Pastoral

WHILE the clear Brook in prattling Murmurs play'd,
And Solitude adorn'd the pleasing Shade,
Blythe Corydon breath'd forth his glowing Joy—
Ye Swains, attend—thus sung the am'rous Boy.

No more to Fancy's. Dreams the Notes belong,
Nor weak Ideas feebly tune my Tongue;
No more Invention's Aid the Muse requires,
Or faint Conception's momentary Fires;

'Tis Gratitude inspires my ravish'd Heart,
And Virtue's Charms true Sentiments impart.
To my Amasia's Ear the Notes belong,
Sweet are the Strains, if she approve my Song.

How blest am I, to see the Nymph I love
List to my Converse, and my Flame approve!
Who scorns the Trifler's Praise, the Flatt'rer's Art,
Humbly content to take an honest Heart.

The painted Rose, that blooms on Beauty's Face,
The damask Lip, and every specious Grace;
What solid Joys, alas, can these impart,
If unattended with a spotless Heart?

Wherefore did Heav'n the female Race supply
With each gay Lustre that attracts the Eye,
Unless the fair Appearance was design'd
The Habitation of a fairer Mind?

Is there, who doubts the Truth of what I say,
Who thinks all female Charms will soon decay?—
In sweet Amasia's Aspect let him see
What Beauty is, and Virtue ought to be.

Behold the blooming Cheek! (O Joy to look!)
Has not the Rose her native Bed forsook?
—Then read her Mind—examine it with Care;
Say, is not ev'ry shining Virtue there?

Such are the Charms that in her Bosom shine,
Where Chastity and Truth, and Candour join;
Charms, that ne'er fade—but hourly will improve
Amasia's Charms—and who can blame my Love?