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Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood,
Shepherd, I take thy word, And trust thy honest-offered courtesy, Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds With smoky rafters, than in tap’stry halls And courts of princes, where it first was named, And yet is most pretended : in a place Less warranted than this, or less secure, I cannot be, that I should fear to change it. Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial To my proportioned strength! Shepherd, lead on.
Unmuffle, ye faint stars; and thou fair moon, That wont'st 12 to love the traveller's benizon,
Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud,
And disinherit Chaos, that reigns here
your influence be quite dammed up
Or, if our eyes Be barred that happiness, might we but hear The folded flocks penned in their wattled cotes, Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops, Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock Count the night watches to his feathery dames, ’T would be some solace yet, some little cheering, In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs. But oh, that hapless virgin, our lost sister! Where
she wander now ? whither betake her From the chill dew, amongst rude burs and thistles ? Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now;
Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm
grasp Of savage Hunger, or of savage Heat ?
Peace, brother! be not over-exquisite
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils;
For grant they be so, while they rest unknown,
Or if they be but false alarms of fear,
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes impaired.