Or Diggon her is, or I missay.

_Dig._ Her wus her while it was day-light,
But now her is a most wretched wight.

What will the reader imagine to be the subject on which speakers like
these exercise their eloquence? Will he not be somewhat disappointed
when he finds them met together to condemn the corruptions of the church
of Rome? Surely at the same time that a shepherd learns theology, he may
gain some acquaintance with his native language."]

[Footnote 21: "It was from hence," the poet went on to say in his
manuscript, "I took my first design of the following eclogues. For,
looking upon Spenser as the father of English pastoral, I thought myself
unworthy to be esteemed even the meanest of his sons, unless I bore some
resemblance of him. But, as it happens with degenerate offspring, not
only to recede from the virtues, but to dwindle from the bulk of their
ancestor; so I have copied Spenser in miniature, and reduced his twelve
months into four seasons." When Pope published his Pastorals he stated
that three of them were imitated from Virgil and Theocritus, which
occasioned his cancelling this passage where he speaks as if he had
taken Spenser alone for his model.]

SPRING:

THE FIRST PASTORAL,

OR

DAMON.

TO SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL.[1]

First in these fields I try the sylvan strains,[2]
Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains:[3]
Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring,[4]
While on thy banks Sicilian[5] muses sing;
Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play,[6] 5
And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay.[7]
You, that too wise for pride, too good for pow'r,[8]
Enjoy the glory to be great no more,
And carrying with you all the world can boast,[9]
To all the world illustriously are lost! 10
O let my muse her slender reed inspire,
Till in your native shades[10] you tune the lyre:
So when the nightingale to rest removes,
The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves,[11]
But, charmed to silence, listens while she sings, 15
And all th' aerial audience clap their wings.[12]
Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews,[13]
Two swains, whom love kept wakeful, and the muse,
Poured o'er the whit'ning[14] vale their fleecy care,
Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair:[15] 20
The dawn now blush