Thus does Philander waste his wits to prove A happy marriage destitute of love. Gold, cursed gold, the bane of ev’ry bliss, Thy _summum bonum_, all thy happiness. Say, to what purpose do thy words avail? Beauty and wit to give us joy may fail. Wit cease to please, and beauty may decay, } Riches make wings and swiftly fly away; } Depriv’d of all, what will Philander say? } But to secure thee of thy darling’s charms, Go to the mines, and lodge within her arms; Enfold thy mistress in a fond embrace, For ever banish’d from the shepherd race. Nor quit thy mansion till thou breathe thy last: Such sordid souls no social joys should taste. Blest with my Delia on this happy plain, Where peace and pleasure in perfection reign, I’ll more serenely pass life’s hours away, Than without her, though crown’d with princely sway. To please my charmer all my care shall be; Can I be wretched when she smiles on me? But we must go, our fleecy charge attend. Farewell, Philander, I am still thy friend. The maid whose real charms the heart can hold, Must not be deem’d one whit the worse for gold. _COLIN AND ALEXIS._ Now from before Aurora’s rays, Stern darkness with its horror flies; The mountain tops begin to blaze, And Phœbus gilds the eastern skies. See glist’ning dew drops on the bush, Reviving odours cheer the morn; The warbling blackbird and the thrush, Make vocal ev’ry blooming thorn. Alexis join the rural lay, Give welcome to the op’ning spring. Why sigh’st thou thus thy hours away? Come take thy pipe, and softly sing. ALEXIS. Beneath these ivy mantled trees, Allow me, Colin, to complain. No murm’ring brook, nor whisp’ring breeze Can in the least divert my pain. The maid, whose charms I oft have sung, Has left the plain, ’twas what I fear’d, And o’er her shoulders, careless hung, A Caledonian plaid appear’d. Of ancient note on Scotia’s plain, And by her grandam often wore, Its crimson hue was free from stain, Which made Calista shine the more. Yea still she shines; her radient eyes Add lustre to the brightest day; Each feature strikes with new surprise, And various beauties still display. But why should I recount them still? ’Tis only to increase my pain. She bids these verdant fields farewell, And goes to seek a richer swain. Calista, with thy rapid flight, Is vanish’d each delightful gleam. Can Drife’s fair banks give more delight, Than Eckles’ gently winding stream? Do sweeter scents perfume the grove, Or fairer flow’rs adorn the vale? Do comelier swains now talk of love, And cheer thee with their am’rous tale? More sprightly youths may feel the smart, And court thee with assiduous care; But none of all who seek thy heart Avows a passion more sincere. Then haste Calista, save the swain, Who in thy absence ever sighs; Add fresher beauties to the plain, And bid more pleasing prospects rise.