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Ah silly I! more silly than my Sheep,
Which on thy flow'ry Banks I once did keep.
Sweet are thy Banks! Oh when shall I once more
With longing Eyes review thy flow'ry Shore?
When, in the Crystal of thy Waters, see
My Face, grown wan thro' Care and Misery?
When shall I see my Hut, the small Abode
My self had rais'd and cover'd o'er with Sod?
Tho' small it be, a mean and humble Cell,
Yet is there room for Peace and me to dwell.
Which on thy flow'ry Banks I once did keep.
Sweet are thy Banks! Oh when shall I once more
With longing Eyes review thy flow'ry Shore?
When, in the Crystal of thy Waters, see
My Face, grown wan thro' Care and Misery?
When shall I see my Hut, the small Abode
My self had rais'd and cover'd o'er with Sod?
Tho' small it be, a mean and humble Cell,
Yet is there room for Peace and me to dwell.
THENOT.
And what the Cause that drew thee first away?
From thy lov'd Home what tempted thee to stray?
And what the Cause that drew thee first away?
From thy lov'd Home what tempted thee to stray?
COLINET.
A lewd Desire strange Lands and Swains to know:
Ah God! that ever I should covet Woe!
With wand'ring Feet unbless'd, and fond of Fame,
I sought I know not what, besides a Name.
A lewd Desire strange Lands and Swains to know:
Ah God! that ever I should covet Woe!
With wand'ring Feet unbless'd, and fond of Fame,
I sought I know not what, besides a Name.
THENOT.
Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither roam
In hopes of Wealth, thou con'd'st not find at Home?
A Rolling Stone is ever bare of Moss;
And, to their Cost, green Years Old Proverbs cross.
Or, sooth to say, didst thou not hither roam
In hopes of Wealth, thou con'd'st not find at Home?
A Rolling Stone is ever bare of Moss;
And, to their Cost, green Years Old Proverbs cross.
COLINET.
Small Need there was, in flatt'ring Hopes of Gain,
To drive my pining Flock athwart the Plain
To distant Cam: fine Gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to my self such deal of Woe!
My Sheep quite spent thro' Travel and ill Fare,
And, like their Keeper, ragged grow and bare:
Here, on cold Earth to make my Nightly Bed,
And on a bending Willow rest my Head.
'Tis hard to bear the pinching Cold with Pain,
And hard is Want to the unpractis'd Swain:
But neither Want, nor pinching Cold is hard,
To blasting Storms of Calumny compar'd:
Unkind as Hail it falls, whose pelting Show'rs
Destroy the tender Herb and budding Flow'rs.
Small Need there was, in flatt'ring Hopes of Gain,
To drive my pining Flock athwart the Plain
To distant Cam: fine Gain at length, I trow,
To hoard up to my self such deal of Woe!
My Sheep quite spent thro' Travel and ill Fare,
And, like their Keeper, ragged grow and bare:
Here, on cold Earth to make my Nightly Bed,
And on a bending Willow rest my Head.
'Tis hard to bear the pinching Cold with Pain,
And hard is Want to the unpractis'd Swain:
But neither Want, nor pinching Cold is hard,
To blasting Storms of Calumny compar'd:
Unkind as Hail it falls, whose pelting Show'rs
Destroy the tender Herb and budding Flow'rs.
