Classic Poem

Thenot my deare, how can a lofty hill
To lowly shepherds thoughts be rightly fitting?
An humble dale well fits with humble quill:
There may I safely sing, all fearlesse sitting,
My Fusca's eyes, my Fusca's beauty dittying;
My loved lonenesse, and hid Muse enjoying:
Yet should'st thou come, and see our simple toying,
Well would fair Thenot like our sweet retired joying.

But if my Thenot love my humble vein,
(Too lowly vein) ne're let him Colin call me;
He, while he was, was (ah!) the choicest swain,
That ever grac'd a reed: what e're befall me,
Or Myrtil , (so'fore Fusca fair did thrall me,
Most was I know'n) or now poore Thirsil name me,
Thirsil , for so my Fusca pleases frame me:
But never mounting Colin ; Colin's high stile will shame me.

Two shepherds I adore with humble love;
Th' high-towring swain, that by slow Mincius waves
His well-grown wings at first did lowly prove,
Where Corydon's sick love full sweetly raves;
But after sung bold Turnus daring braves:
And next our nearer Colin's sweetest strain;
Most, where he most his Rosalind doth plain.
Well may I after look, but follow all in vain.

Why then speaks Thenot of the honour'd Bay?
Apollo's self, though fain, could not obtain her;
She at his melting songs would scorn to stay,
Though all his art he spent to entertain her
Wilde beasts he tam'd, yet never could detain her.
Then sit we here within this willow glade:
Here for my Thenot I a garland made
With purple violets, and lovely myrtil shade.