,  
Then feed my Lambs, if Daphnis drives his Kine  
To graze them here, feed his as well as mine:  D. 
Ye Herbs and Flowers, ye glory of the Vales,  
If Daphnis songs are sweet as Nightingales  
Then feed my Herds; if thro' the flowery Mead  
Menalcas drives, then let his Lambs be fed:  M. 
There Pastures flourish, there the Duggs do fill,  
The Lambs are suckled, and the Sheapherds smile  
Where my Boy comes, but when He leaves the place  
The Shepherd wither's o'er the fading Grass:  D. 
There Sheep, there Goats bear twins, there labouring Bees  
Do fill their Hives, and there rise prouder Trees,  
Where Milo Treads, but when He leaves the place,  
The Herdsman withers, and the Herd decays:  M. 
O Goat, the white Kid's husband, stately Oaks,  
O flat-nosed Kids make haste to purling Brooks  
For there He is, Go, let the Boy be showed  
That Proteus fed his Sea Calves, though a God:  D. 
Not Pelops land, not heaps of Gold refined  
I wish, nor swiftness to outstrip the Wind,  
But let me fit and sing by yonder Rock,  
Clasp thee my Dear, and view my feeding flock:  M. 
Rough storms to Trees, to Birds the treacherous Snare,  
Are frightful evils, Springs to the Hare;  
Soft Virgins love to man; Oh mighty Jove,  
Not I alone, but Thou hast stooped to Love:  
Thus sang the youths by turns, and pleased the Swain,  
And thus Menalcas the last part began,  M. 
Woolf spare my Lambs, and let them safely bleat▪  
For I am little, and my fold is great;  
How, Whitefoot, how so soon, so fast asleep;  
Is this your care, do you thus watch my Sheep?  
I faith you shall not sleep when one so young  
As I, is Shepherd; and engaged in Song:  
But feed dear flock, and crop the flowery plain,  
Feed, never fear, the Grass will grow again:  
Fill well your duggs, that when Night spreads her veil  
The Lambs may suck; and I may fill my Pail:  
And next fair Daphnis sang—  D. 
And as I drove my Herd, a lovely Maid  
Stood peeping from a Cave; She smiled, and said,  
Daphnis is lovely, ah a lovely youth;  
What smiles, what Graces sit upon his mouth!  
I made no sharp returns, but hung my head,  
And went my way, yet pleased with what she said:  
Winds sweetly murmur; The Steer sweetly lows,  
Sweet is the Heifers voice, and sweet the Cows:  
'tis sweet to lie in shades by purling streams  
In Summer's heat; dissolved in easy dreams:  
Acorns the Oaks, and Grass commends the Plain,  
Fat Calves do grace the Cows, and Cows the Swain:  
Thus sang the youths, and thus the Goatherd said;  Goatherd. 
Sweet is thy voice, and sweet the tunes you played  
Fair Daphnis, thro' my Ears thy Songs have past  
Sweet to the Mind, as Honey to the Taste:  
And if you'll teach me, if instruct the Swain,  
That Goat is thine, it shall reward thy pain;  
See how her Udder swells, it ne'er will fail,  
And every night it fills my largest Pail:  
The Boy rejoiced, He leapt with youthful heat,  
As sucking Colts leap when they swig the Teat:  
The other grieved, he hung his bashful head  
As married Virgins when first laid to bed:  
Thus Daphnis lived the glory of the Plains,  
Was thought the best, and loved by all the Swains:  
And to complete the happiness of life  
The lovely Nais blest him in a Wife.   

Idyllium IX.  
A Shepherd invites Daphnis and Menalcas to sing, they pleasure him, and he rewards them both.  
To his Chum Tho. Lydgould, M.A. of Wadham. Col●.  
SIng, Daphnis, sing; begin the rural lay,  
Begin sweet Daphnis; next Menalcas play:  
Mix Calves and Heifers, join the Bulls and Cows,  
And let them feed, and wanton in the boughs.  
Whilst you begin, begin the rural strain,  
And next Menalcas sing, and cheer the Swain:  D. 
Sweet is the Heifers sound, and sweet the ●ine,  
Sweet is the Pipe's, the Swain's, and sweet is mine;  
By purling streams I have a shady bed,  
And o'er white Heifers skins are neatly spread,  
Ah careless Herd! they from a Mountain's side  
Ah cruel storm! were blown, they fell, they died:  
And there I value Summer's burning heats  
No more than Lovers do their Father's threats;  
Their Mother's kind complaints, or friends advice:  
This Daphnis sang, and next Menalcas this:  M. 
Me Aetna bred, to me she kindly gave  
Midst hollow Rocks a large and shady Cave:  
I live by pleasant Brooks, and purling Streams,  
And have as much as e'er you saw in dreams:  
By me a thousand Goats, and flocks are fed,  
And Wool lies round my feet, and round my head:  
Soft Chitterlings afford me pleasing food,  
And when the Winter comes I'm stored with wood;  
So that I value Cold no more, not I,  
Than toothless Men do Nuts, when pulse is by:  
I clapped them both, to both rewards I threw,  
A Club that in my Father's Meadow grew  
To Daphnis, rude as from the Woods it fell,  
And yet scarce Art could shape a thing so well:  
Then next Menalcas did a shell receive,  
The flesh divided was enough for five,  
Caught in th' Icarian flood, He took the Shell,  
And smiled as pleased; and liked the present well:  
Hail rural Muses, hail, produce the strains,  
Which once I sang, and pleased the listening Swains:  
I'll boldly sing, nor midst my wondrous Song  
Shall blisters rise, and gall my boasting tongue;  
The Hawks to Hawks are friends, to Ewes the Ewes,  
To Larks the Larks are friends, to Me the Muse;  
Oh may I hear them still! The weary sleep,  
The Spring the Ploughman, shady Plains the sheep,  
Smooth Streams, and rising flowers the labouring Bee  
Delight not half so much, as Muses Me;  
On whom they look and smile, secure they prove  
Famed Circe's Cup; nor fear the force of Love.   

Idyllium X.  
Battus not reaping as fast as he was wont, Milo asks him the reason, Battus confesseth it was Love, and sings a Song in praise of his Sweetheart.  
To my Chum Mr. Hody of Wadham College.  Milo. 
AH labouring Reaper, Wretch! what ails thee now!  
Thou canst not reap as thou wert wont to do;  
Nor yet so fast; look, He hath raised a Cock:  
You lag, as Sheep, when pricked, behind the flock:  
What wilt Thou do, poor wretch, before 'tis Noon,  
What wilt Thou do e'er shady Night comes on  
Since, ere one land is cut, you fail so soon?  B. 
Ah Milo! thou canst hold out all the day,  
But I'm grown weak; ah piece of flinty clay!  
Didst thou ne'er wish for One that was away?  M. 
Not I, for what have I that work for food  
To do with Love? He is an Idle God;  
Forget thy lazy thoughts, soft cares remove,  B. 
Then, Milo, did you never wake for Love?  M. 
And may it never, never break my sleep,  
For Dogs, once blooded, always run at Sheep:  B. 
But I have loved these ten long days, or more;  M. 
A wealthy Man, enjoy thy fancied store,  
I am, and am contented to be poor:  B. 
Hence 'tis that I'm o'errun with lazy ease,  
My Fields neglected, and my Ploughs displease,  M. 
But who thus wounds thee?  B. 
Moll, the brisk the gay,  
She sung our Song, and was our Queen of May,  M. 
Faith rightly served, pursue thy vain delight,  
How that old Fly shall clasp thee all the Night!  B. 
You flout; not only Pluto's Eyes are lost;  
But vexing Love's; forbear, rude Swain, to boast:  M. 
I do not boast, but lay thy handful down,  
Throw by thy hook▪ unbend thy gathered frown,  
And sing, (for you could sing) thy slender fair,  
'twill ease thy labour, and divert thy care.  Battus. 
With me, sweet Muse, the slender Maid rehearse,  
For all looks fair that you adorn with Verse:  
Bombyce charming, Sunburnt, ghastly thin  
You seem to many Eyes, but Brown to mine  
The lettered Daffadil, and Vi'let's brown,  
Yet those are chiefest Graces of a Crown:  
The Goats their thyme, the Woolves the Goats pursue,  
The Crane the Plough; and I am mad for you:  
Oh had I Croesus' store, than both should shine,  
Two golden Statues fixed in Venus' Shrine;  
Thy Hand should grace an Apple, Harp, or Rose,  
And me a danceing garb, and gaudy shows,  
Bombyce charming; oh wouldst Thou be kind!  
How sweet thy voice! but who can tell thy Mind?  Milo. 
Ha, we ne'er knew the value of the Swain,  
How well he Measures, how he tunes his Strain!  
Ha! no more sense, and yet thy beard so long!  
But stay, and hear the sweet Lytersa's Song.  
O fruitful Ceres bless this thriving Crop,  
Increase, and make it larger than our Hope;  
Ye Reapers bind the Sheaves, lest some should say  
Ah lazy drones, they don't deserve their pay;  
Or to the North your Cocks, ye Reapers rear  
Or to the South, those Winds increase the Ear:  
Ye Clowns that winnow never sleep at noon  
For then the Chaff is loose, and quickly gone:  
Reapers should rise with Larks, and sleep when They  
To Roost retire, but bear the heat all day:  
Frogs Lives, my boys, are blest, for midst their Pool  
They never want, their Cup is always full:  
Boyl, Steward, boil them whole, such pinching's mean:  
You'll cut your hand whilst you divide a Bean:  
Such Songs should Reapers sing that toil, and sweat,  
That work at Noon, and bear the burning Heat,  
But starveing Love should never vex thy head,  
Such tales will bring Thee to a bit of bread,  
Tales for thy Mother, as She lies a bed.   

Idyllium XI.  
He writes to a Physician, and tells him that the Muses are the only Remedy for Love, which he proves by the example of Polyphemus.  
To Dr. Pitt of Wadham College.  
IN vain, Learned Sir, invain is all your Art,  
There is no Physic for a wounded heart;  
No Herb can ease, no Salve the Pain remove,  
There is no cure for the disease of Love  
Beside the Muses; Those are soft and sweet,  
And pleasing Medicines, but are hard to get:  
This, Sir, you know whose skill is next divine  
In Physic; you, the darling of the Nine:  
Thus Polyphem found ease, the gay the young,  
He cured his raging Passion by a Song:  
No mean degree of Love his breast did fire,  
He was all fury, rage, and wild desire;  
This single passion did his mind control,  
And was the only business of his Soul:  
Oft did his Sheep his former chief delight,  
From Pastures fed return alone at night:  
Whilst on the Sedgy shore the Cyclops lay,  
And singing Galatea pined away:  
From Morn till Night, for Venus' powerful Dart  
Had galled his Liver, and had pierced his heart.  
And yet He found a cure, on Rocks He stood,  
And thus he sang, as he looked o'er the stood:  
Fair Maid, and why dost thou thy Love despise?  
More white than Curds, and pleasing to my Eyes;  
More soft than Lambs, more wanton than a Steer,  
Yet harsh as Grapes unripe, and as severe:  
You come when pleasing sleep hath sealed my Eye,  
When pleasing sleep unseals you quickly fly,  
You fly with eager haste, as fearful Lambs  
From ravening Woolves run bleating to their Dams:  
I loved Thee Nymph, I loved e'er since you came.  
To pluck our Flowers, from thence I date my flame:  
My Eye did then my feeble heart betray,  
I know the minute of the fatal day,  
My Mother led you, and I showed the way:  
Then when I looked, and ever since I burn,  
I must Love on despairing a return:  
The cause of all thy hate, dear Nymph, I know,  
One large wide Gap spreads cross my hairy Brow  
From Ear to Ear, one Eye doth singly grace,  
My Nose is flat, and even to my face:  
Yet I, that ugly I, whom you refuse  
Feed thousand Goats, and milk ten thousand Ewes,  
These give me drink, and Cheeses all the year,  
See round my Cave my loaden Shelves appear,  
And bend beneath the weighty heaps they bear.  
Besides, I live the joy of all the Plain,  
No Cyclops can pretend so sweet a strain,  
thou, thou, dear Nymph, with Thee myself I sing,  
Till Midnight's past, and Morning spreads her Wing:  
Ten Cubs, I forced them from an angry Bear,  
Ten Does I keep; and all to please my Dear;  
Come live with Me, and I sincerely vow  
That your condition shan't be worse than now;  
Forsake the Ocean, leave the angry Sea,  
'tis better sleeping in my Cave with Me,  
There Laurels grow, and there black Ivy twines,  
And blushing Clusters load the bended Vines:  
There are cold streams which from the melting Snow  
Hot Aetna sends, a drink divine, below:  
There all things are by Nature formed to please,  
And who before all this would choose the Seas?  
But grant that I'm deformed, unseemly rough,  
Yet I am rich, and I have Wood enough,  
A constant blazeing flame still heats my Cave,  

* I follow Heinsius.  Tho by this Eye, the dearest thing I have,  
I want no outward heat, the fierce desire  
That burns my Breast, is a sufficient fire;  
Ah me! unhappy me, how Fate prevails!  
Oh me! Had I been born with sins and scales,  
That I might dive to you, cut thro' the Deep,  
And kiss your Hand, if you refuse your Lip;  
Then would I Lilies white, and Roses bring,  
And all the gaudy glories of the Spring,  
With Poppies blushing leaves, though these do grow  
In Summer's heat, and those in frost and snow:  
Well, well, I●le learn to swim, next nimble Oars  
That set a Seamen on our fruitful Shores  
Shall teach me how to dive, that I may know  
What pleasure 'tis you take in Waves below:  
Come forth, fair Nymph, come forth, and leave the main,  
And (as I now) ne'er mind thy home again,  
But feed the Flocks with me, or milk the Sheep,  
Or run the Cheese, and never mind the Deep:  
My Mother's cross, her just Complaints pursue,  
For she ne'er spoke of me kind things to you,  
Alltho she knew my grief, saw every day  
How much I wasted, how I pined away:  
I'll tell, to fright her, that my head, my thigh  
Are pained: that she might grieve as well as I:  
O Cyclops, Cyclops, are thy senses flown!  
Is all thy former wit, and virtue gone?  
Go wreath thy Baskets, cut the tender boughs  
To feed the Lambs, and milk the burdened Cows,  
Go mind thy Harvest work, for that will prove  
Thy Wisdom greater than this whining Love:  
Take those that offer, and the proud despise,  
The willing Love, and scorn the Maid that flies:  
Come leave this fooling, leave this dull despair,  
Another Virgin thou shalt find as fair;  
For many Maids invite me still to play,  
And titter all, as pleased, when I obey:  
Sure I am somewhat, they my worth can see,  
And I myself will now grow proud of Me:  
‛ Thus Polyphemus cured his strong disease,  
His Songs tamed Love, and gave more certain ease,  
Than if He had implored the Doctor's skill,  
And with just fees bought your unerring Bill.   

