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Among the rest, a Nightingale of Fame,
Jealous, and fond of Praise, to listen came.
She turn'd her Ear; and Emulous, with Pride,
Like Eccho, to the Shepherd's Pipe reply'd.
The Shepherd heard with Wonder; and again,
To try her more, renew'd his various Strain.
To all his various Strain she shapes her Throat,
And adds peculiar Grace to ev'ry Note.
If Colin, in complaining Accents grieves,
Or brisker Motion to his Measure gives;
If gentle Sounds he modulates, or strong,
She, not a little vain, repeats his Song:
But so repeats, that Colin half despis'd
His Pipe and Skill, so much by others priz'd,
And, sweetest Songster of the Winged Kind,
What Thanks, said he, what Praises can I find
To equal thy melodious Voice? In thee
The Rudeness of my Rural Fife I see;
From thee I learn to vaunt no more my Skill.
Aloft in Air she sate, provoking still
The vanquish'd Swain: Provok'd at last, he strove
To shew the little Minstrel of the Grove
His utmost Art; if so some small Esteem
He might obtain, and Credit lost, redeem.
He draws in Breath, his rising Breast to fill;
Thro' all the Wood his Pipe is heared to shrill.
From Note to Note in haste his Fingers fly;
Still more and more his Numbers multiply;
And now they trill, and now they fall and rise,
And swift and slow they change, with sweet Surprize.
Attentive she doth scarce the Sounds retain,
But to her self first cons the puzzling Strain;
And tracing careful, Note by Note, repays
The Shepherd, in his own harmonious Lays;
Thro' ev'ry changing Cadence runs at length,
And adds in Sweetness, what she wants in Strength.
Then Colin threw his Fife disgrac'd aside;
While she loud Triumph sings, proclaiming wide
Jealous, and fond of Praise, to listen came.
She turn'd her Ear; and Emulous, with Pride,
Like Eccho, to the Shepherd's Pipe reply'd.
The Shepherd heard with Wonder; and again,
To try her more, renew'd his various Strain.
To all his various Strain she shapes her Throat,
And adds peculiar Grace to ev'ry Note.
If Colin, in complaining Accents grieves,
Or brisker Motion to his Measure gives;
If gentle Sounds he modulates, or strong,
She, not a little vain, repeats his Song:
But so repeats, that Colin half despis'd
His Pipe and Skill, so much by others priz'd,
And, sweetest Songster of the Winged Kind,
What Thanks, said he, what Praises can I find
To equal thy melodious Voice? In thee
The Rudeness of my Rural Fife I see;
From thee I learn to vaunt no more my Skill.
Aloft in Air she sate, provoking still
The vanquish'd Swain: Provok'd at last, he strove
To shew the little Minstrel of the Grove
His utmost Art; if so some small Esteem
He might obtain, and Credit lost, redeem.
He draws in Breath, his rising Breast to fill;
Thro' all the Wood his Pipe is heared to shrill.
From Note to Note in haste his Fingers fly;
Still more and more his Numbers multiply;
And now they trill, and now they fall and rise,
And swift and slow they change, with sweet Surprize.
Attentive she doth scarce the Sounds retain,
But to her self first cons the puzzling Strain;
And tracing careful, Note by Note, repays
The Shepherd, in his own harmonious Lays;
Thro' ev'ry changing Cadence runs at length,
And adds in Sweetness, what she wants in Strength.
Then Colin threw his Fife disgrac'd aside;
While she loud Triumph sings, proclaiming wide
Her
