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THE FIRST
PASTORAL.
LOBBIN.
If we, O Dorset, quit the City Throng
To meditate in Shades the Rural Song
By your Commands; be present: And, O, bring
The Muse along! The Muse to you shall sing.
Begin.—A Shepherd Boy, one Ev'ning fair,
As Western Winds had cool'd the Sultry Air,
When as his Sheep within the Fold were pent,
Thus plain'd him of his dreary Discontent;
So pitiful, that all the Starry Throng
Attentive seem'd to hear his mournful Song.
Ah well a Day! How long must I endure
This pining Pain? Or who shall work my Cure?
Fond Love no Cure will have; seeks no Repose;
Delights in Grief; nor any Measure knows.
And now the Moon begins in Clouds to rise;
The twinkling Stars are lighted in the Skies;
The Winds are hush'd; the Dews distil; and Sleep
With soft Embrace has seiz'd my weary Sheep.
I only, with the prouling Wolf, constrain'd
All Night to wake. With hunger is he pain'd,
And I with Love. His Hunger he may tame:
But who in Love can stop the growling Flame?
Whilome did I, all as this Pop'lar fair,
Up raise my heedless Head, devoid of Care,
'Mong rustick Routs the chief for wanton Game;
Nor could they merry make 'till Lobbin came.
To meditate in Shades the Rural Song
By your Commands; be present: And, O, bring
The Muse along! The Muse to you shall sing.
Begin.—A Shepherd Boy, one Ev'ning fair,
As Western Winds had cool'd the Sultry Air,
When as his Sheep within the Fold were pent,
Thus plain'd him of his dreary Discontent;
So pitiful, that all the Starry Throng
Attentive seem'd to hear his mournful Song.
Ah well a Day! How long must I endure
This pining Pain? Or who shall work my Cure?
Fond Love no Cure will have; seeks no Repose;
Delights in Grief; nor any Measure knows.
And now the Moon begins in Clouds to rise;
The twinkling Stars are lighted in the Skies;
The Winds are hush'd; the Dews distil; and Sleep
With soft Embrace has seiz'd my weary Sheep.
I only, with the prouling Wolf, constrain'd
All Night to wake. With hunger is he pain'd,
And I with Love. His Hunger he may tame:
But who in Love can stop the growling Flame?
Whilome did I, all as this Pop'lar fair,
Up raise my heedless Head, devoid of Care,
'Mong rustick Routs the chief for wanton Game;
Nor could they merry make 'till Lobbin came.
