THE COMPLAINT. I43 



For the Bee. 



I'he Complaint, 

 Cease, ceafe, ye fweet birds of the grove. 



Your melody pleafes no more ; 

 It ferves but to waken my love. 



And think on the maid I adore ; 

 Since together we fondly have ftray'd. 



To hear the wild notes of your fong, 

 When my fair one was charm'd with the (hade. 



And wifli'd cv'ry note to prolong. 



View the fweets of yon flow'ret that blows, 



Surcharg'd with the dew of the mora. 

 Yet you'll find that there is not a rofe. 



Without its attendant the thorn : 

 So Chloe is blooming, and fair 



As the rofe bending loft with the dew : 

 But, O ye fond fhepherds, beware. 



Though blooming, yet Chloe's untiae. 



Ye fwalns of the village, bevirare. 



How you tread in the mazes of love, 

 •Tis a path that's bewilder'd with care. 



And the more fo the farther you rove. 

 Suppofe that your charmer's fincere. 



That you read the fond wilh io her eyes ; 

 Yet ft ill you have reafon to fear. 



And forego the purfuit, if you're wife. 



How tuneful was Corydon'sreed, 



When his love deign'd to liften the while ; 

 When a look of regard was his meed. 



And each note wasreturn'd with a fmile ; 

 Yet no more Ihall it breathe the gay ftrain. 



No more with the nightingale vie, 

 I'll teach it the way to complain. 



And moutn the fweet nymph wkh a figh. 



What beauties remain in my cot. 



Or the vine that o'crfhadows my door. 

 Since I and its (hade are forgot. 



Since Chloe is confl:ant no more j 

 Each linnet (hall droop with its wing. 



For my love was the theme of its lay ; 

 The goldfinch no longer (hall fiBg, 



For no longer is Corydon gay. P. Fxlmat. 



