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First Line: At break of day poor celadon
Last Line: Now like a little negro's bought and sold.


I.

AT break of day poor Celadon
Hard by his sheepfolds walk'd alone,
His arms across, his head bow'd down,
His oaten pipe beside him thrown,
When Thirsis, hidden in a thicket by,
Thus heard the discontented Shepherd cry.

II.

What is it Celadon has done,
That all his happiness is gone!
The curtains of the dark are drawn,
And cheerful morn begins to dawn,
Yet in my breast 'tis ever dead of night,
That can admit no beam of pleasant light.

III.

You pretty lambs may leap and play
To welcome the new-kindled day,
Your shepherd harmless, as are you,
Why is he not as frolic too?
If such disturbance th' innocent attend,
How differs he from them that dare offend!

IV.

Ye Gods! or let me die, or live,
If I must die, why this reprieve?
If you would have me live, O why
Is it with me as those that die!
I faint, I gasp, I pant, my eyes are set,
My cheeks are pale, and I am living yet.

V.

Ye Gods! I never did withhold
The fattest lamb of all my fold,
But on your altars laid it down,
And with a garland did it crown.
Is it in vain to make your altar smoke?
Is it all one, to please, and to provoke?

VI.

Time was that I could sit and smile,
Or with a dance the time beguile:
My soul like that smooth lake was still,
Bright as the sun behind yon hill,
Like yonder stately mountain clear and high,
Swift, soft, and gay as that same butterfly.

VII.

But now within there's Civil War,
In arms my rebel passions are,
Their old allegiance laid aside,
The traitors now in triumph ride
That many-headed monster has thrown down
Its lawful monarch, Reason, from its throne.

VIII.

See, unrelenting Sylvia, see,
All this, and more, is 'long of thee:
For ere I saw that charming face,
Uninterrupted was my peace,
Thy glorious beamy eyes have struck me blind,
To my own soul the way I cannot find.

IX.

Yet is it not thy fault nor mine;
Heav'n is to blame, that did not shine
Upon us both with equal rays --
It made thine bright, mine gloomy days;
To Sylvia beauty gave, and riches store;
All Celadon's offence is, he is poor.

X.

Unlucky stars poor shepherds have,
Whose love is fickle Fortune's slave:
Those golden days are out of date,
When every turtle chose his mate:
Cupid, that mighty Prince, then uncontroll'd,
Now like a little negro's bought and sold.





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