While stretch'd at Ease you sing your happy Loves:5
And Amarillis fills the shady Groves.
TITYRUS.
For never can I deem him less than God.
The tender Firstlings of my Woolly breed
Shall on his holy Altar often bleed.10
He gave my Kine to graze the Flow'ry Plain:
And to my Pipe renew'd the Rural Strain.
MELIBOEUS.
That while the raging Sword and wastful Fire
Destroy the wretched Neighbourhood around,15
No Hostile Arms approach your happy ground.
Far diff'rent is my Fate: my feeble Goats
With pains I drive from their forsaken Cotes.
And this you see I scarcely drag along,
Who yeaning on the Rocks has left her Young;20
(The Hope and Promise of my failing Fold:)
My loss by dire Portents the Gods foretold:
For had I not been blind I might have seen
Yon riven Oak, the fairest of the Green,
And the hoarse Raven, on the blasted Bough,25
By croaking from the left presag'd the coming Blow.
But tell me, Tityrus, what Heav'nly Power
Preserv'd your Fortunes in that fatal Hour?
