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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=539241" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Pastoral Ballad III: Solicitude</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why will you my passion reprove? <br>Why term it a folly to grieve? <br>Ere I shew you the charms of my love, <br>She is fairer than you can believe. <br>With her mien she enamours the brave; <br>With her wit she engages the free; <br>With her modesty pleases the grave; <br>She is ev'ry way pleasing to me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O you that have been of her train, <br>Come and join in my amorous lays;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I could lay down my life for the swain, <br>That will sing but a song in her praise. <br>When he sings, may the nymphs of the town <br>Come trooping, and listen the while; <br>Nay on him let not Phyllida frown; <br>-- But I cannot allow her to smile. <br>For when Paridel tries in the dance <br>Any favour with Phyllis to find, <br>O how, with one trivial glance, <br>Might she ruin the peace of my mind!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In ringlets he dresses his hair, <br>And his crook is be-studded around; <br>And his pipe -- oh may Phyllis beware <br>Of a magic there is in the sound. <br>'Tis his with mock passion to glow; <br>'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, <br>``How her face is as bright as the snow, <br>And her bosom, be sure, is as cold? <br>How the nightingales labour the strain, <br>With the notes of his charmer to vie;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How they vary their accents in vain, <br>Repine at her triumphs, and die.'' <br>To the grove or the garden he strays, <br>And pillages every sweet; <br>Then, suiting the wreath to his lays <br>He throws it at Phyllis's feet. <br>``O Phyllis, he whispers, more fair, <br>More sweet than the jessamine's flow'r! <br>What are pinks, in a morn, to compare? <br>What is eglantine, after a show'r?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then the lily no longer is white; <br>Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; <br>Then the violets die with despight, <br>And the wood-bines give up their perfume.'' <br>Thus glide the soft numbers along, <br>And he fancies no shepherd his peer; <br>-- Yet I never should envy the song, <br>Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear. <br>Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, <br>So Phyllis the trophy despise:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd, <br>So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. <br>The language that flows from the heart <br>Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue; <br>-- Yet may she beware of his art, <br>Or sure I must envy the song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Shenstone">William Shenstone</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=539241" data-title="A Pastoral Ballad III: Solicitude de William Shenstone" data-description="Why will you my passion reprove? 
Why term it a folly to grieve? 
Ere I shew you the charms of my love, 
She is fairer than you can believe. 
With her mien she enamours the brave; 
With her wit she engages the free; 
With her modesty pleases the g..."></div>
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