Great Throughts Treasury

"Beware of flattery, ‘tis a weed which oft offends the very idol - vice, whose shrine it would perfume."

"Wedded love is founded on esteem."

"Florelio - Ask not the Cause why all the tuneful Swains, Who us'd to fill the Vales with tender Strains, In deep Despair neglect the warb'ling Reed, And all their bleating Flocks refuse to feed. Ask not why Greens and Flow'rs so late appear To cloath the Glebe, and deck the springing Year; Why sounds the Lawn with loud Laments and Cries, And swoln with Tears to Floods the Riv'lets rise: The fair Florelio now has left the Plain, And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain. For thee, lov'd Youth! on ev'ry Vale and Lawn, The Nymphs, and all thy Fellow-Shepherds moan. The little Birds now cease to sing and love, Silent they sit, and droop on ev'ry Grove: No mounting Lark now warbles on the Wing, Nor Linnets chirp to chear the sullen Spring: Only the melancholly Turtles coo, And Philomel by Night repeats her Woe. O, Charmer of the Shades! the Tale prolong, Nor let the Morning interrupt thy Song: Or softly tune thy tender Notes to mine, Forgetting Tereus, make my Sorrows thine. Now the dear Youth has left the lonely Plain, And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain. Say, all ye Shades, where late he us'd to rest, If e'er your Beds with lovelier Swain were prest; Say, all ye silver Streams, if e'er ye bore The Image of so fair a Face before. But now, ye Streams, assist me whilst I mourn, For never must the lovely Swain return; And, as these flowing Tears increase your Tide, O, murmur for the Shepherd as ye glide! Be sure, ye Rocks, while I my Grief disclose, Let your sad Echo's lengthen out my Woes: Ye Breezes, bear the plaintive Accents on, And whisp'ring tell the Woods Florelio's gone. For ever gone, and left the lonely Plain, And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain. Ripe Straw-berries for thee, and Peaches grew, Sweet to the Taste, and tempting red to view. For thee the Rose put sweeter Purple on, Preventing, by her haste, the Summer-Sun. But now the Flow'rs all pale and blighted lie, And in cold Sweats of sickly Mildew die. Nor can the Bees suck from the shrivel'd Blooms Etherial Sweets, to store their golden Combs. Oft' on thy Lips they would their Labours leave, And sweeter Odours from thy Mouth receive: Sweet as the Breath of Flora, when she lies In Jesmin Shades, and for young Zephyr sighs. But now those Lips are cold, relentless Death Hath chill'd their Charms, and stop'd thy balmy Breath. Those Eyes, where Cupid tipp'd his Darts with Fire, And kindled in the coldest Nymphs desire, Robb'd of their Beams, in everlasting Night Are clos'd, and give us Woe as once Delight: And thou, dear Youth, hast left the lonely Plain, And art the Grief, who wert the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain. As in his Bow'r the dying Shepherd lay, The Shepherd yet so young, and once so gay! The Nymphs that swim the Stream, and range the Wood, And haunt the flowry Meads, around him stood. There Tears down each fair Cheek unbounded fell, And as he gasp'd, they gave a sad Farewel. Softly (they cry'd) as sleeping Flow'rs are clos'd By Night, be thy dear Eyes by Death compos'd: A gentle Fall may thy young Beauties have, And golden Slumbers wait thee in the Grave: Yearly thy Hearse with Garlands we'll adorn, And teach young Nightingales for thee to mourn; Bees love the Blooms, the Flocks the bladed Grain, Nor less wert thou belov'd by ev'ry Swain. Come, Shepherds, come, perform the fun'ral Due, For he was ever good and kind to you: On ev'ry smoothest Beech, in ev'ry Grove, In weeping Characters record your Love. And as in Mem'ry of Adonis slain, When for the Youth the Syrian Maids complain, His River, to record the guilty Day, With freshly bleeding Purple stains the Sea: So thou, dear Cam, contribute to our Woe, And bid thy Stream in plaintive Murmurs flow: Thy Head with thy own Willow Boughs adorn, And with thy Tears supply the frugal Urn. The Swains their Sheep, the Nymphs shall leave the Lawn; And yearly on their Banks renew their Moan: His Mother, while they there lament, shall be The Queen of Love, the lov'd Adonis he: On her, like Venus, all the Graces wait, And he too like Adonis in his Fate! For fresh in fragrant Youth he left the Plain, And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain. No more the Nymphs, that o'er the Brooks preside, Dress their gay Beauties by the Crystal Tide; Nor fly the wintry Winds, nor scorching Sun, Now he, for whom they strove to charm, is gone. Oft' they beneath their reedy Coverts sigh'd, And look'd, and long'd, and for Florelio dy'd. Of him they sang, and with soft Ditties strove To sooth the pleasing Agonies of Love. But now they roam, distracted with Despair, And Cypress, twin'd with mournful Willows, wear. Thus, Hand in Hand, around his Grave they go, And Saffron Buds, and fading Lillies strow, With Sprigs of Myrtle mix'd, and scatt'ring cry, So sweet and soft the Shepherd was! so soon decreed to die! There fresh, in dear Remembrance of their Woes, His Name the young Anemonies disclose: Nor strange they should a double Grief avow, Then Venus wept, and Pastorella now. Breath soft, ye Winds! long let them paint the Plain, Unhurt, untouch'd by ev'ry passing Swain. And when, ye Nymphs, to make the Garlands gay, With which ye crown the Mistress of the May, Ye shall these Flow'rs to bind her Temples take, O pluck them gently for Florelio's sake! And when thro' Woodstock's green Retreats ye stray, Or Altrop's flowry Vales invite to play; O'er which young Pastorella's Beauties bring Elyzium early, and improve the Spring: When Ev'ning Gales attentive Silence keep, And Heav'n its balmy Dew begins to weep. By the soft Fall of ev'ry warbling Stream. Sigh your sad Airs, and bless the Shepherd's Name: There to the tender Lute attune your Woe, While Hyacinths, and Myrtles round ye grow. So may Sylvanus ever 'tend your Bow'rs, And Zephyr brush the Mildew from the Flow'rs! Bid all the Swans from Cam and Isis haste, In the melodious Quire to breath their last. O Colin, Colin, cou'd I there complain Like thee, when young Philisides was slain! Thou sweet Frequenter of the Muse's Stream! Why have I not thy Voice, or thou my Theme? Tho' weak my Voice, tho' lowly be my Lays, They shall be sacred to the Shepherd's Praise: To him my Voice, to him my Lays belong, And bright Myrtilla now must live unsung: Ev'n she whose artless Beauty bless'd me more, Than ever Swain was bless'd by Nymph before; While ev'ry tender Sigh to seal our Bliss, Brought a kind Vow, and ev'ry Vow a Kiss: Fair, chaste, and kind, yet now no more can move, So much my Grief is stronger than my Love: Now the dear Youth has left the lonely Plain, And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain. As when some cruel Hind has born away The Turtle's Nest, and made the young his Prey, Sad in her native Grove she sits alone, There hangs her Wings, and murmurs out her moan. So the bright Shepherdess who bore the Boy, Beneath a baleful Yew does weeping lie; Nor can the Fair the weighty Woe sustain, But bends, like Roses crush'd with falling Rain: Nor from the silent Earth her Eyes removes, That weeping, languish like a dying Dove's. Not such her Look (severe Reverse of Fate!) When little Loves in ev'ry Dimple sate; And all the Smiles delighted to resort On the calm Heav'n of her soft Cheeks to sport: Soft as the Clouds mild April-Ev'nings wear, Which drop fresh Flourets on the youthful Year. The Fountain's Fall can't lull her wakeful Woes, Nor Poppy-Garlands give the Nymph Repose: Thro' prickly Brakes, and unfrequented Groves, O'er Hills and Dales, and craggy Cliffs she roves. And when she spies, beneath some silent Shade, The Daisies press'd, where late his Limbs were laid, To the cold Print there close she joins her Face, And all with gushing Tears bedews the Grass. There with loud Plaints she wounds the pitying Skies, And oh! return, my lovely Youth, she cries; Return, Florelio, with thy wonted Charms Fill the soft Circles of my longing Arms. - Cease, fair Affliction, cease! the lovely Boy In Death's cold Arms must pale and breathless lie. The Fates can never change their first Decree, Or sure they would have chang'd this one for thee. Pan for his Syrinx makes eternal Moan, Ceres her Daughter lost, and thou thy Son. Thy Son for ever now has left the Plain, And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain. Adieu, ye mossy Caves, and shady Groves, Once happy Scenes of our successful Loves: Ye hungry Herds, and bleating Flocks adieu, Flints be your Beds, and browze the bitter Yew. Two Lambs alone shall be my Charge to feed, For yearly on his Grave two Lambs shall bleed. This Pledge of lasting Love, dear Shade, receive, 'Tis all, alas, a Shepherd's Love can give! But Grief from its own Pow'r will set me free, Will send me soon a willing Ghost to thee: Cropt in the flow'ry Spring of Youth, I'll go With hasty Joy to wait thy Shade below: In ever-fragrant Meads, and Jesmin-Bow'rs We'll dwell, and all Elyzium shall be ours. Where Citron Groves aetherial Odours breath, And Streams of flowing Crystal purl beneath: Where all are ever-young, and heav'nly Fair, As here above thy Sister- Graces are. "

"O blissful poverty! Nature, too partial! to thy lot assigns Health, freedom, innocence, and downy peace, Her real goods; and only mocks the great, With empty pageantries!"