The sun with keenness darts his sultry ray; To some cool shade Philander haste away, Nigh yon smooth riv’let, where the southern breeze So softly plays among the bord’ring trees. Beneath yon spreading elm let’s rest a while, And with our songs the tedious hours beguile: There will I tune my pipe to Delia’s praise, While ev’ry swain’s attentive to my lays. PHILANDER. O Damon! how insipid is thy theme? Philander’s sick of thy lov’d Delia’s name: Nor can the fairest nymph enslave my heart; Man’s soul was form’d to act a nobler part. This gewgaw train can ne’er my thoughts employ; Such would dispel but can’t augment my joy. I’ll sing the beauties of the breathing spring, The treasures Autumn to my barns will bring. To notes of transport ever tune my reed, While on the plains my num’rous flocks I feed. DAMON. Let Damon’s breast such trivial joys disdain; What though my flocks o’erspread the wide domain? What though my barns were with abundance stor’d, And gen’rous nectar ever grac’d my board? Nor honour, riches, though their force unite, In Delia’s absence ever can delight. O Delia! sweeter than the op’ning dawn, More bright than rays that cheer the dewy lawn. Her sparkling eye the orient gem outshines, Or brightest lustre of Golconda’s mines: Her cheeks of roseate hue, her flaxen hair, In easy curls, waves gently in the air. Her coral lips ambrosial sweets retain; She rivals Juno in her air and mien; She far exceeds what ancient painters drew, When fancy’s flights the Cyprian queen pursue. Such excellence might grace a prince’s arms; Yet this must yield to her interior charms. In her fair bosom virtue bears the sway; There wisdom sheds a pure unmingl’d ray. Truth, innocence, and modesty combine T’ adorn her mind, where all perfections shine: Apollo’s wit does to the maid belong; Her voice more charming than the Syren’s song. PHILANDER. Hold, hold, dear Damon, sure too much is said; Your Delia’s then a most bewitching maid: As blind men judge of colours, so you trace The matchless beauties of her charming face, Recount her virtues, and, with partial eyes, Admire in her what others would despise. A sad delirium sure has seiz’d thy brain, Which makes thee fancy what the poets feign, Of love, and such like vain fantastic whims, ’Tis wild chimera all, and idle dreams. DAMON. And dost thou doubt of such a thing as love? If once thy breast, like mine, the smart should prove, More than is painted by the poet’s art, In genuine colours will affect thy heart. But wherefore now contemn my rural lays? Thy notes were swell’d once with Lucretia’s praise! Does she thy favours treat with disrespect, Which makes thee now all other maids neglect! PHILANDER.