Idyllium. XII.  
A Welcome to a Friend.  
To Mr. Edward Eton.  
YOU come dear youth, now three long days are gone,  
You come; But Lovers do grow old in one;  
As much as Spring excels the Frost and Snow,  
As much as Plums are sweeter than a Slow,  
As much as Ewes are thicker fleeced than Lambs,  
As much as Maids excel thrice married Dames:  
As much as Colts are nimbler than a Steer,  
As much as Thrushes please the listening ear  
More than the meaner Songsters of the Air;  
So much thy presence cheers; behold, I run,  
As Travellers to the shade at burning Noon:  
Oh may an equal flame our hearts engage,  
And let us live in Songs thro' future Age!  
Two youths were once with mutual bands confined,  
The one was generous, and the other kind:  
Their Love was equal; those were golden Men,  
When He that was beloved did love again:  
Grant ye Immortal Powers, grant mighty Jove,  
Grant this once more, increase these bands of Love;  
When future Ages shall in order flow  
Let some descend, and tell my shade below,  
Thy Love, thy Lover's kindness, Faith and Truth,  
Are praised by All, but chiefly by the youth:  
But this I leave to Heaven's indulgent care,  
For Heaven can grant, or can reject my Prayer.  
Yet Thee I'll sing; Thee sweet, nor midst my Song  
Shall tell-tale Blisters rise, and gall my Tongue:  
The little pains you raised were kindly meant,  
Your healing Love did all the smart prevent;  
And I departed fraught with good content:  
Brave Megarensians famed for nimble Oars,  
May Peace flow in, and plenty crown your Shores,  
The Honours you bestow on Diocles,  
That constant Friend and Lover, claim no less;  
At his famed Tomb each year the boys contend  
Which kisses softest, which best loves his friend,  
And He that kisses sweetest wins the praise,  
And runs to his glad Mother crowned with bays:  
Happy the Man that must bestow the prize,  
Thrice happy He that judges of the Kiss!  
Fair Ganymed that makes the Thunderer bow,  
Whose smiles can calm, and smooth his angry brow,  
Alloy his fury and his rage command  
And stop his lightning in his lifted hand;  
Had such a Lip (or Fame hath often lied,  
And Fame errs seldom on the better side)  
That like a Touchstone tried the proffered joy,  
And could discern true Gold from base alloy.   

Idyllium XIII.  
He writes to his friend, a Physician, and tells him that Love conquers the greatest Heroes, which He proves from the story of Hercules and Hylas.  
To Mr. William Gould M.B. of Wadham College.  
LOve, Love, dear Friend, what e'er we think 'tis true,  
Was not designed for only such as you;  
Nor do the Charms of Beauty strike alone  
Us Mortals, seen to day, to morrow gone;  
But Hercules that Son of mighty Jove,  
That bore the Lion's fury. stooped to Love:  
Tho rough his mind appeared, though steeled to joy  
He Hylas clasped, and loved the charming Boy:  
He taught him as a Father would a Son,  
To virtuous actions still He led him on:  
They never parted, nor at noon, nor night,  
Nor when the Morn's white Horse draws forth the light,  
Nor when the callow Birds lie down to rest,  
And careful old Ones flutter o'er the Nest:  
That still instructing as He once began,  
He might be wrought into a worthy Man:  
But when stout Jason with the youths of Greece  
To Colchos sailed, their prize the Golden Fleece:  
When he had gathered all the Sons of fame  
That could assist, the great Alcides came  
To fair Jolcos', Argo's chiefest freight;  
Young Hylas too. the Ship scarce felt his weight:  
She, swift as Eagles, plied her nimble Oars,  
And safely scap't the rough Cyanean Shores.  
Which used to meet, and stave the Ships that past,  
But now are fixed, on firm foundations placed:  
When Summer came, and when the tender Lambs  
Began to feed on Grass, and leave their Dams,  
The noble Hero's, blest with Southern Gales,  
Thro Hellespont did spread their swelling Sails:  
Thro the Propontis they did swiftly row,  
Where stout Cyanean Oxen wear the Blow:  
And landing there as shady Night came on  
And called to eat, they sat in order down:  
Soft Turfs were raised, and each possessed his place,  
The Plain was large and gave them Beds of Grass.  
The charming Hylas, quick as the command,  
A brazen Vessel graced his lovely hand,  
Ran o'er the Field to see what Springs afford,  
And fetch some Fountain water for his Lord;  
His Lord, and Telamonius his constant guest,  
One Table always joined them a feast:  
Just by, a murmuring Spring crept o'er the ground,  
The Banks with Vervine, and with Parsley crowned,  
Within, the Nymphs, the Ladies of the Plains,  
The watchful Nymphs that dance, and fright the Swains:  
Eunica, Malis, and their chiefest grace  
Nicoea, Spring still opens in her face:  
This Hylas saw, his Cup let gently down,  
Well pleased that He could serve his Lord so soon;  
But straight the Nymphs, (for Love had dived below;  
Their tender hearts did midst the Water glow,  
The Boys fair Eyes had darted warm desire,  
And thro' the Waves had raised a fatal Fire:)  
Seized on his hand, he fell, as soret from Clouds  
A falling Star shoots down to under Floods:  
Meanwhile the Boat Swain cries, Mates spread the sails  
The Wind's at Stern, and we have prosperous gales:  
The Nymphs danced Hylas, Kisses dried his Tears,  
And Comforts were applied to ease his Fears:  
But vexed Alcides, Care with Anger strove,  
And tore his Breast, resolved to find his Love,  
His left hand graced a Bow of fatal Ewe,  
Death winged and pointed every Dart that flew;  
His right a knotty Club did well command,  
That constant grace and terror of his hand;  
Thrice did He Hylas call, and thrice He mourned,  
Thrice Hylas heard the voice, and thrice returned:  
But small the sound which thro' the Waves did rise,  
Tho near, far off he seemed; so weak the cries:  
As shaggy Lions fierce by Hunger grown,  
That hear a Kid or Lamb kin bleat alone,  
Start from their Den, and lash their angry Breast,  
And fiercely run to take their easy feast:  
So He thro' thorny paths did wildly rove,  
As mad and furious for his perished Love:  
Mean while the Ship was rig'd, the Winds were fair  
And sails were spread, but no Alcides near;  
He far removed did rove thro' Paths untrod  
For Love had galled his breast, a cruel God:  
Hence Hylas grew a God, and graced a shrine,  
His Love and Beauty made him half divine;  
Mean while the Heroes fired with martial rage  
Alcides blamed as fearful to engage,  
It argued not his Love, but proved his fear  
To leave the Ship, and so decline the War;  
But he on foot to barbarous Phasis came,  
And noble actions soon redeemed his Fame.   

Idyllium XIV.  
Eschines being scorned by Cunisca, who had a greater kindness for one Wolf, resolves to turn Soldier; His Friend Thynichus advises him to serve King Ptolemy.  
To his Friend and Tutor Mr. Balch of Wadham Coll.  E. 
GOod morrow Thynicus.  T. 
The like to you;  E. 
But why so late?  T. 
So late? What ails thee now?  E. 
All is not well:  T. 
I see't, you look so thin,  
Your Face not washed, your Beard spread o'er your Chin, now?  
Your Eyebrows thick, last night I chanced to view  
● Poor Phythagorist, and He looked like you:  
●●●le, barefoot, an Athenian, as He said,  
But, saith, He looked as if on Meal He fed:  E. 
You joque; But fair Cunisca scorns my Love,  
And as her hatred so my flames improve,  
And th● perhaps I no such heats betrayed  
Yet I'm wit●in an Inch of stareing mad:  T. 
You still were passionate, you still pursue  
What your perverse desire hath once in view,  
But prithee tell me what disturbs anew:  E. 
Tom, Wil●, an● Dick, and I, a jovial Crew,  
Not minding Fate that did too close pursue,  
Drank at my House, the Glass went briskly round,  
Our hearts were merry, and each head was crowned;  
I made them welcome, got the best I could,  
A sucking Pig, two Chicken, Country food,  
And, though I say't myself, my Wine was good:  
'twas four years old, yet mild, I vow 'tis true,  
With Borage mixed it drank as well as new:  
At last we voted each should crown a Glass  
What Health he pleased, but name whose health it was;  
We drank, and hallooed, She mute all the while  
And sullen sat, without one word or smile;  
How was I vexed to find a change so soon?  
What Mute? what have you seen a 
* Alludcing to the common saying.  Wolf says one?  
At that she slusht, her guilty colour rose,  
That you might light a Candle at her Nose:  
There's Wolf, there's Wolf, my Neighbour Labia's Son,  
Tall, slender, and the beauty of the Town:  
For him she burns, and sighs, and sighs again,  
And this I heard, but loath to find my pain,  
I let it lie, and grew a Man invain:  
When we were heated well, and slusht with Win●,  
One sang a Song of Woolf, a cursed design,  
For straight Cunisca wept at the surprise,  
And soon betrayed her passion at her Eyes;  
She wept as wanton Girls that leave their Pap,  
And would be dandled on their Mother's Lap:  
Then I, you know me, vexed at this disdain;  
Fled at her, struck, and swore, and kicked again;  
She rose; Oh Mischief! can I please no more?  
Have you another Sweetheart? Out you Whore;  
Must you do this now to confirm my fears?  
Go to him, toy, and court him with your tears:  
As swift as Swallows sweeping o'er the Plain,  
To catch their young a fly, with nimble pain,  
Catch one, then feed, and straight return again;  
So quick she left her Seat, so swift her haste,  
So soon she thro' the Hall and Parlour past,  
I scarce could see her move, she went so fast:  
Now twenty days, and ten, and nine, and eight,  
And one, and two are past; two months complete;  
Yet still we differ, nor in all this space  
Have I shaved once, regardless of my face:  
But she is wolf's, and wolf's her chief delight,  
For him she will unlock the Gate at night,  
But I am scorned, I can't be looked upon,  
Sh●e'l scarce vouschase the favour of a f●own:  
And yet, Dear friend, could I but break the chain  
And hate her once, all would be well again,  
But as the Proverb says, the heedless Mouse  
Hath bitten Pitch, and how shall he get loose?  
What Physic can these vexing Pains remove!  
I know no Cure for the disease of Love,  
Yet Dick, my friend, that equal pains endured  
For Betty, travelled, and was quickly cured:  
And saith I'll travel too, I scorn to boast  
My Courage, yet I think I'm stout as Most:  T. 
I wish Thou hadst enjoyed thy just desire,  
And gained thy Love; But if Thou wilt retire  
Serve Ptolemy, for He'll reward thy pain,  
Believe't, He loves a stout and honest Man;  E. 
What other Virtues!  T. 
Oh the greatest Mind,  
The sweetest: temper, Generous, and Kind,  
He marks his friend, but more he marks his foe,  
His hand is always open to bestow:  
Petition modestly He grants the thing,  
And freely gives as it becomes a King;  
And therefore, Lover, if you bravely dare  
To tie your Snapsack on, and go to War,  
If Thou canst keep thy Post, and stand thy ground,  
And throw back on thy foe the coming wound,  
To Egypt haste, make haste, ere youth decays,  
First from our Temple's Age begins her race,  
Thence whitening Time creeps softly o'er the face:  
Go on whilst youth is Green, and strength dost last,  
For when old Age draws nigh, the Time is past.   

