When such a day, blessed the Arcadian plain,
Warm without Sun, and shady without rain,
Fann’d by an air, that scarcely bent the flowers,
Or wav’d the woodbines, on the summer bowers,
The Nymphs disorder’d beauty could not fear,
Nor ruffling winds uncurld the Shepherd’s hair,
On the fresh grass, they trod their measures light,
And a long Evening made, from noon, to night.
Come then my Dafnis, from those cares descend
Which better may the winter season spend.
Come, and the pleasures of the fields, survey,
And through the groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Reading the softest Poetry, refuse,
To view the subjects of each rural muse;
Nor let the busy compasses go round,
When faery Circles better mark the ground.
Rich Colours on the Vellum cease to lay,
When ev’ry lawn much nobler can display,
When on the dazzling poppy may be seen
A glowing red, exceeding your carmine;
And for the blew that o’re the Sea is borne,
A brighter rises in our standing corn.
Come then, my Dafnis, and the fields survey,
And through the groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Come, and let Sansons World, no more engage,
Although he gives a Kingdom in a page;
O’re all the Universe his lines may go,
And not a clime, like temp’rate Britain show,
Come then, my Dafnis, and her fields survey,
And through the groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Nor plead that you’re immur’d, and cannot yield,
That mighty Bastions keep you from the field,
Think not tho’ lodg’d in Mons, or in Namur,
You’re from my dangerous attacks secure.
No, Louis shall his falling Conquests fear,
When by succeeding Couriers he shall hear
Apollo, and the Muses, are drawn down,
To storm each fort, and take in ev’ry Town.
Vauban, the Orphean Lyre, to mind shall call,
That drew the stones to the old Theban Wall,
And make no doubt, if itt against him play,
They, from his works, will fly as fast away,
Which to prevent, he shall to peace persuade,
Of strong, confederate Syllables, afraid.
Come then, my Dafnis, and the fields survey,
And through the Groves, with your Ardelia stray.
Come, and attend, how as we walk along,
Each cheerful bird, shall treat us with a song,
Not such as Fopps compose, where wit, nor art,
Nor plainer Nature, ever bear a part;
The Crystal springs, shall murmur as we pass,
But not like Courtiers, sinking to disgrace;
Nor, shall the louder Rivers, in their fall,
Like unpaid Saylers, or hoarse Pleaders brawl;
But all shall form a concert to delight,
And all to peace, and all to love invite.
Come then, my Dafnis, and the fields survey,
And through the Groves, with your Ardelia stray.
As Baucis and Philemon spent their lives,
Of husbands he, the happiest she, of wives,
When through the painted meads, their way they sought,
Harmlesse in act, and unperplext in thought,
Let us my Dafnis, rural joys persue,
And Courts, or Camps, not ev’n in fancy view.
So, let us through the Groves, my Dafnis stray,
And so, the pleasures of the fields, survey.

by Anne Finch (1661-1720)

A Nymph and swain, Sheelah and Dermot hight;
Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight;
While each with stubbed knife removed the roots,
That raised between the stones their daily shoots;

As at their work they sate in counterview,
With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew.
Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly flowing strain,
The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.

DERMOT

My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt,
Than strongest weeds that grow those stones betwixt;
My spud these nettles from the stones can part;
No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart.

SHEELAH

My love for gentle Dermot faster grows,
Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose.
Cut down the dock, ’twill sprout again; but, O!
Love rooted out, again will never grow.

DERMOT

No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake:
(I spare the thistles for Sir Arthur’s sake)
Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat;
The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat.

SHEELAH

Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide;
This petticoat shall save thy dear backside;
Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet,
Dermot, I vow, ’tis nothing else but sweat.

DERMOT

At an old stubborn root I chanced to tug,
When the Dean threw me this tobacco-plug;
A longer ha’p’orth never did I see;
This, dearest Sheelah, thou shall share with me.

SHEELAH

In at the pantry door, this morn I slipt,
And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt:
Dennis was out, and I got hither safe;
And thou, my dear, shall have the bigger half.

DERMOT

When you saw Tady at long bullets play,
You sate and loused him all a sunshine day:
How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales,
Or crack such lice as his between your nails?

SHEELAH

When you with Oonah stood behind a ditch,
I peep’d, and saw you kiss the dirty bitch;
Dermot, how could you touch these nasty sluts?
I almost wish’d this spud were in your guts.

