The CHARMS of ANTHONY. YE Swains, attend; let ev'ry Nymph be near; Be still, ye Rivers, that the Swains may hear: Ye Winds, be calm, and brush with softer Wing; We mean the Charms of Anthony to sing; See all around the list'ning Shepherds throng; O help, ye Sisters of immortal Song. LUCY. Sing, Phebe, sing what Shepherd rules the Plain, Young Colin's Envy, and Aminda's Pain: Whom none can rival when he mows the Field, And to whose Flute the Nightingale must yield. PHEBE. 'Tis Anthony — 'tis he deserves the Lay, As mild as Ev'ning, and as Morning gay; Not the fresh Blooms on yonder Codling-tree, Nor the white Hawthorn half so fair as he; Nor the young Daisy dress'd in Morning Dew; Nor the Pea Blossom wears a brighter Hue. LUCY. None knows like him to strew the wheaten Grain, Or drive the Plough-share o'er the fertile Plain; To raise the Sheaves, or reap the waving Corn, Or mow brown Stubble in the early Morn. PHEBE. How mild the Youth, when on a sultry Day In yonder Vale we turn'd the fragrant Hay: How on his Voice the list'ning Shepherds hung, Not tuneful Stella half so sweetly sung. LUCY. Whether he binds the Sheaf in twisted Band, Or turns the Pitch-fork on his nimble Hand; He's sure to win a Glance from ev'ry Eye, While clumsy Colin stands neglected by. PHEBE. His curling Locks by far more lovely shew, Than the white Wig on Squire Fopling's Brow; And when the Shepherd on a rainy Day, Weaves for his Hat a Wisp of flow'ry Hay, The scarlet Feather not so gay appears, Which on his Crown Sir Ambrose Fino wears. LUCY. For Anthony Meriah leaves her Cow, And stands to gape at him upon the Mow: While he (for who but must that Wench despise?) Throws Straws and Cobwebs on her staring Eyes. PHEBE. To the Back-door I saw proud Lydia hie, To see the Team with Anthony go by; He slily laugh'd, and turn'd him from the Door, I thought the Damsel would have spoke no more. LUCY. Me once he met, 'twas when from yonder Vale, Each Morn I brought the heavy milking Pail: He took it from my Head, and with a Smile Reach'd out his Hand, and help'd me o'er the Stile. PHEBE. As I was dancing late amongst the Crew, A yellow Pippin o'er my Head he threw: Sue bit her Lips, and Barbaretta frown'd; And Phillis look'd as tho' she wou'd have swoon'd. Thus sung the Maids till Colinet came by, And Rodrigo from weeding of the Rye; Each took his Lass, and sped 'em to the Town, To drink cool Cider at the Hare and Hound: The Damsels simper like the sparkling Beer, And Colin shines till Anthony is near.