Idyllium XV.  
Two tattling Gossips go to see the Pomp at Adonis 's Feast, prepared by Arsinoe Ptolemy Philadelphus 's Queen; The humours of the Women he hits exactly; intermixes some praises of the King, and describes the Glory of the Pomp to gratify the Queen.  
The Persons are Gorgo, Eunoe, Praxinoe, Nurse, Stranger and Mother.  
To Mr. Rice Williams of Wadham Coll.  G. 
SWeetheart, is my Praxinoe at home?  E. 
She is dear Gorgo, but how late you come?  P. 
I scarce expected you, and sat alone,  
A Chair and Cushion,  E 
Ready:  P. 
Pray sit down:  G. 
Ah me, I scarce could get alive along  
So close the people press, so great the throng;  
Coaches thro' every Street, and Liveries shine;  
Beside your dwelling is so far from mine:  P. 
Yes, my cross Sot must leave his former Seat,  
And on the edge of th' World choose this retreat,  
More like a filthy Cave than like a House,  
And this he does, kind heart, to separate us,  
My constant plague, and my continual cross.  G. 
Soft words, pray Madam, soft, see here's your Son,  
Look how he eyes you, and begins to frown:  P. 
Cheer up my Child, I did not mean thy Dad,  N. 
He understands her, he's a pretry Lad:  P. 
He went last night, (old faults are all forgot,)  
To buy some Soap, and what d' ye think he bought?  
Bay Salt, longsided Fool, dull Booby Sot:  G. 
Ah me, and mine's as bad, a squandring fool,  
Last Market day he went to cheapen Wool,  
And there five Fleeces for five Crowns he bought,  
All coathed Sheep's Wool, mere dirt, not worth a Groat:  
But take your Hood and Scarf, and pray let's go,  
Let's hast to Court, for there's a gaudy show:  
Adonis Feast, and as I lately heard  
Our Royal Queen hath glorious sights prepared:  P. 
Great Folks have all things fine, but pray now tell  
What you, for I saw nought, or nought so well:  G. 
Another day, but now the minute calls,  
We that have nought to do have time for tales:  P. 
Maid, Water quickly, faith I'll break your head,  
Go set it down; These Cats so love a bed,  
Drive them away, they'll spoil my Cloth of State,  
But first the Water, there's most need of that:  
See how she speeds! come pour: but why so soon?  
A little more: what makes you wet my Gown?  
Well, now I'm fairly washed the Gods be blest,  
But bring me straight the Key of my great Chest:  G. 
This Mantoe sits extremely well, I vow,  
What prise the Stuff? pray Madam let me know:  P. 
It cost me twenty Shillings half a Crown,  
'twas dear, beside the work was all my own:  G. 
'tis rare;  P. 
Your Servant, Madam, bring my Hood,  
And Scarf, and dress me in the newest Mode;  
Dear Chuck, you must not go, my dear delight,  
For there are Bugbears, and the Horses bite,  
Nay you may cry, peace, peace, dear Mother's Child,  
Nay cry, but, Chuck, I must not have you killed:  
Here Betty take the Boy, and stay at home,  
Call Pretty in, and wait here till I come.  
O Jemminy, dear Gorgo, here's a throng,  
I wonder how we two shall get along:  
Great Ptolemy, beside a thousand things  
In which Thou hast excelld the former Kings;  
How many profits have thy care bestowed  
Since Lagus died and rose into a God?  
None now, as heretofore, infest the Street,  
Pick pockets, crowd, and justle all they meet,  
What shall we do? you see we strive invain,  
Ah Dear, I wish I was at home again:  
The King's great Horses come, stand farther, friend,  
Don't tread upon me, see he rears an end,  
Look how he bounds, oh whether shall we run?  
Alas poor Soul, he'll throw his Rider down,  
Well, I am glad I did not bring my Son:  G. 
Cheer up Praxinoe, come, the danger's past,  
And they are gone before, let's mend our haste:  P. 
Well, now I'm coming to myself again,  
A Horse, and a cold Serpent's winding train  
●allways hated; fie, we move too slow,  
Look there behind what Tides of People flow!  G. 
Mother is't you within?  M. 
Yes Child, 'tis I,  G. 
Can we get in pray Mother?  M. 
Daughter try:  
For he that never tries can ne'er enjoy;  
The Greeks by trying, Daughter, conquered Troy:  P. 
She leaves us with a Riddle, what she means  
God knows, but sure she hath some hidden sense.  
Women know all below, and all above,  
Even how Queen Juno was betrothed to Jove:  
But look Praxinoe, how the People wait,  
How great a throng attends the crowded Gate:  P. 
A vast one Gorgo: come, 'tis best to join,  
Hands round; here Gorgo, clap your hand in mine:  
Take Eutick Eunoe, that we may not lose  
Each other, come, thrust all, and still keep close:  
Ah me, my veil is rend, pray, why d'ye press?  
My Gown! Good Sir, may Heaven conspire to bless,  
And you be happy Sir, as you forbear;  S. 
I cannot, yet I'll take the greatest Care:  P. 
The Crowd increaseth, and they thrust like Swine,  S. 
Come cherr up Madam, we are all got in:  P. 
Well, may the bounteous Gods reward thy pain  
For helping us, thou art an honest Man,  
Poor Eunoe's justled still, she'll lose her Hood,  
Thrust Eunoe, stoutly thrust, and break the Crowd;  
We are all in, as One (a Story) said  
When he had got his Mistress fast in Bed:  G. 
Praxinoe look, what Hangings grace the Rooms,  
How fine, how rich, sure wrought in Heavenly Looms:  
Oh strange, what hands could these fine things design?  
What Mortal Pencil draw so sweet a line?  
How real they appear? They seem to move,  
They are alive, I'm sure they can't be wove:  
Man's a wise thing, but see on yonder bed  
Adonis lies, Down o'er his Cheeks is spread,  
Lovely Adonis, loved amongst the Dead:  S. 
Hist, hist, your tattling silly talk forbear,  
Like Turtles you have Mouths from Ear to Ear:  G. 
And who are you? Pray what have you to say  
If we will talk? Seek those that will obey,  
Would you the Syracusian Women rule?  
Besides, to tell you more you meddling Fool,  
We are Corinthians, that's no great disgrace,  
B●llerophon himself did boast that race:  
We speak our Language, use the Doric tone,  
And, Sir, the Doors, sure, may use their own:  P. 
Our Husbands are enough, let none pretend  
To rule beside; you are a saucy friend,  
I'm ne'er beholding t'ye, and there's an end:  G. 
Peace, peace Praxinoe, straight in charming lays  
A Maid shall sing the dead Adonis' praise,  
More soft than Sperchis in a mournful Song,  
Hark, she prepar's her voice, it won't be long▪  
Great Goddess, joy of the Idalian Grove,  
To whom high Eryx Bows, fair Queen of Love,  
How charming was thy sweet Adonis lead  
By soft-soot hours from midst the silent Dead?  
The twelfth month came, when from the shades below  
Restored, what Beauty sat upon his Brow?  
The Hours the slowest of the Gods, 'tis true,  
Yet pleasing, for they still bring something new:  
Kind you (thus story says) did first remove  
Fair Berenice to the Seats above,  
And bathed the Mortal in a Cup of Love:  
And now Arsinoe, Helen's equal face,  
●ust return does thy Adonis' grace  
With all the fruit the various Earth can yield,  
The Silver Basket brings from every field  
The choicest Flowers that please the curious Eye:  
In Gold the Syrian Odours breath, and die:  
Of Flour and Honey mixed the sweetest Cake  
That Weomen's Luxury or Art can make:  
The Earth and Sea do give a vast supply,  
And Air sends all the various Kind's that fly:  
She raises fresh imaginary Groves,  
And all around do flutter wanton Loves,  
As new-fledgd Thrushes whilst the old one sings  
Do leap from bough to bough, and try their Wings:  
O Gold! See there two Ivory Eagles fly  
And bear young Ganymed thro' the yielding Sky:  
See Purple Tapestry more soft than s●eep,  
This He'll confess that feeds Milesian Sheep:  
Oh happy Riches, see, two Beds are Made,  
And Venus here, there fair Adonis laid,  
A youthful Bridegroom, just mature for Bliss,  
No prickly Beard makes rough his pleasing Kiss:  
Let Venus have him, and his sweets embrace,  
To morrow ere the Dew forsakes the Grass  
we'll bear him where the Waves foam round the shore  
Our Hair all loose, our Coats let down before,  
Our Breasts all bear, and as we march along  
With mournful voice, begin this Funeral Song:  
Adonis, of the Heroes you alone  
Now come to Us, now go to Acheron;  
Not Agamemnon, not stout Ajax knew,  
And none enjoyed the favour like to you:  
Not Hector, fruitful Priam's stoutest joy,  
Not Pyrrhus coming from his conquered Troy:  
The Ancient Lapithae Ducalion's race,  
Or brave Pelasgi Argo's chiefest grace:  
Kind now Adonis, next year kind remain,  
Now welcome, welcome when you come again:  G. 
Ah dear Praxinoe, these are Curious things,  
O happy Creature, oh how well she sings!  
But I must go, for should m● Husband come,  
He hath not dined, and not find me at home,  
How he would fret, He's pettish, hates delay,  
Nor when He's hungry would I come in●s way.  
Farewell Adonis, now thy Pomp must cease;  
But still return, and still our joys increase.   

Idyllium XVI.  
He complains that Poetry meets not a suitable Reward from Great Men, for that immortality which it bestows upon them.  
To his very good Friend John Dryden Esquire.  
THis is the Muses, this the Poets care  
To sing the Gods, and Men renowned for War:  
The Muse's Goddesses make Gods their theme,  
We Men sing Men, and raise them vast esteem?  
But who that lives below our pains regards?  
What open hand doth pour out fit rewards?  
Who doth receive us when we offer Fame?  
And send us back more wealthy than we came?  
The Muses baffled thus turn home again  
With naked feet, they sigh, they weep, complain,  
And frown at Me, when they have gone invain.  
Deep in the bottom of my empty Clest,  
A place too hollow, and too hard for rest,  
They sit and mourn; on their cold knees they lay  
Their bending heads, and sigh, and pine away:  
For who is brave? and who regards a Wit?  
I know not; few, ah few in praise delight:  
For great and noble deeds as heretofore;  
Their Captive thoughts are tied to base Ore:  
Their covetous hands they in their laps do fold,  
And scarce will give the Rust that eats their Gold:  
They cry, near is my Shirt, more near my Skin,  
Must I supply the hunger of the Nine?  
Let me grow rich in wealth, and Those in sense,  
A Poet is the care of Providence:  
What need of more since Homer lives? He brings  
No charge upon me, yet's the best that sings.  
Poor Men! what profits precious Ore that lies  
Heaped up within to feed the greedy Eyes?  
It yields a different profit to the wise:  
Some on themselves some part on Wits they spend,  
Some part their Kinsmen share, and some their friend;  
To every Man from them some goods accrue,  
And still the Gods receive their sacred due:  
He's kind and generous, nobly treats his guests,  
He never cloys, but pleases with his feasts.  
But chiefly to the Muse's Sons they give,  
That after Death their lasting fame may live:  
And that they may not sit and mourn below,  
As those whose hands are hardened by the Plough  
Who sit, and sigh; and with a sad complaint  
For ever weep hereditary Want:  
Antiochus once kept a kingly board,  
A thousand Menial Servants called him Lord:  
A thousand Heifers fed at Scopa's stall,  
Ten thousand horned Bulls lowed thro' his vale,  
The kind Creondae fed their numerous Flocks,  
Their brouzing Goats still hung on Thousand Rocks:  
Yet when their naked Souls began to float  
Breathed out in Air, and stowed in Charon's Boat,  
They left their wealth beyond the Stygian shore,  
The crazy Vessel could not waft their Ore;  
And each had lain amidst the vulgar, lost,  
Unheard, untalkt of, like a common Ghost,  
Unless his Poet with exalted rage  
Had struck his Harp, and given them future Age.  
'Tis Verse that doth with lasting Honour's grace  
The swiftest Horse that wins the sacred race:  
His Crowns had withered he had lost his name,  
Too slow to keep an equal pace with Fame:  
Who had the Lycians, who the Trojans known?  
What Fame once-female Cycnus Glory blown?  
Unless a Poet with immortal Song  
Had told their fights, and made their Wars so long?  
Ulysses, He thro' various dangers tossed  
For seven long years, that touched at every Coast,  
That He that saw the Stygian shades and lived,  
That scap't the Cyclops, had his fame survived;  
Eumaeus, mingled with the Common Dead,  
Had lain as nameless as the Ox he fed,  
And wholly vanished with his parting breath,  
If Homer had not snatched his name from Death:  
The Muses raise Men's worth, their Fame they spread,  
Whilst Heirs consume the riches of the Dead:  
And 'tis a task I'm sure of equal ease  
To tell how many Tempests toss the Seas,  
With what fierce Storms the troubled Ocean roars,  
How many Waves it rolls to trembling Shores,  
To wash a Blackmore white, as to unbind  
A Gripeing Niggard's close contracted mind,  
And force him to be generous and kind:  
A Curse on such, vast heaps of useless Ore  
May those enjoy, and yet still wish for more;  
'Twas always so, and 'tis my humour still,  
Much more than Wealth I value Men's goodwill:  
And now I seek what Patron I may choose,  
And where I may be welcome with my Muse:  
For Poets find but small returns of Love  
Without their Muse, thus stands the will of Jove:  
The Heaven's not weary whilst it whirls the Sun,  
And thousand Steeds shall draw the Chariot on,  
A Man shall rise that shall my Songs employ  
As great as famed Achilles fought at Troy:  
As great as Ajax where smooth Simois flowed,  
And Phrygian Ilu's Tomb lay drowned in Blood;  
The Carthaginians dread approaching War,  
Forget their fury, and consent to fear:  
The Syracusian Troops spread o'er the field,  
Their right-hands grace a Spear, their left a shield;  
These Hiero leads as ancient Heroes brave,  
His dreadful Crest doth o'er his Shoulders wave:  
But oh our Guardian Jove, revenge our Blood,  
And toss our Foes o'er the Sardinian flood,  
Scatter their force, and send few home to tell  
The Wives and Children how their Fathers fell:  
Let old Inhabitants possess their Isle;  
And raise new Towns where Foes did lately spoil;  
The Fields be green, and thro' the fruitful Plain  
Great flocks of Sheep grow fat, and bleat again:  
The labouring Oxen bend beneath the Plough,  
And, slowly walking thro' the Valleys, low:  
The Fields be reaped whilst under every shade  
The Infects sing, and make the Reapers glad:  
The Spiders wove in sheild's, all free from fear,  
And hardly know the very name of War:  
Let rising Poets bear the sounding praise  
Of Hiero beyond the Scythian Seas;  
Beyond proud Babylon extend his Fame,  
And tell to distant worlds his glorious Name:  
I am but one, but more Jove's Daughters love,  
More wise than I am, and more apt to move:  
And these smooth Arethusa's streams shall sing,  
The brave Sicilians, and their valiant King:  
Ye Goddesses that Orchomenium grace  
The scourge and hatred of the Theban race,  
Uncalled I'll stay, to those that shall invite  
My Muse shall offer honour and delight:  
I'll never leave you; what will Men receive  
Without the Graces? what is fit to give?  
O, may I ever with the Graces live!   