DERMOT

If Oonah once I kiss’d, forbear to chide;
Her aunt’s my gossip by my father’s side:
But, if I ever touch her lips again,
May I be doom’d for life to weed in rain!

SHEELAH

Dermot, I swear, though Tady’s locks could hold
Ten thousand lice, and every louse was gold;
Him on my lap you never more shall see;
Or may I lose my weeding knife—and thee!

DERMOT

O, could I earn for thee, my lovely lass,
A pair of brogues to bear thee dry to mass!
But see, where Norah with the sowins comes—
Then let us rise, and rest our weary bums.

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)

A simple life that shepherd leads
On Mountains tops or flowry meads
Nor from his mole-hill dares aspire
Majestick beauty to admire
But to the village come at night
Some milk-maid proves his low delight

[…]

Then let me hear no more of Swains
Those rustick saunterers on the plains
Who ne’er had Pastoral or reed
But what from Poets did proceed

extract from:

To the Right Honorable the Lord Viscount Hatton by Way of Excuse for My Having Not in Sometime Replied to His Last Copy of Verses in Which He Gives Himself the Name of Corydon Not Approved by Me Who in This Poem Offer at an Imitation of Madame Deshouliers in Her Way of Badinage

A Pastoral Dialogue Between Two Shepherdesses

[Silvia] Pretty Nymph! within this Shade,
Whilst the Flocks to rest are laid,
Whilst the World dissolves in Heat,
Take this cool, and flow’ry Seat:
And with pleasing Talk awhile
Let us two the Time beguile;
Tho’ thou here no Shepherd see,
To encline his humble Knee,
Or with melancholy Lays
Sing thy dangerous Beauty’s Praise.
[Dorinda] Nymph! with thee I here wou’d stay,
But have heard, that on this Day,
Near those Beeches, scarce in view,
All the Swains some Mirth pursue:
To whose meeting now I haste.
Solitude do’s Life but waste.
[Silvia] Prithee, but a Moment stay.
[Dorinda] No! my Chaplet wou’d decay;
Ev’ry drooping Flow’r wou’d mourn,
And wrong the Face, they shou’d adorn.
[Silvia] I can tell thee, tho’ so Fair,
And dress’d with all that rural Care,
Most of the admiring Swains
Will be absent from the Plains.
Gay Sylvander in the Dance
Meeting with a shrew’d Mischance,
To his Cabin’s now confin’d
By Mopsus, who the Strain did bind:
Damon through the Woods do’s stray,
Where his Kids have lost their way:
Young Narcissus iv’ry Brow
Rac’d by a malicious Bough,
Keeps the girlish Boy from sight,
Till Time shall do his Beauty right.
[Dorinda] Where’s Alexis?
[Silvia] -He, alas!
Lies extended on the Grass;
Tears his Garland, raves, despairs,
Mirth and Harmony forswears;
Since he was this Morning shown,
That Delia must not be his Own.
[Dorinda] Foolish Swain! such Love to place.
[Silvia] On any but Dorinda’s Face.
[Dorinda] Hasty Nymph! I said not so.
[Silvia] No-but I thy Meaning know.
Ev’ry Shepherd thou wou’d’st have
Not thy Lover, but thy Slave;
To encrease thy captive Train,
Never to be lov’d again.
But, since all are now away,
Prithee, but a Moment stay.
[Dorinda] No; the Strangers, from the Vale,
Sure will not this Meeting fail;
Graceful one, the other Fair.
He too, with the pensive Air,
Told me, ere he came this way
He was wont to look more Gay.
[Silvia] See! how Pride thy Heart inclines
To think, for Thee that Shepherd pines;
When those Words, that reach’d thy Ear,
Chloe was design’d to hear;
Chloe, who did near thee stand,
And his more speaking Looks command.
[Dorinda] Now thy Envy makes me smile.
That indeed were worth his while:
Chloe next thyself decay’d,
And no more a courted Maid.
[Silvia] Next myself! Young Nymph, forbear.
Still the Swains allow me Fair,
Tho’ not what I was that Day,
When Colon bore the Prize away;
When-
[Dorinda] -Oh, hold! that Tale will last,
Till all the Evening Sports are past;
Till no Streak of Light is seen,
Nor Footstep prints the flow’ry Green.
What thou wert, I need not know,
What I am, must haste to show.
Only this I now discern
From the things, thou’d’st have me learn,
That Woman-kind’s peculiar Joys
From past, or present Beauties rise.

by Anne Finch (1661-1720)