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Sees daisies open, rivers run,

And seeks, as I have vainly done,

Amusing thought; but learns to know
That solitude's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found

In trailing purple o'er the ground; .
Or in a soul exalted high,

To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below;

The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.

Lovely, lasting peace, appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,

And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And lost in thought, no more perceived
The branches whisper as they waved:
It seemed, as all the quiet place

Confessed the presence of the Grace.
When thus she spoke -"Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild passions all be still,

Know God and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow:

Then every Grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest."

Oh! by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ,

With sense of gratitude and joy!
Raised as ancient prophets were,

In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer;
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleased and blessed with God alone:
Then while the gardens take my sight,
With all the colours of delight;
While silver waters glide along,

To please my ear, and court my song;
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And thee, great source of nature, sing.

The sun that walks his airy way,

To light the world, and give the day;

The moon that shines with borrowed light;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The seas that roll unnumbered waves;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves;
The field whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;

All of these, and all I see,

Should be sung, and sung by me:

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They speak their maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.

Go search among your idle dreams,
Your busy or your vain extremes;
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.

JOHN GAY

THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK

MONDAY, OR THE SQUABBLE

Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, Cloddipole

Lobbin Clout. Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just

awake;

No throstles shrill the bramble bush forsake;
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes;
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cot so rear?

Cuddy. Ah, Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guessed,

For he that loves, a stranger is to rest;

If swains belie not, thou hast proved the smart,

And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.

This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind,

Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,

Thee Blouzelinda smites, Buxoma me.

Lobbin Clout. Ah, Blouzelind! I love thee more by

half,

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Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf:
Woe worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal.

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Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,

That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

35 Lobbin Clout. See this tobacco pouch that's lined with hair,

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Made of the skin of sleekest fallow-deer.

This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

Cuddy. Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting slouch,
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.
Lobbin Clout. My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daisy that beside her grows,

Fair is the gillyflower, of gardens sweet,
Fair is the mary-gold, for pottage meet.
But Blouzelind's than gillyflower more fair,
Than daisy, mary-gold, or king-cup rare.
Cuddy. My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That e'er at wake delightsome gambol played.
Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,

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