Sad Philomel, her song in tears doth sleep.
And Mr. Philips by a poetical creation, hath raised up finer beds of flowers, than the most industrious gardener; his roses, lilies, and daffadils, blow in the same season.
But the better to discover the merit of our two cotemporary pastoral writers. I shall endeavour to draw a parallel of them, by placing several of their particular thoughts in the same light; whereby it will be obvious, how much Philips hath the advantage: With what simplicity he introduces two shepherds singing alternately.
Come Rosalind, O come, for without thee What pleasure can the country have for me? Come Rosalind, O come; my brinded kine, My snowy sheep, my farm and all is thine.
Come Rosalind, O come; here shady bowers. Here are cool fountains, and here springing flowers. Come Rosalind; here ever let us stay, And sweetly waste our live-long time away.
Our other pastoral writer in expressing the same thought, deviates into downright poetry.
In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love, At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove, But Delia always; forc'd from Delia's sight, Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.
Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day; Ev'n spring displeases when she shines not here: But blest with her, 'tis spring throughout the year.
In the first of these authors, two shepherds thus innocently describe the behaviour of their mistresses.
As Marian bath'd, by chance I passed by; She blush'd, and at me cast a side-long eye: Then swift beneath, the crystal waves she tried, Her beauteous form, but all in vain, to hide.
As I to cool me bath'd one sultry day, Fond Lydia lurking in the sedges lay, The woman laugh'd, and seem'd in haste to fly; Yet often stopp'd, and often turn'd her eye.
The other modern (who it must be confess'd has a knack at versifying) has it as follows,
Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain, Thus, hid in shades, eludes her eager swain; But feigns a laugh, to see me search around, And by that laugh the willing fair is found.
The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green; She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen; While a kind glance, at her pursuer flies, How much at variance are her feet and eyes.