Now friends conversing my soft hours refine, And Tully's Tusculum revives in mine: Now to grave books I bid the mind retreat, And such as make me rather good than great; Or o'er the works of easy Fancy rove, Where flutes and innocence amuse the grove: 70 The native bard that on Sicilian plains First sung the lowly manners of the swains; Or Maro's Muse, that in the fairest light Paints rural prospects and the charms of sight; These soft amusements bring Content along, And Fancy, void of sorrow, turns to song. Here beauteous Health for all the year remain; When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus again. * * * * * THE FLIES: AN ECLOGUE. When the river cows for coolness stand. And sheep for breezes seek the lofty land, A youth whom Æsop taught that every tree, Each bird and insect, spoke as well as he, Walk'd calmly musing in a shaded way, Where flowering hawthorn broke the sunny ray, And thus instructs his moral pen to draw A scene that obvious in the field he saw. Near a low ditch, where shallow waters meet, Which never learn'd to glide with liquid feet, 10 Whose Naiads never prattle as they play, But screen'd with hedges slumber out the day, There stands a slender fern's aspiring shade, Whose answering branches, regularly laid, Put forth their answering boughs, and proudly rise Three storeys upward in the nether skies. For shelter here, to shun the noonday heat, An airy nation of the flies retreat; Some in soft air their silken pinions ply, And some from bough to bough delighted fly, 20 Some rise, and circling light to perch again; A pleasing murmur hums along the plain. So, when a stage invites to pageant shows, (If great and small are like) appear the beaux; In boxes some with spruce pretension sit, Some change from seat to seat within the pit, Some roam the scenes, or turning cease to roam; Preluding music fills the lofty dome. When thus a fly (if what a fly can say Deserves attention) raised the rural lay: Where late Amintor made a nymph a bride, 30 Joyful I flew by young Favonia's side, Who, mindless of the feasting, went to sip The balmy pleasure of the shepherd's lip; I saw the wanton where I stoop'd to sup, And half resolved to drown me in the cup; Till, brush'd by careless hands, she soar'd above: Cease, beauty, cease to vex a tender love! Thus ends the youth, the buzzing meadow rung, And thus the rival of his music sung: 40 When suns by thousands shone in orbs of dew, I, wafted soft, with Zephyretta flew; Saw the clean pail, and sought the milky cheer, While little Daphnè seized my roving dear. Wretch that I was! I might have warn'd the dame, Yet sate indulging as the danger came, But the kind huntress left her free to soar: Ah! guard, ye lovers, guard a mistress more!