Idyllium XVII.  
A Panegyrics to King Ptolemy.  
To Ambrose Brown of— Esquire.  
BEgin with Jove, my Muse, and end with Jove,  
If you would sing the greatest God above,  
But if you would the best of Men rehearse,  
Let Ptolemy's great name adorn your Verse;  
Let him the first, midst, last, your Songs employ,  
The darling of Mankind, the common joy:  
The Heroes born of Gods, and great in fame,  
Had noble Poets to record their name;  
And I, well skilled in Song, with lasting lays  
Sing him, Even Gods we do reward with praise:  
In shady Ida, where the Woods are thick,  
The Woodman comes, but doubts where first to strike  
And where shall I? there crowd a thousand things,  
With which the Gods have blest the best of Kings:  
His father Lagus, who so bravely great?  
So deeply skilled in all the Arts of State?  
What Age could boast a Prince so great so good?  
His Mind was high, and noble as his Blood:  
Him Jove doth grace with an immortal Throne,  
And give a golden Palace next his own:  
Next Alexander sits, the Wise, the Great,  
A mitred God, and checks the Persian State:  
Just opposite Alcides' Throne doth shine,  
Of sparkling Diamond, the work divine;  
And whilst on Nectar with the Gods he feasts,  
He smiles too see his race his equal guests:  
On each great Jove repreive from Age bestowed,  
And called immortal, raised into a God:  
When fragrant Nectar Bowls have raised his fires,  
And from the feast he to his Wife retires,  
His Ensigns he delivers to the Two  
One bears his knotty Club, and one his Bow;  
With these they both in decent order move,  
And thus to beauteous Hebe's bed of Love  
Their father lead, the great increase of Jove:  
How Berenice shone! His charming Bride,  
Her Sexe's glory, and her Parent's pride;  
Her Venus nursed with a peculiar care,  
And blest with all the charms that grace the fair;  
That even bold Fame itself scarce dares to tell  
That any Prince e'er loved his Wife so well  
As generous Ptolemy his beauteous Queen;  
And yet he meets with greater love again!  
He Quits his State, and business of his Thrones,  
He leaves his Kingdom to his Loyal Sons,  
Whilst he to her with hasty wishes moves,  
And goes to play the Hero in his Loves:  
A faithless Wife lets all her thoughts and cares  
On others rove, with easy pains she bears,  
Her House is full, but of the numerous race  
Not one can show the joyful Father's face:  
Fair Venus' chiefest Beauty of the Sky  
She lived thy care, nor can her honour die;  
Your kindness snatched her from the Stygian shore,  
ere grisly Charon came to waft her o'er,  
You gave a shrine, and taught us to adore:  
Just like a falling Star thrown down by Fate;  
You caught, and made her Partner of your State;  
Thence kind to all she gentle Cares inspires;  
And warms the Lover's breasts with pleasing fires:  
The fair Deipale did to Peleus bear  
Stout Diomedes, that mighty Son of War,  
And beauteous Thetis to her Peleus bore  
The famed Achilles on the Grecian shore,  
But Berenice hath these Births outdone,  
She brought great Ptolemy as great a Son;  
First Coos danced Thee, thou, Mankind's delight,  
She took Thee at thy first approach to light,  
For there thy Mother to Lucina prayed  
To ease her throws, and found a speedy Aid;  
She came, stood by, and gently loosed her pain,  
Thy very birth was easy as thy reign:  
The Island took Thee in her Arms, and smiled  
To view the Father's Image in the Child:  
She shouted, and she said, Ah lovely Boy,  
Be born, Thy Father's Soul, be born my joy:  
Welcome, on me as great a Fame bestow,  
As Delos does to her Apollo owe:  
Thus spoke the Isle; an Eagle soared above  
And mixed with Clouds; the Bird of mighty Jove,  
With joyful sound thrice clapped auspicious Wings,  
'Twas Jove's own sign, Jove is the Guard of Kings:  
But whom he loves as soon as he began,  
That lives the Potent, that the happy Man  
All else must yield, and o'er the Sea and Land  
With conquering Arms he spread a wide command:  
A thousand Nations boast their fruitful Plains,  
Where gentle Jove descends in easy rains,  
But none such Crops as sandy Egypt shows,  
Where Nile with his enriching streams overflows,  
And what the barren Clouds deny, bestows:  
No Nation bears, no Nation boasts to see  
So many Towns, and Men of Art as She,  
Full Thirty Thousand Towns enjoy the sway  
Of Ptolemy, and eagerly obey:  
The stout Phaenicians too have felt his Sword,  
Arabia, Syria, Lybia call him Lord;  
The Ethiopians, the Pamphilian Horse,  
The Lycians, Carians own his nobler force:  
The Isles; for where his Navy spreads her Wings  
Homage to Him, and Peace to all she brings:  
So far his Sceptres reach, and Sea, and Land  
And purling Streams obey his just Command:  
Vast Troops of Horse and Foot well armed for War  
So dreadful gay in graceful ranks appear,  
That even their proudest Foes consent to fear:  
His Treasure richer than e'er known before,  
And other Kings scarce wish so great a store;  
All Nations send their Customs every day,  
And their due Tribute to his Ocean pay:  
The Farmer fearless ploughs his fruitful soil,  
No Hostile Navies press the quiet Nile;  
None leaps a Shore, and frights the labouring Swains,  
None robs us of our Flocks, and spoils the Plains:  
Thus Ptolemy secures his Land from Harms,  
So feared by All he sits, so great in Arms:  
So careful to preserve his ancient right,  
This shows a King, and for new Conquests fight:  
And yet he doth not hoard his useless Ore,  
As painful Ants still turn their buried store;  
With much the Temples of the Heroes shine;  
His first-fruits, and his gifts fill every shrine,  
Much Gold to powerful neighbouring Kings he sends,  
Much to his Subjects, much to valiant Friends:  
None famed for Song, none great in Arts appears  
No charming voice can ravish listening Ears,  
But straight He favours, He rewards imparts,  
And sends them presents equal to their Arts:  
And therefore Poets with exalted rage  
Send down their Patron's praise to future Age;  
At what more noble can the wealthy aim  
Than to secure a fair, and lasting Fame?  
Of Great Atrides this remains alone,  
Whilst are the Stores of Wealth He raised, are gone:  
What e'er he brought from Troy hath 'scaped the light,  
And now lies buried in Eternal night.  
He first his Glorious Parents made divine,  
To both He incense burns, and rears a shrine:  
How great they stand! how Gems their shrines enfold,  
And hide the Ivory, and the poorer Gold!  
How great they stand! what various goods bestow!  
Supply our wants, and guard frail Man below:  
He stains red Altars with a Thousand Beasts  
As months' roll round, and bring the solemn Feasts:  
He and his Queen, than whom kind Fortune led  
No fairer Woman to a greater Bed;  
There She with joy the Natural ties improves,  
And both as Brother, and as Husband loves:  
This Gods approve, thus they themselves are tied,  
And Juno lives Jove's Sister, and his Bride;  
Fair perfumed Iris makes one Bed for both,  
Where Pleasure's heightened by eternal youth:  
Hail glorious Ptolemy, hail mighty King;  
thou equal to the Gods my Muse shall sing;  
And future Age shall all my Songs approve;  
Great King, beg Virtue, and increase of Jove:   

Idyllium XVIII.  
An Epithalamium at the Marriage of Helena and Menelaus.  
To Edward Courthope Esquire.  
AT Sparta's Palace twenty beauteous Maids,  
The Pride of Greece, fresh Garlands crowned their heads  
With Hyacinth and twineing Parsley dressed,  
Graced joyful Menelaus' Marriage Feast;  
When lovely Helen great in conquering charms  
Resigned her willing Beauty to his Arms:  
They danced around, Joy flowed from every tongue,  
And the vast Palace sounded with the Song:  
And why fair Bridegroom why so sleepy grown,  
And why to Bed e'er shady Night comes on?  
What have you danced too much? Wine seized your head,  
Or are you drowsy, that you must to Bed?  
But if you needs must sleep, then sleep alone,  
But why must Helen too your Bride be gone?  
Why must She leave her tender Mother thus?  
She should sit up, and play, and dance with us,  
She should sit up till the bright Sun should rise,  
And Stars recede less beauteous than her eyes:  
For, Menelaus, She for all thy life  
For Morning, Night, and Noon must be thy Wife:  
O happy Bridegroom! Thee a lucky sneeze  
To Sparta welcomed, where the youths of Greece  
Her chiefest Pride, did offer humble Love,  
Yet you were chose to be allied to Jove:  
A Beauty, such as never Greece did view,  
Now sleeps between the common Sheets with you:  
O happy Bridegroom, what thy Bride shall bear  
If like herself, it must be wondrous fair:  
Two hundred Spartan Maids, her Equals We,  
That wrestled, fought, and ran as well as She,  
And even out did the Men; yet none appear  
A spotless Beauty if compared to Her:  
Just as the Morning shows her lovely face,  
When Winter's gone, and lazy Night withdraws,  
Just so doth Helen's charming Beauties rise,  
Tall, fair and framed by Nature to surprise:  
As Trees a Field, swift Steeds a Chariot grace,  
So Sparta is adorned by Helen's face:  
In all the Bride doth easily excel,  
None Spins with so much Art, none Weaves so well:  
When She Diana or Minerva sings,  
None tunes so soft as She the speaking strings;  
That She, whose motions Charm, whose looks surprise,  
And Thousand Cupid's wanton in her Eyes:  
Ah fair, ah lovely, of an envied life,  
Ah fair, and blest in being made a Wife;  
But we will run thro' yonder spacious Mead,  
And crop flesh flowery Crowns to grace thy head;  
Mindful of Helen still, as tender Lambs  
Not weaned as yet when hungry mind their Dams:  
We'll first low Lotus pluck, and Crowns compose  
And to thy Honour grace the shady Boughs,  
From Silver Boxes sweetest Oils shall flow,  
And press the Flowers rhat rise as sweet below,  
And then inscribe this line, that all may see,  
Pay due Obedience, I am Helen's Tree:  
All Joy fair Bride, and happy Bridegroom joy,  
Let kind Latona give a lovely Boy,  
Let Venus, Goddess Venus mutual Love,  
And lasting Riches be bestowed by Jove;  
That still they may descend, and grace the Throne  
From noble Father, to a noble Son:  
Sleep in each other Arms, and raise desire,  
Let ardent breathe fan your mutual Fire,  
But rise betimes, forget not, we'll return  
When first the crowing Cock shall wake the Morn,  
When thro' his feathered throat He sends his voice:  
O Hymen, Hymen at this Feast rejoice:   

Idyllium XIX. On Love stung by a Bee.  
WHen Wanton Love designed to theive,  
And steal the Honey from the Hive,  
An impious Bee his Finger stung,  
And thus revenged the proffered wrong;  
He blew his Fingers vexed with pain,  
He stamped, and stared but all in vain,  
At last unable to endure  
To Venus runs, and begs a cure;  
Complaining that so slight a touch  
And little thing should wound so much:  
She smiled, and said, Son, Thou art like a Bee,  
Little, yet how great wounds are made by Thee!   

Idyllium XX.  
A Shepherd complains of the coyness of a City Maid, who refused his proffered Kiss.  
To His good Humoured Friend Mr. Alexander Crook of Wadham College.  
EVnica flouted me, She scorned my Kiss  
And when I proffered, answered with a hiss;  
Begun rough Shepherd thou dost ask invain,  
I faith I am not used to Kiss a Swain,  
The City Lips I press, and only them,  
Thou should not Kiss me, no, not in a Dream:  
How odd thy Courtship! and how dull thy jest!  
How languishing thy words, and how expressed!  
How soft and sweet thy voice! thy looks how fair!  
How smooth thy Chin! what Curls adorn thy Hair!  
Thy Lips are broken out, and black thy hand,  
Thy smell is rank, Begun, I shall be stained.  
This said then thrice she spit, and viewed me round  
From head to foot, and muttered still, and frowned,  
Still scornfully she looked, and mighty proud  
Of her fair Face, she sneered, and laughed aloud,  
My blood began to boil, my face was flushed,  
And, like a Rose with Dew o'ercharged, I blushed:  
She left me straight, but I am vexed at this  
That she proud Slut should flout, when I would Kiss:  
Am I not Handsome? tell me smiling Swains,  
For I was once the Beauty of the Plains,  
Tell me, have I no charms, no pleasing grace,  
Or hath some God o'th' sudden changed my face?  
For I was handsome once, my Cheeks were red,  
My Beard like Ivy round an Oak was spread,  
And bushy hair like Parsley crowned my head:  
My snowy forehead two black Kickshaws crossed,  
My Eyes as grey as Pallas' self could boast,  
My Mouth more sweet than Curds, my words did slow  
As smooth as Oil, and soft as falling Snow:  
My Songs are charming, whilst my Flocks do feed  
I blow my Hougtboy, Pipe, or Oaten reed,  
Oft have I seen my Lambs forsake their grass  
And listening by with silent wonder gaze;  
And all the Country Maids my Face esteem,  
They kiss, and beg me I would stay with them:  
Are these small charms, that she should these despise?  
But I'm a Shepherd Swain, for that she flies,  
For that the City Maids refuse a Kiss,  
Well, let them scorn, poor fools, they hardly know  
That beauteous Bacchus, fed a Herd below,  
Or that fair Venus wantoned with a Swain,  
And fed his Cattle in the Phrygian Plain,  
With sweet Adonis oft she proved the Joy  
In Groves, in Groves she mourned the lovely Boy:  
Endymion was a Swain, he kept a flock,  
And yet for him the Moon her Skies forsaken,  
She scorned a Sceptre and embraced a Crook:  
One Cave held both, with him she reaped delight,  
Came down, lay by, and kissed him all the night:  
Even Rhea mourns a Swain, and mighty Jove  
Took Eagles' Wings, and bore a Swain above:  
A Swain this proud Eunica scorns alone,  
Better than Venus, Rhea, or the Moon:  
Venus, the fault was yours, you taught her pride,  
May, therefore, thine, thy Love be still denied;  
May you endure an injured Lover's pain,  
ne'er kiss thy Sweet, ne'er wanton o'er the Plain,  
But lie alone all night, and wish in vain.   

