Ye shepherds give ear to my lay, 
And take no more heed of my sheep: 
They have nothing to do but to stray; 
I have nothing to do but to weep. 
Yet do not my folly reprove; 
She was fair -- and my passion begun; 
She smil'd -- and I could not but love; 
She is faithless -- and I am undone. 
Perhaps I was void of all thought: 
Perhaps it was plain to foresee, 
That a nymph so compleat would be sought 
By a swain more engaging than me. 
Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire; 
It banishes wisdom the while; 
And the lip of the nymph we admire 
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile. 
She is faithless, and I am undone; 
Ye that witness the woes I endure; 
Let reason instruct you to shun 
What it cannot instruct you to cure. 
Beware how you loiter in vain 
Amid nymphs of an higher degree: 
It is not for me to explain 
How fair, and how fickle they be. 
Alas! from the day that we met, 
What hope of an end to my woes? 
When I cannot endure to forget 
The glance that undid my repose. 
Yet time may diminish the pain: 
The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree,

Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, 
In time may have comfort for me. 
The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, 
The sound of a murmuring stream, 
The peace which from solitude flows, 
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. 
High transports are shewn to the sight, 
But we are not to find them our own; 
Fate never bestow'd such delight, 
As I with my Phyllis had known. 
O ye woods, spread your branches apace; 
To your deepest recesses I fly; 
I would hide with the beasts of the chace; 
I would vanish from every eye. 
Yet my reed shall resound thro' the grove 
With the same sad complaint it begun; 
How she smil'd, and I could not but love; 
Was faithless, and I am undone!