The mournful Shepherdess of Arcadiah. OR, The solitary sollitudes of the matchless Shepherdess:  

Whose earthly joy did shine with lustre bright,  
But now's eclipsed and turned to dismal night;   
The Tune is, Tell me you wand'ring Spirits, etc.  
 
 

ASsist me Muses with your power divine,  
to portrait out the sable plaints of mine,  
Melpominy direct my warbling quill,  
Descending down from high Parnassus' hill  
And sing in queers a heavenly harmony  
Whilst I, whilst I for want of Clora fain would die.   

I was a Shepherdess of beauty, bright and fair  
Endued with graces, honours passing rare,  
And as the Phoenix is more excellent,  
Then all the birds under the firmament,  
So was I counted, though I live forlorn  
My joys, my joys are all transposed which makes me mourn   

I flourished like the lovely Marigold,  
Or damask Roses beauteous to behold,  
Whilst lustrous Phoebus with his splendour bright,  
Did spread our blossoms with his glorious light,  
Such operations had the powerful sun,  
But now, but now it is dissoled, my joys are done.   

The rural Swains that were our friendly Mates  
That knew our bliss, our joys, and happy states,  
Unfeignedly in hearts they did rejoice,  
To hear my Clora's sweet melodious voice,  
His oaten reed did sound with pleasant glee,  
But now, but now joys is turned to misery,   

With silver tones, his Bagpipes chanted shrill  
(In height of glory on Parnassus' hill,)  
Whose harmony delighted all the Swains,  
That used to sport upon the lovely plains,  
With dancing Galliards, Jigs, and Roundelays,  
And none, and none but Clora, Clora got the praise   

When scorthing Titan with his burning beams,  
In midst of Summer was upon extremes;  
Then to the green woods side he did convey  
His pretty Lambs and Sheep to feed and play,  
This was his care whilst Clora he did keep  
In fields, in fields his tender flock, & harmless sheep.   
 
 

The second part  
to the same Tune  

WHen blustering Boreas from the North blew cold  
Then did he pen them safely in their Fold  
And when that Winter's bitter tempest came  
His zealous care was to prevent the same,  
But Clora's gone, unto another Sphere,  
Installed, installed a Saint or blessed spirit there.   

And since he's gone, whilst I am left alone,  
The Rural Swains, with heaby sighs and moan  
Do seem to call his to his place again,  
But Oh alas, their wishes are in vain;  
The harmless sheep, do seem to mourn and pinh,  
Though he, though he, invested in with Saints divine   

Our pretty Lambs are straggling gone astray,  
(who wants a guide must surely lose his way)  
The waters troubled where owned Herds did drink  
And want that virtue to expel the stink,  
His Crook and Scrip he left behind we see  
For heaven, for heaven & glorious joys more rarer be.   

Th● whistling Blackbird, and the Nightingale,  
Whose silver tones were styled heroical,  
The Queristers both of the Woods and Fields,  
Whose harmony melodious music yields,  
They're metamorphorized into sighs and cries,  
Besides, besides the Swan that sings now mourning dies.   

And I in pleasant story too have read,  
That when the Turtle Dove is gone and dead  
The Mate lives single in a mournful state,  
So will I do till death strikes out my date,  
In sollitudes, and pensive heart excel,  
Then shall, then shall the world confess, I loved him well.   

Oh that my date were out, my time were near  
That I might meet him whom I love so dear,  
In high Olympus' heavens celestial throne  
(A place prepared for blessed Saints alone.)  
The world is sin, and naughty beside,  
O that, O that my death had been when Clora died.    
FINIS.  A. S.  

London printed for Fran Grove on Snow-hill.