Idyllium XXI.  
A discourse of two Fishermen upon a Dream.  
To Mr. Tho. Dunstar of Wadham College.  
'TIS Poverty, dear Friend, improves our Arts,  
It teaches Wit, and working thoughts imparts;  
For Cares chase Sleep from his laborious head  
Who sweats to earn, before he eats his bread:  
If lazy slumbers o'er his eyes do creep,  
Straight noisy cares rush in, and break his sleep.  
Two good old Fishers slept, their bed was Sedge,  
Their Roof was Straw, their Walls a rotten Hedge,  
And round just by lay Baskets, Hooks, and Lines,  
Their Wires, Sedgy Nets, their Rods, and Skins,  
Drawn up on some old Plank a tattered Boat,  
Their Pillow Straw, their Rugg a ragged Coat,  
Their Caps hung by upon a broken Oar,  
These were there tackling, and this all their store.  
Not one small Pot upon their Shelf was laid,  
All useless seemed but what concerned their trade;  
Thus blessed they lived, and happy in content  
With their Companions, Poverty and Want:  
No neighbour near, and every rising tide  
Their Hovel reached, and shook its tottering side:  
From midst of Heaven the Moon viewed all below,  
When dreams of Labour waked the sleeping two;  
Each with his Thumb wiped rest from off his Eyes,  
And sang, and cheered themselves with these replies:  A. 
They lie, dear friend, that say the night decays  
When Summer comes, and Jove brings longer days;  
For I have seen a thousand dreams to night  
Long tedious dreams, and yet 'tis far from light;  B. 
You blame the Summer, but unjustly blame,  
The Hours are still forced on, their pace the same;  
But vexing Cares, that in a buisy throng  
Disturb your head, do make night seem so long:  A. 
Can you interpret Dreams, Friend, tell me true,  
I've dreamt fine things, which I would tell to you:  
For that will ease me, and divert my Care,  
As we our Fish, so we our Dreams will share:  B. 
Then tell thy friend.  A. 
If you remember well  
We supped too late, and made a spareing meal:  
On yonder shelving Rock methought I stood,  
And stooped, intent upon the quiet flood;  
I saw the Fish, my Hook let gently down,  
And shook my cheating Bait to draw them on:  
A great one bit, (for Fish is still my Theme,  
As Dogs of bones, so I of fishes dream)  
I struck, and hung him fast, I saw the Blood,  
The weight was great, I'm sure it bent the Rod;  
I strove to reach him, for my Line was weak,  
And faith, I feared my bending Hook would break,  
Dost prick me, for he pricked, I'll grasp the more,  
And so at last I drew my prey to shore;  
A golden Fish, I stood amazed, and feared  
'Twas one of Neptune's own beloved herd:  
Or one of Sea green Amphitrite's train,  
A noble Fish, the treasure of the Main:  
I loosed him gently, and did strictly look  
That no small grain stuck round the rugged Hook:  
With Cords I drew him, and devoutly swore,  
That I would venture out to Sea no more;  
But stay at home, and make myself a King:  
At this I waked, do you adjust the thing,  
Pray tell me what you think, for I'm afraid  
That I am bound to keep the Oath I made:  B. 
Fear not, my friend, you did not swear, for why,  
You found no Fish, a Vision's but a lie:  
And therefore go, and draw the usual streams,  
Seek real Fish, no● starve with golden dreams.   

Idyllium XXII.  
A scorned Shepherd hangs himself, the cruel fair is killed by the Statue of Cupid.  
To Mr. Rily Painter to his Majesty.  
AN Amorous Shepherd loved a charming Boy,  
As fair thought could frame, or wish enjoy,  
Unlike his Soul, illnatured and unkind,  
An Angel's body with a Fury's mind:  
How great a God Love was, He scorned to know,  
How sharp his arrows, and how strong his bow,  
What raging wounds he scatters here below.  
In his address and talk fierce, rude, untame,  
He gave no comfort to the Shepherd's flame:  
No cherry Lips, no Rose his Cheeks did die,  
No pleasing Fire did sparkle in his Eye,  
Where eager thoughts with fainting Virtue strove,  
No soft discourse, nor Kiss to ease his Love:  
But as a Lion on the Lybian Plain  
Looks on his Hunters, he beheld the Swain:  
His Lips still pouting, and his Eyes unkind,  
His Forehead too was rough as was his Mind;  
His Colour gone, and every pleasing Grace  
Beset by fury had forsaken his face:  
Yet midst his passion, midst his frowns he moved,  
As these were Charms He was the more beloved:  
But when o'er come he could endure no more,  
He came and wept before the hated door,  
He wept and pined, he hung his sickly head,  
The threshold kissed, and thus at last he said:  
Ah cruel fair, and of a Tigress born!  
Ah stony Boy, composed of frowns and scorn:  
Unworthy of love, this Rope receive,  
The last, and welcom'st Present I can give:  
I'll never vex thee more, I'll cease to woe  
And whether you condemned freely go,  
Where certain Cures for Love, as Stories tell,  
Where dismal shades, and dark Oblivion dwell:  
Yet did I drink the whole forgetful Stream,  
It would not drown my Love, nor quench my flame:  
Thy cruel doors I bid my last Adieu,  
Know what will come; and you shall find it true:  
The Day is fair but quickly yields to shades,  
The Lily white, but when 'tis pluck it fades:  
The Violet lovely, but it withers soon,  
Youth's beauty charming, but 'tis quickly gone:  
The time shall come when you, proud Boy, shall prove  
The heat of Passion, and the rage of Love:  
Then shall thy Soul melt thro' thy weeping Eye,  
Whilst all shall smile, and you unpitied dye.  
Yet grant one kindness, and I ask no more,  
When you shall see me hanging at the door  
Do not go proudly by, forbear to smile,  
But stay, sweet Boy, and gaze, and weep a while;  
Then take me down, and whilst some tears are shed,  
Thy own soft garment o'er my body spread,  
And grant one Kiss, one Kiss when I am dead:  
Near fear, for you may safely grant me this,  
● shan't revive though you could Love, and Kiss:  
Then dig a Grave, there let my Love be laid,  
And when you part, say thrice, my friend is dead,  
Or else go farther on to please my Ghost,  
And cry, my best, my dearest friend is lost:  
And on my Monument inscribe this Rhyme,  
The witness of my Love and of thy Crime,  
This Shepherd died for Love, stay Stranger here,  
And weep, and cry, He loved a cruel fair:  
This said, he rolled a Stone, a mighty Stone,  
Fate lent a hand behind, and pushed it on:  
High by the Wall, on this he panting rose,  
And tied, and sitted well the fatal noose:  
Then from the place on which before he stood  
He slipped, and hung the Door's unhappy load:  
The Boy came forth, and with a scornful Mien  
And smiling look beheld the tragic Scene;  
Hang there said He, but O how I despise  
So base, so mean a Trophy of my Eyes!  
The proudest Kings should fall by my disdain,  
Too noble to be lost upon a Swain:  
This said, he turned, and as he turned his head  
His Garments were polluted by the Dead,  
Thence to the Plays and to the Baths did move,  
The Bath was sacred to the God of Love;  
For there he stood in comely Majesty  
Smiles on his Cheeks, and softness in his Eye,  
That part of th' Marble wrought into his Breast  
By Power divine was softer than the rest,  
To show how Pity did exactly suit  
With Love, and was his darling Attribute:  
The God leapt forth, and dashed the Boy, the Wound  
Let out his Soul, and as it fled He groaned.  
Hail Lovers, hail, see here the scornful dyes,  
A just, and acceptable Sacrifice,  
Be kind, and Love for mutual Love return,  
For see the God takes vengeance on my scorn.   

Idyllium XXIII.  
Hercules in his Cradle kills two Serpents which Juno sent to destroy him etc.  
To Mr. William Latton of Wadham College.  
Alcides' ten months old, a vigorous Child,  
Alcmene fed, and laid him on a Shield,  
(The Shield from Pterilus Amphitryo won  
A great auspicious Cradle for his Son;)  
With younger Iphiclus of human race,  
No part of him was drawn from Jove's embrace:  
On either head her tender hands she laid,  
And with a Mother's fondness thus she said;  
Sleep, sleep, dear Children, sleep, be free from pain,  
Rest well to night, to morrow wake again:  
This said she stopped, and rocked the sounding Shield,  
Iphiclus wept, and young Alcides smiled:  
Sleep seized on both: Now Mid-night's shade came on,  
The flying Bear in haste was tumbling down,  
And broad Orion's Shoulder did appear  
With's Sword, as still pursueing of the Bear;  
When wily Juno full of envious hate  
Drove on two dreadful Serpents to the Gate,  
She forced the Doors, and showed the Open way  
Designing young Alcides For their prey:  
Their Scaly trains rolled o'er the trembling floor,  
Their fiery Eyes shot sulphurous flames before,  
And from their Jaws dropped clods of Putrid gore:  
When near they rolled, and did the Infant's touch,  
Even Sleep itself straight fled at their approach,  
The Children waked, and, by Jove's order, light  
Shot thro' the gloomy darkness of the Night:  
Iphiclus cried as soon as he beheld  
The Snakes twist round, and gapeing o'er the Shield,  
He kicked the clothes, and tossed, for flight prepared,  
As if he meant to shun the Fate he feared:  
But young Alcides stretched his Infant hands,  
And grasped the rolling Snakes with fatal bands,  
He seized their swelling throats, where stored by Fate  
Their Poison lies, which even the Gods do hate:  
In that Death dips her darts, then takes her rounds,  
And on frail Mortals scatters certain wounds:  
Each twisted round the Babe a dreadful fold,  
But still he grasped, and took the firmer hold,  
The Babe, not weaned as yet, in Mind a Man,  
He showed his Race as soon as he began:  
In's Nurse's Arms he ne'er was heard to cry,  
No tear e'er dropped from his unwilling Eye:  
At last tired out they both extended lay,  
The Infant's spoil, his first auspicious prey:  
Alcmena's Ears first heard the tender cries,  
She started first, and said Amphytrio, rise;  
Rise, rise, thy aid a sudden danger calls,  
Dost hear how loud the younger Infant bawls?  
Dost see these Walls shine with unusual light,  
For yet the Morning hath not chased the Night;  
There's some strange thing, there is, Rise, rise my Dear,  
From Danger free thy Babes, thy Wife from Fear:  
She spoke, Amphitryo rose, such hast he showed  
As nimble Lightning from a breaking Cloud,  
He snatched his Sword, which o'er his valiant head  
Hung always fastened to the Cedar bed,  
A strong Belt held it, tough, and neatly made,  
He grasped the Sheath, and drew the flaming Blade;  
When straight the light withdrew its wondrous rays,  
In darkness left him; and in wild amaze:  
Still startled more, Lights Slaves, Slaves Lights, he cries,  
Lights Slaves, deep sleep sat heavy on their Eyes:  
Lights Maids, They heard, and quick as the command,  
A flaming Torch now shone in every hand,  
They all rush in; with troubled haste they come,  
And buisy throngs straight fill the crowded Room:  
But when they saw two Snakes twist round the Child  
They shreikt, and wept; the young Alcides smiled:  
Held out the Snakes, pleased with the guilded sight,  
Laughed at his own success, and their affright;  
Disdained those Foes that with such ease He slew,  
And at his Father's feet the Monsters threw:  
Half dead Iphiclus on her tender breast  
Alcmene clapped, and lulled him into rest:  
The other Babe on Skins of slaughtered sheep  
Amphitryo laid, and then returned to sleep;  
When thrice the Cock had Crowed to wake the Sun,  
Alcmene starting from her Bed of Down  
Tiresias called, from whom Truth always fell,  
Scarce Phoebus knew the mind of Fate so well:  
She told the tale, and said, thrice reverend Seer  
Explain the meaning, I' me prepared to hear:  
Nor yet to pleasure me conceal the doom,  
Or bad or good, what Fate hath wove must come:  
Thus spoke the Queen, and thrice his reverend Head  
Tiresias shook, and thus at last he said:  
Hail mighty Queen, the pride of Person's blood,  
Happy, and Mother of a future God:  
The time shall come as years bring round the days,  
When Grecian Maids shall sing Alcmena's praise,  
And as they wove, or whirl their Spindle round  
From every tongue Alcmena's name shall sound;  
The Grecians goddess thou shalt grace a shrine,  
So great thy Son shall be, and so divine!  
A generous Hero he shall mount on high,  
The noblest burden of the bending Sky:  
To Him all Monsters, and all Men must yield,  
The Tyrant's Scourge, and the Oppressed's Shield▪  
Twelve labours passed he shall the Skies enjoy,  
When Oeta's flames have purged the base alloy:  
Be called their Son in Law, appease their Hate  
Who raised these Snakes, and sent them to his Fate.  
Then Woolves shall see young Fawns approach their Den,  
And let them part unhurt, and safe again,  
So great a Scourge he shall to Monsters prove,  
And shed such Influence from his Seat above:  
But Queen observe, and let a Pile be made,  
Green Oaks, and Ash, and Birch in order laid:  
Then cut these Snakes, observe the time they came  
To eat the Babe, and burn them o'er the flame:  
At morning peep soon quench the blazeing wood,  
And scatter all the Ashes o'er the flood,  
And thence return, but with a steady pace,  
Nor look behind on the polluted place:  
Then let pure Brimstone purge the Rooms, and bring  
Clear Fountain water from the sweetest Spring;  
This mixed with Salt, with blooming Olives crowned,  
Spread o'er the Floor, and purge polluted ground:  
Then kill a Boar to Jove, that free from harms  
The Child may live, and Victory crown his Arms.  
This said, he bowed, and with a staggering gate  
For years oppress't him, reached his Ivory Seat.  
And now the Boy, his Mother's pride, was grown  
Like rising Oaks, and thought Amphitryo's Son:  
In Letter's Linus did his Mind enlarge,  
A generous Hero, watchful of his charge:  
Eumolpus tuned his manly voice to sing,  
And taught his hand to strike the tuneful string:  
Eurytus famous for his vast Estate  
To draw the Bow, and shoot as sure as Fate:  
To Leap, to Wrestle and to throw the Dart  
He learned from fierce Autolycus' Art,  
Sweet Hermes Son who when he fought his Foe  
None dared, though distant, to behold his Brow:  
Such frightful fierceness did in's looks appear  
And shot thro' the amazed Spectators fear:  
To drive the Chariot, and with steady skill  
To turn, and yet not break the bending Wheel  
Amphitryo kindly did instruct his Son;  
Great in that Art, for he himself had won  
Vast precious prizes on the Argive Plains,  
And still the Chariot, which he drove, remains,  
For nought but eating Time could break his Reins;  
To wield his Sword, and to assault his Foe,  
To use his Shield, and shun the coming blow,  
To order Battles, and to raise their force,  
Close Ambush lay, and lead the furious Horse,  
Stout Castor taught, when he from Argos fled,  
Basely deserted by the force he led,  
When Tydeus Arms the fatal Conquest won,  
And forced the weak Adrastus from his Throne:  
Few of the Heroes equalled him in Fight  
ere trembling Age had put strong Youth to flight:  
Thus grew the Boy his Mother's care and pride,  
His bed was raised by his great Father's side,  
Spread with a Lion's Skin, whose Jaws affright  
The weaker Youths, but were this Boys delight:  
When young he often would unsheathe their Paws,  
And use his tender Hands to break their Jaws;  
And when one Tooth was broke, with smiles would meet,  
And cast his Trophies at his Mother's feet:  
His food was roasted flesh, his loaf was great,  
As large as even a labouring Swain could eat:  
A spareing Meal, and unprepared at night,  
His clothes were made for covering, not delight:  
Thus hardly bred the mighty Hero grew,  
Well fitted for the wonders He must do.  Imperfect in the Greek.  

