fo let us be going, for there is my poor copy of Alftonfields church.

Angler. It is the church itself, and those diftant hills, that stand behind it with a natural gloom. Come on, Sir.

Painter. Gently, so please you; and let me take care of myself down these slippery stones. How the path winds and turns in a zig-zag! I shall tumble ere I get to the bottom.

Angler. Never fear, Sir! never fear; every flippery ftone and every step of the way has a charm for me; for here it was Mr. Cotton travelled with his friend, who was in a strange taking as he crept or flided down.

Painter. And well he might be, for it is an uncouth precipice: it is the land of break-neck. Angler. A little fteep, I grant you; but come on, for methinks we are near the fign ' of a bridge,' which is so narrow, Viator thought it was fit only for wheelbarrows, and declared he was inclinable to go over on all fours:' fo look out.

Painter. Nay, Sir; but to look out for any thing beyond my footing, is more than man can do in fuch a ribble rabble place as this.

Angler. Come, brother, give over this complaining: for, look you, there is the wheel'barrow bridge;' and listen to the river below.

How the noise of her waters falls on mine ear like the voice of melody! Welcome, crystal Dove; for we purpose to caft away fome innocent hours in thy cool receffes.

'Oh my beloved nymph, fair Dove,
'Princess of rivers, how I love

'Upon thy flowery banks to lie,
'And view the filver ftream

'When gilded by a summer's beam!
And in it all thy wanton fry

'Playing at liberty;

' And with my angle upon them
• The all of treachery

‹ I ever learn'd industriously to try.' *

Painter. Now we are fafely down; and the river ruftles merrily under the bridge, crisping itself into foam. And what hamlet is yonder, on the Staffordshire fide, with a cheerful mill? Angler. That is Mill Dale, and there lies the road to Alftonfields.

Painter. Let us be forward; for the fun finks down apace,

'Bidding farewell unto the gloomy sky.'

Angler. Stay a while: if you have any affection for me, you will not pass by this enchant

* THE RETIREMENT. Irregular stanzas by Charles Cotton.-ED.

ing glen, and leave me no record. Look again -fee how the evening gleams linger over the tops of the mountains. I befeech you, fit on 'this broad ftone,' and draw me a picture.

Painter. This landskip needs a better hand than mine to give the natural fall of the rocks, and throw that bridge and the mill into a deep perspective.

Angler. You are too modeft; so pr'ythee begin, and I'll fit by your fide, and repeat you some paftoral verses composed by famed Sir Walter Raleigh.

air.

Painter. Come, then, tune your voice to the

'And loudly fing a roundelay of love.'

Angler. Shall I give you ' Phillida's love-call 'to her Coridon, and his replying?'

Painter. Aye, do so.

Angler. [fings.]

'Coridon, arise my Coridon.'

Painter. Sing, I pray you, boldly, that the rocks may answer with an echo.

Angler. I'll do my best; for the Pastoral is worthy, and full of an innocent love. Let me fee if I can remember me how it runs. [fings.]

PHILLIDA'S LOVE-CALL TO HER CORIDON,

AND HIS REPLYING.

Phil. Coridon, arife, my Coridon,
Titan fhineth clear.

Cor. Who is it that calleth Coridon?
Who is it that I hear?

Phil. Phillida, thy true love calleth thee;
Arife then, arise then;

Arife, and keep thy flock with me

Cor. Phillida, my true love, is it she?
I come then, come then;

I come to keep my flock with thee.
Phil. Here are cherries ripe for my Coridon;
Eat them for my fake.

Cor. Here's my oaten pipe, my lovely one,
Sport for thee to make.

Phil. Here are threads, my true love, fine as filk,
To knit thee, to knit thee

A pair of stockings as white as milk. Cor. Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat, To make thee, to make thee

A bonnet to withstand the heat.
Phil. I will gather flowers, my Coridon,
To fet in thy cap.

Cor. I will gather pears, my lovely one,
To put in thy lap.

Phil. I will buy my true love garters gay,
For Sundays, for Sundays,

To wear about his legs so tall.

Cor. I will buy my true love yellow sey,*

*Silk. ED.

For Sundays, for Sundays,

To wear about her middle fmall. Phil. When my Coridon fits on a hill,

Cor.

Making melody.

When my lovely goes to her wheel,
Singing cheerily.

Phil. Surely, methinks, my true love doth excel,
For sweetness, for sweetness,

Our Pan, that old Arcadian knight.

Cor. And, methinks my true love bears the bell, For clearness, for clearness,

Beyond the nymphs that be so bright.

Phil. Had my Coridon, my Coridon,
Been, alack! my swain:

Cor. Had my lovely one, my lovely one,
Been in Ida plain :

Phil. Cynthia Endymion had refus'd,
Preferring, preferring

My Coridon to play with-all.

Cor. The Queen of Love had been excused,
Bequeathing, bequeathing

My Phillida the golden ball.

Phil. Yonder comes my mother, Coridon!
Whither fhall I fly?

Cor. Under yon beach, my lovely one,
While the paffeth by.

Phil. Say to her thy true love was not here.
Remember, remember,

To-morrow is another day.

Cor. Doubt me not, my true love; do not fear :
Farewell, then, farewell then,

Heaven keep our loves alway.

Painter. Thank you, thank you; that is a

I