Wit And Beauty. A Pastoral.

WIT AND BEAUTY.

A PASTORAL.

Celia.

Our shepherds are gone o'er the hill, To sport on the neighbouring plain; Let's sit by this murmuring rill, And sing till they come back again.

Sylvia.

We'll sing of our favourite swains, By whom our fond hearts are possest; And Daphne shall judge of the strains, Which sings of her shepherd the best.

Daphne.

Come sing then, and Daphne will hear, Nor linger the time to prolong; And this wreath of roses I wear, Shall crown the fair victor in song.

Celia.

My Thirsis is airy and gay, His pride is in pleasing the fair; He sings and drives sorrow away, His humour will banish all care.

Sylvia.

To Daphnis the pride of my lay, The merits of beauty belong; His smiles will chase sorrow away, As well as your shepherd's sine song.

Celia.

When piping my Thirsis is seen, The virgins assemble around; And all the blithe swains of the green, Approve, while they envy the sound.

Sylvia.

When Daphnis approaches the plains, The virgins all blush with surprise; With negligence treating their swains, And fix on my Daphnis their eyes.

Celia.

If e'er I am pensive and sad, Or sigh to the evening gale; I'm cheer'd by the voice of my lad, Who tells me a humorous tale.

Sylvia.

When I am perplexed with fears, And nothing can give me delight; As soon as my Daphnis appears, I languish away at the sight.

Daphne.

Now cease to contend, my dear lasses, My wreath I'll acknowledge your due; Nor yet can I tell which surpasses, Your merits you equally shew.

'Twas Strephon that gave me the treasure, Which now I to you shall impart; (That name! O, I speak it with pleasure! It ever enraptures my heart.)

Nor Sylvia, nor Celia, shall have it, I'll justly divide it in two; Believe me, my Strephon, that gave it, Is beautiful, witty, and — true.