Idyllium XXIV.  
A Dialogue between Daphnis and a Shepherdess.  
To Thomas Powel of Wadh. Col. Esquire.  D. 
Parish a Herdsman Helen stole, 'tis said,  
And she that kissed me is as fair a Maid:  S. 
Pride not thyself, what empty thing's a Kiss!  D. 
And yet that empty thing is full of Bliss;  S. 
I wash my mouth, and thus thy Kiss disdain;  D. 
Dost wash my Dear? then come, let's Kiss again:  S. 
Swain thou shouldst kiss thy Heifer, not a Maid:  D. 
Don't scorn, thy youth, like dreams, will quickly fade,  S. 
The Grape, when dry, grows Raisin, and is prized.  
Nor is the Rose, though withered, soon despised:  D. 
Come to these Shades, I've tales ne'er told before  S. 
Once your sweet tongue deceived, I'll trust no more.  D. 
Go with me to those Elms, and here my Flute,  S. 
Go please thyself, I hate so harsh a note:  D. 
Let fear of Venus' anger seize thy mind,  S. 
A fig for Venus, if Diana's kind;  D. 
Ah speak not thus lest she should fix her Chain,  
The noose is strong, and you may strive invain.  S. 
Ay, let her do't, I live Diana's care,  
And she shall quickly free me from her Snare,  
Hands off Rude Swain, I vow I'll scratch, forbear,  D. 
You must not scape, no Maid e'er 'scaped Loves stroke,  S. 
I'll scape, by Pan, but thou shalt bear his Yoke;  D. 
To meaner Swains I fear you will be kind,  S. 
Many have wooed, none yet e'er pleased my Mind:  D. 
And I am one that woe, and would obtain:  S. 
What shall I do? Marriage is full of pain,  D. 
Not grief and pain, but Joy attends the Bed;  S. 
Sure I have heard that Wives their Husband's dread:  D. 
No, no, they rule, for what should Women fear?  S. 
Childbirth is hard, and I'm afraid to bear:  D. 
No fear, o'er that thy own Diana reigns,  
And gives a speedy ease to Mother's pains:  S. 
Yet I'm afraid, should many Births prevail  
My Beauty fades, and then your Love may fail:  D. 
Yet should you bear fine Boys, a Happy Wife,  
How would you look into a future Life!  S. 
But come, what Jointure, Swain, if I should yield;  D. 
My Flocks, my Herds, my Woods, and all my Field:  S. 
Swear then, lest when enjoyed you false should prove,  D. 
Never by Pan, if you'll consent to Love:  S. 
Will you a Bed, a House, and Meat provide?  D. 
All this shall be the Dowry of my Bride?  
Look, all these Flocks are mine, I'll still be true,  
And promise you no more than I can do:  S. 
What shall I say when my old Friends shall blame?  D. 
They'll like the Marriage when they hear my name:  S. 
Then tell thy name, for names do often please,  D: 
Daphnis, my Father's joy, and Mother's ease;  
His name is Lycidas the noble Swain,  
Her's Neme, once the Beauty of the Plain:  S. 
Thy race is noble, but yet mine's as good,  D. 
But no ways better, for in yonder Wood  
Menalcas lives, the Fountain of thy Blood.  S. 
Show me thy Grove, and where thy Sheep-Coat lies:  D. 
These are my Trees, look how my Cypress rise;  S. 
Feed Goats, whilst I attend the Herdman's Love,  D. 
Feed Bulls, I go to show the Maid my Grove:  S. 
Rude Swain, what means your hand upon my breast?  D. 
The Clusters ripe, and sueing to be pressed:  
Those I must pluck; oh! with what Heat they move!  
And how they rise at every touch of Love!  S. 
I quake, pull out your hand, rude Swain, forbear;  D. 
Cheer up, no harm, how timorous is my Dear!  S. 
'Tis Dirty, ah! look there, 'twill slain my Gown,  
And tell my jealous friends what I have done:  D. 
I'll spread my Jerkin, 'tis a scurvy place  
But ●'me content to pay for the embrace:  S. 
Forbear, we shall be caught, I hear a noise,  D. 
'tis nought but Trees that murmur at our joys;  S. 
You● tear my Coat, ah me, I am undone.  D. 
I'll buy a larger, and a better Gown:  S. 
You promise all things now, but, when enjoyed,  
What wilt thou give? Love's gone when Lust is cloyed:  
You will deceive, you Men are all deceit,  
And we so willing to believe the cheat:  D. 
O, could I give my Soul, what Oaths can do  
I'll bind; I must, I cannot but be true:  S. 
I yield, forgive Diana, O forgive,  
I lived thy Votary, but no more can live:  D. 
Pleased, Ravished, O, I'll kill in yonder Grove  
A Steer to Venus; and a Bull to Love:  S. 
I'm Woman grown that was a Maid before,  D. 
A teeming Woman, and a Maid no more:  
Thus murmuring they did their soft Heats improve,  
And went, and knew the Mystery of Love:  
She rose, and smiled, and banished Modesty  
Regained her Seat, and sat upon her Eye:  
Yet secret Pleasure thro' her looks appeared;  
And joyful Daphnis went, and fed his Herd.   

Idyllium XXV.  
A short account of the Death of Pentheus the Theban King, whom his Mother and Aunts tore in Pieces for disturbing the Solemnities of Bacchus.  
To Mr. Dring of Wadh. Col.  
I NO, the fierce Autonoe, and the fair  
Agau three Thyrsi to the Hills did bear,  
In number Three; they plucked wild Oaks and Bays,  
And in plain Fields did twelve green Altars raise;  
With Ivy shaded, and adorned with Vine,  
Fair Semele had Three, and Bacchus Nine,  
Bacchus the Weomen's God, and men's delight,  
These take at Day, and those receive at Night:  
From Baskets than those sacred gifts they made  
They gladly took, and on the Altar laid,  
Mysterious gifts, to please the wondrous God,  
And Honour him the way that he had showed:  
Young Pentheus lay in shady Hills concealed,  
And from the Rock the wondrous rites beheld,  
Autonoë spied him first, and cried aloud,  
See their the great Contemner of the God;  
And out she ran, and as she went o'erthrew  
The sacred rites, which no profane must view:  
She first grew mad, than all the rest were fired,  
Their Fury rose as High as Rage inspired:  
Young Pentheus fled when he their madness viewed,  
They tucked their Coats and eagerly pursued:  
He cried, what mean the Women? Oh forbear!  
Wretch you shall feel, they answered, ere you hear:  
His Mother seized, and snatched his Head away,  
And roared, as a fierce Tigress o'er her prey,  
Ino stamped on his Breast, his Arm she tore,  
And fierce Autonoe reekt with royal gore:  
Others seized other Limbs, each snatched a part,  
And every hand reached forward to his heart:  
This done they shouted, and ran madly down,  
And bore the bloody Trophies to the Town:  
Deserved: Let none his Mighty Power offend,  
Lest greater mischiefs, and vast pains attend,  
Let me be good, Let me the just approve,  
For this is pleasing, and the care of Jove:  
For Pious Fathers on their Sons derive  
Sure blessings, which the Impious cannot give;  
They live themselves still vexed with sharp remorse,  
And leave a long Hereditary Curse:  
Hail Bacchus Hail, whom snatched from Destiny  
Great Jove secured, and fostered in his Thigh:  
Hail Semele, and all his Sister's hail,  
Whose fame resounds thro' every Grecian vale:  
Their Act was just that did reward the Sin,  
They showed the Votary, and put off the Kin:  
Take heed Profane, by this Example showed,  
For what the Gods inspire must needs be good.   

Idyllium XXVI.  
An advice to a Friend to be constant in his Love.  
To Charles Viner of Wadham College, Esquire.  
WIne, Friend, and Truth, the Proverb says, agree,  
And now I'm heated take this Truth from me;  
The Secrets that lay deep and hid before  
Now raised by Wine swim up, and bubble o'er;  
Then take this rising Truth I can't control,  
Thou dost not Love Me, Youth, with all thy Soul;  
I know it, for this half of Life I boast  
I have from you, the other half is lost:  
When e'er you smile I rival Gods above,  
Grown perfect, and exalted by thy Love;  
But when you frown, and when dislike you show,  
I sink to Hell, more cursed than all below;  
Yet how can this with common sense agree  
To torture one that loves, and dies for Thee?  
But Youth, could my Advice thy thoughts engage,  
Mine who have learned Experience by my Age,  
The counsel's good, and when a numerous store  
Of Blessings Crown Thee, Thou wilt praise me more:  
On one Tree build one Nest, and build it strong,  
Where no fierce Snake can creep, and seize thy young:  
Now here you stand, and suddenly are gone,  
You leap from Bough to Bough, and fix on none.  
If any views thy Beauty, and Commends,  
You straight enrol him midst your ancient friends,  
Whilst all your old Acquaintance laid aside,  
Dear youth this smells of Vanity and Pride:  
Love One, your Equal, love whilst Life remains,  
This pleases all, and Commendation gains,  
By this your Passion will but light appear  
Which conquers all, and all are forced to bear;  
Love seizes all; and doth all Minds control,  
It melts the stubborn temper of my Soul;  
But O I must embrace, Dear, grant one Kiss,  
And thus reward, and practise my Advice.   

Idyllium XXVII.  
The Boar that killed Adonis is brought before Venus.  
To William Kenrick of Wadham College, Esquire.  
WHen Venus saw Adonis dead,  
His Cheeks all pale, and beauty fled,  
His Hair grown stiff with clotted gore,  
And now to be beloved no more,  
She bade her Cupid's trace the Grove,  
And bring the Boar that killed her Love:  
They, quick as the Command, ran o'er  
The Wood, and found the hated Boar,  
They seized, and bound, strong Cords they twined,  
Some drew before, some drove behind,  
One twirled his Tail to make him go,  
Another lashed him with his Bow:  
The fearful Beast went trembling on,  
As conscious of the deed he done,  
His hanging looks his guilt betrayed  
Of Venus' Fury much afraid:  
When come, Her rage these words expressed:  
Thou vilest Monster of a Beast,  
Were these the cruel Tusks did tear?  
Wast Thou the ruin of my Dear?  
The Boar, replied, By thee, thy Love,  
By All that's kind, and apt to move,  
By what I suffer, by these chains,  
And these that drive me to my pains,  
I ne'er had a design to kill  
Thy Fair, it was against my Will:  
But when I saw his naked Thigh  
As white as polished Ivory,  
How did my Flame and Fury rise!  
How was I fired at the surprise!  
At last unable to resist  
Ah me! too furiously I kissed,  
And this the Boys destruction brought,  
And Love betrayed me to a fault:  
These Tusks destroy, and punish these  
The cursed disturbers of thy ease,  
For why should I have leave to prove  
These Tusks that have no use in Love:  
Or if the crime demands no less  
These Lips I offer to appease:  
These words so moveingly expressed  
Calmed all the Fury of her Breast,  
She soon forgave, released her Foe,  
And bad her Cupids let him go,  
But he ne'er sought Woods again,  
But stayed attending on her train;  
And to the Funeral Pile he came,  
And burned his Tusks in the devouring flame.   

Idyllium XXVIII.  
He presents a Distaff to Theeugnis his Friend Nicias his Wife.  
To Mr. Charles Whiteing of Wadham College.  
DIstaff, thou greatest gift on Man bestowed  
By fair Minerva as the chiefest good,  
Whom wise and thrifty Women still retain,  
And raise their Husband's fortune by their pain,  
Retire with me to Nileu's beauteous Town,  
Where stately shrines grace Venus and her Son,  
For thither, Distaff, I am now designed,  
And beg of mighty Jove a prosperous wind,  
To be enjoyed by, and enjoy my Friend:  
Nicias, in whom the sweet tongued Graces rest,  
Learning itself is seated in his Breast,  
There thou of polished Ivory framed shalt prove,  
A grateful present to his dearest Love;  
From thee shall all her Husband's Vests be spun,  
From thee She'll often draw a flowery Gown;  
For Lambs do lose their Fleeces twice a year  
To fill her Baskets, and be wrought by her:  
So painful is Theeugnis, what the wise  
And thrifty Matron's value, She will prise:  
Nor would I send thee to an idle place  
Thou product of our Country, and our grace;  
For thou wert made where Walls stout Archias framed,  
The Pride of Sicily, for valour famed:  
Now thou shalt visit him whose wondrous skill  
Can save the Men that Fate designs to kill,  
Whose Herbs can soon restore a life when lost,  
And by his Art bring back the flying Ghost:  
That fair Theeugnis may by all be known  
To have the neatest Distaff in the Town;  
And still of me her friend kind thoughts infuse,  
Of me the chiefest Darling of the Muse:  
There some shall see thee, and these words repeat,  
The presents small, but yet the kindness great,  
The Giver's Love doth little Gifts commend,  
And every thing is valued from a Friend.   

