11 I love my neighbour as myself, Myself like him too, by his leave; Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf, Came I to crouch, as I conceive: Dame Nature doubtless has designed A man the monarch of his mind. 12 Now taste and try this temper, sirs, Mood it and brood it in your breast; Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, That man does right to mar his rest, Let me be deft, and debonair, I am content, I do not care. A PASTORAL. 1 My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possibly be, I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she. 2 With such a companion to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep: I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day; But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, So strangely uneasy, as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, And my heart--I am sure it weighs more than a pound. 3 The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. 4 My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their prime! But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass: Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, To see you so merry while I am so sad. 5 My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, 'Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry 'Sirrah;' and give him a blow with my crook: And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away? 6 When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear: 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise.