The idylliums of Theocritus with Rapin's discourse of pastorals / done into English.

Idyllium IX.

A Sheapherd invites Daphnis and Menalcas to sing, they pleasure him, and he rewards them both.

To his Chum Tho. Lydgould, M.A. of Wadham. Col••.

SIng, Daphnis, sing; begin the rural lay, Begin sweet Daphnis; next Menalcas play: Mix Calves and Heifers, joyn the Bulls and Cows, And let them feed, and wanton in the boughs. Whilst you begin, begin the rural strain, And next Menalcas sing, and cheer the Swain:

D.

Sweet is the Heifers sound, and sweet the ••ine, Sweet is the Pipe's, the Swain's, and sweet is mine; By purling streams I have a shady bed, And or'e white Heifers skins are neatly spread, Ah careless Herd! they from a Mountains side Ah cruel storm! were blown, they fell, they dy'd: And there I value Summer's burning heats No more than Lovers do their Father's threats; Their Mother's kind complaints, or friends advice: This Daphnis sang, and next Menalcas this:

M.

Me Aetna bred, to me she kindly gave Midst hollow Rocks a large and shady Cave: I live by pleasant Brooks, and purling Streams, And have as much as e're you saw in dreams: By me a thousand Goats, and flocks are fed, And Wool lies round my feet, and round my head: Soft Chitterlings afford me pleasing food, And when the Winter comes I'me stor'd with wood; So that I value Cold no more, not I, Than too••hless Men do Nuts, when pulse is by: I clapt them both, to both rewards I threw, A Club that in my Father's Meadow grew To Daphnis, rude as from the Woods it fell, And yet scarce Art could shape a thing so well: Then next Menalcas did a shell receive, The flesh divided was enough for five, Caught in th' Icarian flood, He took the Shell, And smil'd as pleas'd; and lik'd the present well: Hail rural Muses, hail, produce the strains, Which once I sang, and pleas'd the listning Swains: I'le boldly sing, nor midst my wondrous Song Shall blisters rise, and gall my boasting tongue;

The Hawks to Hawks are friends, to Ews the Ews, To Larks the Larks are friends, to Me the Muse; Oh may I hear them still! The weary sleep, The Spring the Ploughman, shady Plains the sheep, Smooth Streams, and riseing flowers the labouring Bee Delight not half so much, as Muses Me; On whom they look and smile, secure they prove Fam'd Circe's Cup; nor fear the force of Love.