Idyllium XXIX.  
Hercules going to Augias' meets a Herdsman, of whom he asks the usual questions which a Stranger makes, and receives satisfaction: and is afterward brought to the King and his Son Phyleus, who were then in the Fields; By those he is invited to the Town, and in the way tells Phyleus how he had killed the Nemean Lion.  
To Mr. Thomas Piggot of Wadham College.  Imperfect in the Greek. 
AND then the Herdsman, from his labouring hand  
He threw his work, thus answered his demand:  
I'll gladly tell what e'er thy mind desires,  
This Justice craves, and Mercury requires;  
For he of all the Gods resents it most,  
When we deny a Stranger what is just:  
Look, Stranger, all the numerous Herds around  
With which the Vales are filled, and Hills are crowned,  
King Augias' owns; o'er thousand Plains they spread,  
In different Meads, and various Pastures fed,  
Some on the flowery Banks of Eli stray,  
And some where smooth Alpheus eats his way;  
Some midst the Vines in fair Boupraisium go,  
Some here, the Valleys tremble when they Low:  
For each of these the King fair Stalls hath reared,  
Tho numerous, large, and equal to the Herd:  
And here fresh Grass still clothes the fruitful Plain,  
The Blades, as soon as cropped, arise again,  
For Springs cut thro' the Plain, and feed the Grass,  
All fit to fatten Oxen, and increase:  
Look, on thy right hand far beyond the Flood  
The Stall appears between the shady Wood,  
Next where wild Olives, and high Planes do grow;  
Apollo's shrine, to whom the Herdsmen bow,  
And own the greatest Deity below.  
Next are the Farmer's Stalls, whose Labours bring  
Whole Streams of gain, and much enrich the King,  
For thrice they Blow, thrice sow the teeming soil,  
Which still invites, and still rewards their toil:  
Many large Vineyards plant, his Vines they dress▪  
And sweaty Autumn treads the flowing Press:  
For all these Gardens, Fields, and Plains around  
Till yonder watery Hills the compass bound,  
King Augias' owns, and here all day we bear  
The Heat and Cold, and urge the weighty share:  
But Sir, (for I no common Aid may prove)  
What Business led you to this happy Grove,  
Would you the King, or any Servant See,  
I can direct you, you shall learn from Me:  
For sure you seem, if well I make your face,  
Great in yourself, and noble in your race;  
How brave you look! and what a Port you bear!  
So look the Sons of Gods when they appear:  
This said he bowed, and Jove's stout Son replied,  
Swain, Generous, free from Savageness or Pride,  
I seek the King whom all these Realms obey,  
Business with him first drew my Feet this way,  
If midst his Subjects now he keeps the Town,  
Divideing Justice from his equal Throne,  
Give me a Swain to guide, a Master Swain,  
Who when I ask can answer me again,  
For Man is made to be a help to Man:  
Thus spoke Alcides, Thus the Swain replied,  
Sir, all the way some God your feet must guide,  
So luckily things happen, so conspire  
To please your Mind, and answer your desire:  
Last night King Augias' and his valiant Son  
Young Phyleus left the hurry of the Town,  
They came to spend some days midst peaceful Swains,  
And view their wondrous riches on the Plains,  
This Pains some Princes take, they leave their ease,  
For when they watch themselves their Stores increase:  
When with Heaven's Providence they join their own,  
A double guard secures their safer Throne,  
But come, let's go, and both the Prince attend,  
In yonder Stall, He'll love so great a Friend:  
This said he hastened to conduct his guest,  
His wonder still at every step increased;  
His Lion's Skin, vast Club, his Mein and Face  
Still heightened, still he wondered what he was;  
Oft he would ask, but yet as oft repressed  
The rising Query in his troubled Breast,  
Lest it should seem too rude, and ill designed,  
For, O, 'tis hard to know another's Mind!  
Whilst yet far off the faithful Mastiffs knew  
The noise and smell of both, and out they flew:  
From every part they at the Hero run  
With open mouths, resolved to tear him down:  
But round the Swain they wagged their tails, and played;  
And in hoarse murmurs savage joy betrayed:  
He stooped to take up stones, they stopped their noise,  
He spoke, they feared the thunder of his voice:  
All silent fled, but yet the Swain was glad  
To see his Mastiffs care, and thus he said:  
What useful Creatures are these Dogs to Man!  
How full of care! how useful to a Swain!  
Had they but reason to know whom to tear,  
And whom to love, what Creature could compare!  
But now they're Brutish, than he cried, begun;  
Each took his Stall▪ and lay in quiet down:  
Now down the West with a descending ray  
Bright Phoebus' drove, and bore declineing day:  
Now shades drew on, and full of Milk and food;  
The Sheep came home, and lay and chewed the Cud:  
Next these the Cows and Oxen filled the Plain,  
As thick as Clouds when Jove descends in rain:  
When watery Southwinds bring their Treasures forth,  
Or when They're huddled by the stormy North:  
No man can count them, for so fast they rise,  
And follow one another thro' the Skies,  
Still new and new the driveing tempest brings,  
And bears vast burdens on his weary Wings:  
These Herds a Herdsman drove, the fields, and road  
Were 〈◊〉 the valleys sounded when they lowed:  
The Sta●●● were crowded, and could scarce contain,  
And S●●●p lay round, and bleated o'er the Plain:  
Th●●●ousand Slaves stood round of every kind,  
No●e wanted work, all had their Tasks assigned:  
One shackled starting Cows, and whilst they stood  
He milked, and straight the largest Pail o'erflowed:  
One let the Calves to suck, they soon were filled  
With sweetest Milk, such stores the Cows did yield:  
Some bore the Pails, and some did run the Cheese  
Hot from the Cow, some raised the Wring to squeeze,  
And some the Bulls apart from Heifers drove,  
They turned and bellowed, eager on their Love:  
The King himself went round to every Herd,  
To see what Calves his Servants Care had reared:  
And whilst thro' his vast Stores he traced the Plain,  
His Son and great Alcides made his train;  
Here though our Hero's Soul great Shows despised,  
Was constant, fixed, too brave to be surprised,  
Yet now at last his wonder rose to view,  
Such numerous Herds, and scarce could think 'twas true,  
That One such stores should have, that could suffice  
Ten Kings, and fill capacious Avarice:  
But this was a peculiar favour shown,  
A Blessing sent by Phoebus on his Son,  
His Cattle still must thrive, his Herds be blest,  
And Heaven secured what ere the King possessed:  
His Cows ne'er cast their Calves, and no disease,  
The Herdsman's plague, was e'er allowed to seize:  
From year to year the numerous Herd increased  
New Calves were reared, and still the last were best,  
Three hundred Bulls, turned Horns grace every head,  
Their legs were white, with these two hundred red,  
All leapt the Cows, begot a numerous race,  
And soon supplied frail Nature's chance-decays,  
Apart from these twelve mighty Bulls did run,  
As white as Snow, and sacred to the Sun;  
Each with his shape might tempt the Tyrian Queen,  
They fed, were pleased, and wantoned o'er the Green:  
And when fierce Lions from the Woods appeared  
They turned to fight, and still secured the Herd,  
They bellowed lowed, they tore the trembling ground,  
And with bend foreheads aimed a double wound:  
Midst these one Bull did far excel the rest,  
Called Phaeton, a stout and mighty Beast  
This name the Herdsman gave deduced from light,  
For his quick Courage, and his strength in fight;  
He all excelled, was stately, valiant, fair,  
As much as Phaeton the meanest Star:  
The Lion's Skin, that o'er the Hero spread  
As soon as first he saw, he bent his head,  
And ran to push, he quickly shunned the wound,  
His left Horn grasped, and pulled him to the ground,  
Invain he strove, invain he spurned the Sand,  
With doubled strength the Hero fixed his hand,  
Then urged his breast, and forced the Bull to rear  
On high, and held him Beating in the Air:  
The King, his valiant Son, and all the Plain  
Admired his strength, and thought him more than Man:  
The Prince and Hero now dark shades grew on,  
The Meadows left, and hastened to the Town:  
They took a path which from the distant Stall  
Thro Vine-yards led, and thro' a pleasing vale,  
'twas little beaten, thro' a shady Grove  
A soft and cool retreat for happy Love,  
No heavy Clowns came there whose weighty tread  
Might spoil the verdure of the grassy bed:  
And as they walked with a Majestic look  
Young Phyleus turned his head, and thus he spoke:  
Sir, if I guess aright, your sounding Fame  
Hath reached my Ears, though 't has not told your name,  
For one an Argive, valiant, stout and young  
From Aelis came, and pleased the listening throng  
He said, whilst he was there, and vowed 'twas true,  
A valiant Greek a furious Lion slew,  
Strong, cruel, bloody, that destroyed the Swains,  
The fierce Nemean Terror of the Plains;  
But whether Argos his great Birth could boast  
Or Sparta gave, my Memory hath lost;  
But yet he said, though I forget the place,  
For that I mind, he was of Perseus' race;  
You, Sir, I hope are he, the man that fought,  
This Skin proclaims as much, and clears my doubt:  
But pray inform me, 'twill afford delight  
And please me much if I conjecture right,  
Tell me if you are he, the brave, the bold,  
Of whom the Argive's wondrous tale was told;  
Tell how the Lion fell, what strokes he stood,  
And how he came to the Nemean Wood,  
For did you seek it, you would seek invain  
For such a Monster on the Grecian Plain,  
She breeds no such, the Bear, the Wolf, and Boar,  
Unlucky Beasts, she breeds, and breeds no more;  
Hence some admire, and some the tale accuse  
As if contrived to please, and to amuse:  
This said he bowed, and stepped aside to show  
The Path was large, and wide enough for two;  
He begged the Hero to advance more near,  
That they might speak with greater ease, and hear,  
He soon came forward, and whilst side by side  
They walked, he to his question thus replied  
Brave Augias' Son, what ere the Prince hath said  
Is right, and his conjecture duly weighed,  
Yet I'll inform you how the Monster fell,  
And whence it came, for very few can tell;  
But most imagine 'twas designly sent  
To prove the base Pheroneans punishment,  
Neglect of Duty had provoked a God:  
The poor Piseans like a headlong flood  
He ravaged o'er and drowned their Fields in Blood:  
But most the Bembinaeans felt his rage,  
And lingered out a miserable Age,  
This task Euristeus, whom I must obey,  
Imposed, and hoped to see me prove the Lion's prey:  
I took my Bow, my Hollow Quiver bore  
Sharp Arrows armed with the Lernaean gore,  
When e'er I draw a shaft Deaths wait around  
To guide the Dart, and enter at the wound:  
My left hand grasped my Club, strong, knotty, rude,  
With all its Bark, unpolisht from the Wood;  
It grew on Helicon, I plucked it thence  
With Roots and all, and wield for my Defence:  
Approaching to the Wood, I bent my Bow,  
My Arrow knocked, and wished to meet my Foe,  
I looked around, and tried, prepared for fight,  
To spy the Beast, and take advantage of the sight,  
'Twas midday now, and yet no Beast appeared,  
No tract was seen, nor any roaring herd,  
No Herdsman, Swain, that might his Den declare,  
All lay at home chained up with slavish fear:  
But still I traced the Groves, thro' Woods I pressed,  
Resolved at last to find and fight the Beast:  
For every Evening glutted with the Blood  
Of slaughtered Beasts he took the shady Wood;  
His Main was stiff with gore, his grisly Beard  
His long Tongue licked with Blood and foam besmeared;  
Behind a Thicket I impatient lay  
And wished each Minute was the Close of day,  
That I might see him; Lo at last he came,  
In look as dreadful as he was in fame;  
I drew my Bow, and shot, the String did sound,  
And Death stood ready to attend the wound,  
But from his side the Shaft rebounding fell,  
And proved the hardened Beast was armed too well:  
The Lion roared, he raised his furious Head  
And looked to see from whence the Arrow fled,  
His flaming Eyes shot Fire, unsheathed his Paws,  
He gaped, and Teeth looked dreadful in his Jaws:  
I knocked another Arrow, drew again,  
Enraged to see the former shot invain:  
The Breast it struck where Life maintains her Seat,  
And labouring Lungs still fan the vital Heat:  
But that invain did from his Breast rebound,  
And raised his Fury only, not a wound:  
A third I drew, but e'er I aimed aright;  
The Beast perceived me, and prepared for fight:  
His Tail twirled round, his Neck was swollen with Rage,  
And every Limb seemed eager to engage,  
His Mane stood up, his fiery Eyes did glow,  
And Crooked Back was bend into a Bow:  
And as when Wheelers take a sturdy Oak,  
Or Elm, and Bathe it in the glowing smoke,  
To make a Wheel, at first it bends, and stands  
And then at once leaps from their grasping Hands:  
So leapt the Beast at me, such Springs as these  
He made, grown eager and resolved to seize:  
But I received him, in my left I held  
My Darts, and a thick garment was my Shield,  
My Right did wield my Club, and aimed a Blow,  
As He was leaping forward, at his Brow,  
A lucky blow, but on the hardened bones  
It broke, the Lion sighed in hollow groans;  
Some steps retired, as if all Sense was fled,  
And stood with shakeing Legs, and dizzyed head:  
Mists seized his Eyes, and an amazing pain  
Ran thro' the crazy Vessels of his Brain:  
This I observed, and now an easy prey  
I threw my Quiver and my shafts away  
And seized his Neck; and whilst his Sense was gone  
I gripped him hard, and kept the Lion down;  
My G●●pes d●●bled, and behind I pressed,  
Lest 〈…〉 ●aws should tear my adverse Breast,  
On's h●nde● 〈◊〉 I 〈◊〉, and squeezed his Thighs  
With mine, 〈◊〉 spurned invain and strove to rise:  
At last o'ercome when he 〈◊〉 strove invain  
He lay extended o● the ●a●al Plain,  
I held him breathless, did his force control,  
And gapeing Hell received his mighty Soul:  
Then next I sought how I might gain the Spoils,  
And with his precious Skin reward my toils;  
The task was hard, for neither Wood, nor Stone,  
Nor Steel could pierce, and make the Skin my own:  
But then some God did happy thoughts infuse,  
The Paws he showed, and taught me those to use:  
I did, and flayed him, and the Hide I bear  
To be my strong security in War:  
Thus fell the Beast by which such numbers fell,  
And fled amidst his slaughtered Heaps to Hell.   

Idyllium XXX.  
The Fight between Amycus and Pollux: This Amycus being excellently well skilled at Whirlebats, made a Decree that whatever Stranger came into his Country should fight with him; after he had slain a great many, Pollux at last overcomes him.  
To Mr. Robert D' oily of Wadham College.  
FAir Leda's Sons and mighty Jove's I sing  
Castor and Pollux Glories of the Ring,  
None toss their Whirlebats with so brave a force,  
None guide so well the Fury of their Horse,  
With trebled Songs I sing the glorious Two,  
The great supports and helps of Man below,  
When midst destructive Wars swift dangers press,  
Or stormy Stars send Tempests o'er the Seas;  
They toss the Floods, and raise the swelling Tide  
At Poop or Prow, and dash on either side,  
Or pour into the Ship, the Planks and Masts  
Are torn, nor can the Sails endure the Blasts,  
But rend hang useless; Storms of Hail and Rain  
From Heaven descend, and beat the Spacious Main:  
The Waters roar, the Troubled Ocean raves  
Whilst Hail and Stormy Winds do beat the Waves  
Yet than you draw the Ship from deepest Seas,  
And those that looked for Death are cheered with ease;  
The Clouds all fly and Storms strict silence keep,  
And a smooth Calmness spreads o'er all the Deep:  
Bright Stars appear, and with a beauteous ray  
Presage good voyages, and show the way:  
Great helps to Man, of Both my Muse must write  
Both skilled in Horses, singing, and in fight,  
But Muse, whose Praises must I first rehearse?  
Sing Both, first Pollux grace thy sounding Verse:  
When Argo's Sails had 'scaped the closeing Shores,  
And swept cold Pontus with her nimble Oars,  
She touched Bebryca, forced by prosperous fate,  
The Sons of Gods and Heroes were her freight:  
And there they landed; when they came to land  
Some raised Grass-beds, and by their Lords command  
Some dressed their Meat upon the naked Sand:  
Castor and Pollux weary of the Floods  
Left all their Mates, and traced the shady Woods:  
And as they gazed, beneath a gloomy Cave  
They saw a Spring roll on a purling wave,  
Like Silver pure, and round on every part  
Contrived by prudent Nature's happy art  
Small Fountains flowed, and bubled o'er the Grass,  
As clear as Crystal, and as smooth as Glass:  
Tall Firs and Planes, and Cypress shade the Streams,  
Defending from the Fury of the Beams,  
The Banks were crowned with Flowers, which Nature brings  
For Bees, and to embalm the dying Springs:  
By this a Man in shineing Armour sat,  
Frightful his look, and terrible as Fate:  
His Face was full of Knubs, how large his Chest?  
His Shoulders broad and equal to his Breast:  
His Flesh like Brass, more hard the more he fought,  
Like a Colossus on an Anvil wrought:  
And as tall Rocks that have long time withstood  
The numerous whirlings of a rapid Flood,  
At last grow round, but yet unconquered stand,  
So looked the swelling Muscles on his hand;  
And o'er his Shoulders hung a Lion's Skin  
Clasped by the golden Paws beneath his Chin;  
With some surprise and wonder in his look  
Brave Pollux viewed him, and at last he spoke:  P. 
Health Sir, what Nations plough this happy shore?  A. 
How health, when I see men ne'er seen before?  P. 
Fear not, we're honest, and no danger's near;  A. 
I do not, nor need you bid me not fear:  P. 
Your Answer's rude, your manners are untame,  A. 
What's that? Sir, as you see me, such I am:  
But what have you to do to tread these shores,  
Did ere I come to trouble you on yours?  P. 
Sir if you did you should be entertained,  
Be graced with gifts, and treated as a friend:  A. 
Talk not of Presents thus, thy gifts I scorn,  
Nor have I any ready to return:  P. 
May I not taste the Streams that idly flow?  A. 
If Thirst hath scorched thy Bowels thou shalt know:  P. 
Here's Gold, I'll give you any price to gain:  A. 
Then you must fight a single Man to Man:  
Set foot to foot, and steady Eyes advance,  
And use your greatest skill, nor trust to Chance:  P. 
Whom must I fight with? must I beat the Air?  A. 
Thy match is ready, and thy equal near:  P. 
And what's the prize? what must the Conqueror have?  A. 
The conquered, Sir, shall be the Conqueror's Slave:  P. 
This is Cock's sport, not fit for generous Men,  
Where the dull Dastard leaves the Cackling Hen:  A. 
Or Cock's or Lion's, I'm resolved on this:  
I than myself can stake no worthier prize:  
This said, Amycus, did his Trumpet sound,  
The Valleys rung, and echoed all around,  
Thro every distant Field the noise was heard,  
And Crowds of stout Bebrycians soon appeared:  
Whilst from the Ship the thronging Heroes press,  
To view the Fight and judge of the Success,  
Now were their Whirlbats bound, rough Thongs embraced  
Their knotty Arms, and tied their Weapons fast:  
Out they advanced, and each with Fury shook,  
They breathed Defiance, Terror in their look:  
Here was a noble strife of Art begun  
Who on his Back should gain the setting Sun,  
And Pollux gained it, the descending Rays  
Shone full in mighty Amycus' Face:  
Enraged at this his headlong Fury ro●e,  
And he rushed on, and doubled all his blows,  
But Pollux soused his Cheek, it flowed with gore,  
He saw his Blood, and then he raged the more:  
The Fight grew hotter, like a mighty Oak  
He backward bend to take the greater stroke,  
Shouts the Bebrycians gave, and raised his Heat,  
The Heroes cheered stout Pollux with as great;  
For they all feared lest forced to narrow straits  
Pollux should fall beneath the threatened weights:  
But he with dextrous skill and watchful Art  
Still shunned the strokes, secure on every part,  
He plied him hard, and did his force control,  
Tho great his Courage, furious was his Soul:  
Dozed with the strokes the nodding Hero stood,  
And from his Mouth flowed Streams of clotted Blood▪  
The Grecians shouted when they viewed the blows,  
And saw his broken Cheeks, and battered Nose,  
His Eyes contracted in his swelling Face,  
And by their shoutings doubled the disgrace:  
The Prince still eager pressed, he plied him hard,  
And with false strokes soon beat him from his guard,  
And, when he saw him staggering, aimed a blow,  
The stroke was sure, and smote his haughty Brow,  
The Ball returned as from a hardened Stone,  
But tore the Flesh, and left the naked Bone:  
O'er come by this and yielding to the wound  
The Hero fell, and bit the bloody ground;  
But rose, and then a fiercer Fight began,  
Enraged by his Disgrace, and by his pain:  
Both tossed their Whirlbats, and vast wounds bestowed,  
With Blood and Sweat their labouring Bodies flowed:  
Stout Amycus still aimed at Hands and Breast,  
And with redoubled force he bravely pressed,  
But wiser Pollux every fatal blow  
Aimed at his Head, and crazed his nodding Brow:  
His limbs grew less, his colour turned to pale,  
And from a mighty Giant shrunk to small,  
But Pollux seemed to grow, he looked more great,  
His colour better, and increased by Heat;  
But Muse, how Pollux did the Hero quell  
What stroke he gave, explain, for you can tell,  
I sing as you direct, your voice obey,  
And gladly follow, when you lead the way:  
Designing now to push the Combat on  
He seized on Pollux left hand with his own,  
Bending to shun the stroke, and closeing nigh  
Reached out his right, and grasped his Brawny Thigh:  
But he his body bowed, and broke the Lock,  
And at his Temple aimed a fatal stroke,  
Just where the vital powers their Seats maintain,  
And work new Spirits to support the Brain,  
There fell the Blow; wide gaped the horrid wound  
To let in Fate, and the vast Hero groaned:  
The blood sprang out, his mouth his lefthand smote  
And shattered Teeth fell down his battered throat:  
His Cheeks were beaten close, his Nose grew flat,  
And trebled Blows still urged his hasty Fate:  
The Hero fell extended o'er the Plain,  
Gave o'er the Fight, nor could he rise again,  
His hands stretched out, as, whilst he breathed his last,  
He meant to keep off Fate that came too fast,  
Here no proud word, and no disdainful Eye  
On thy lost Foe did slain thy Victory;  
But he by his great Father Neptune swore,  
That he would never injure Strangers more:  
Thus have I Pollux sung, and paid my due,  
My next, great Castor, must be graced by you.  

Castor and Pollux had taken away Phoebe and Talaris the Daughters of Lucippus, who were betrothed to Lynceus and Idas the Sons of Aphareus: A War ensueing Castor kills Lynceus, and Idas is slain by Thunder.  
NOW had the Valiant Sons of mighty Jove,  
Grown fierce and too injurious by their Love  
Lucippus Daughters seized, and forced away  
Their beauteous prize, and melancholy prey:  
Aphareus Sons pursued, resolved to try  
Their Force, and gain their promised Brides, or die;  
Both sides now meet at brave Aphareus Tomb,  
Which Fate designed the Lover's Field of doom;  
All from their Chariots leap, for fight prepare,  
Well armed, and well appointed for the War:  
When Lynceus thus beneath his Helmet spoke,  
The Valleys Echoed, and the Mountains shook:  
What means this rage, this impious violence,  
To ravish first, then fight in its defence?  
What mean the Shields and Spears, these Iron bands,  
And naked Weapons in your threatening Hands?  
Lucippus' Daughters are by right our due,  
Betrothed to us before e'er known to you:  
His Oaths confirmed it, and 'twas base by stealth  
To covet others right, and others wealth;  
By gifts to bribe him, and his mind pervert,  
And win by Art, unable by desert:  
And often I, your base designs to check,  
Have said, though I can better fight than speak;  
Unprincely 'tis to court another's Spouse,  
And tempt weak Innocence to break her Vows:  
Sparta and Elis breed a numerous race,  
All perfect Beauties both in mind and face:  
There you may Court, and whom you please may have,  
What Parents will refuse the rich and brave?  
Permit our Match, let us our right pursue,  
And we will join to find fit Brides for you:  
These were my words, but these the wanton Winds  
Bore to the floods, they never reached your Minds,  
For both inexorabl● bent appeared,  
You heard, but ne'er regarded what you heard:  
Yet now be just, our promised Brides restore,  
For we are Kin, and then I ask no more:  
But if you needs must fight, if War desire,  
If nought but Blood can quench your lustful fire;  
Let Pollux and let Ida's Arms forbear,  
And never try the hated chance of War;  
Letoy▪ Castor, you and I the fight maintain,  
And see whose Courage shows the bravest Man:  
For this will give our Friends sufficient proof,  
And if one fal●s there will be loss enough;  
Let some survive to cheer our drooping friends,  
And wed the Maids, and make them just amends:  
For this is friendly to restrain our heat,  
And make the loss but small, when the Contention's great▪  
Thus Lynceus spoke, to this both sides agree,  
And Jove confirmed it by his ●ixt decree;  
Pollux and Idas laid there Armour by,  
Attending on their Brother's Victory:  
Lynceus did first within the lists appear  
Beneath his Shield he shook his threatening Spear,  
Then Castor came, strong Shields did guard their Breasts,  
And on their Helmets nodded dreadful Crests;  
First with their Spears began the noble strife,  
Each sought to find an open pass to Life;  
But all invain, the Shields the strokes endured,  
Their Spears were blunted, and the Men secured;  
Their Swords they drew, the Blades like Lightning shone  
Before the Thunderbolt falls swiftly down;  
Now rose their Fury, Castor bravely pressed,  
He pierced his Shield and chopped the waveing Crest;  
And many thrusts the quick-eyed Lynceus made  
The Shield, and Crest once felt his furious Blade:  
But Castor stepping backward reached a blow,  
And struck his Wrist, and tamed his haughty foe,  
Disabled thus, and grown unfit for fight  
He dropped his weapon, and prepared for flight  
To his great Father's Tomb, where Idas sat,  
A sad Spectator of his Brother's Fate:  
But Castor soon pursued, close thrusts he made,  
And thro' his Belly forced his thundering Blade;  
Out rushed his Bowels thro' the gapeing wound,  
And he fell forward on the shaking ground,  
Cold Death came on and did his heart surprise,  
And Sleep Eternal sat upon his Eyes.  
Nor did his Mother valiant Ida's lead  
With pious wishes to his Marriage bed,  
For to revenge fallen Lynceus hasty doom  
He tore a Pillar from the sacred Tomb,  
To dart at Castor, dreadfully he stood,  
The fierce Revenger of his Brother's blood;  
Jove interposed, and by his strict command  
Swift Lightning struck the Marble from his hand,  
He strove to reach it, but his Soul was fired,  
He fell, and in no Common Destiny expired:  
Thus must the Brothers still victorious prove,  
So Great in Courage, and allied to Jove.  
Hail Leda's Sons, still vigorous strength infuse,  
And still preserve the Honour of my Muse:  
You, Helen, and the Valiant Brave that strove  
At Troy for Injured Menelaus' Love,  
Poets have served, for with exalted rage  
They tell your fame, and spread thro' future Age;  
Homer hath raised it with a lofty thought,  
He writes with the same Spirit that you fought;  
He sings the Grecian fleet, grave Nestor's care,  
And brave Achilles, fortress of the War:  
I bring the Tribute of a meaner Muse,  
Those humble strains her spareing Heats infuse;  
Yet this is all, the best that I can do,  
The utmost that my Talon will allow:  
And to the Gods, let Riches vainly strive,  
Songs are the greatest present Men can give.    
FINIS.