Montano, Silvio, and Mirtillo, shepherds

Montano
Bad are the times.
Silvio
                   And worse than they are we.
Montano
Troth, bad are both ; worse fruit, and ill the tree :
The feast of shepherds fail.
Silvio
                            None crowns the cup
Of wassail now or sets the quintell up ;
And he who us'd to lead the country-round,
Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes, grief-drown'd.
Ambo.
Let's cheer him up.
Silvio
                     Behold him weeping-ripe.
Mirtillo
Ah ! Amaryllis, farewell mirth and pipe ;
Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play
To these smooth lawns my mirthful roundelay.
Dear Amaryllis ! 
Montano
                Hark!
Silvio
                     Mark!
Mirtillo
                          This earth grew sweet
Where, Amaryllis, thou didst set thy feet.
Ambo.
Poor pitied youth ! 
Mirtillo
                    And here the breath of kine
And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine.
This flock of wool and this rich lock of hair,
This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here.
Silvio
Words sweet as love itself. Montano, hark !
Mirtillo
This way she came, and this way too she went ;
How each thing smells divinely redolent !
Like to a field of beans when newly blown,
Or like a meadow being lately mown.
Montano
A sweet-sad passion —
Mirtillo 
In dewy mornings when she came this way
Sweet bents would bow to give my love the day ;
And when at night she folded had her sheep,
Daisies would shut, and, closing, sigh and weep.
Besides (Ah me !) since she went hence to dwell,
The voices' daughter ne'er spake syllable.
But she is gone.
Silvio  
                Mirtillo, tell us whether.
Mirtillo
Where she and I shall never meet together.
Montano
Forfend it Pan, and, Pales, do thou please
To give an end. 
Mirtillo
               To what ?
Silvio
                         Such griefs as these.
Mirtillo 
Never, O never ! Still I may endure
The wound I suffer, never find a cure.
Montano
Love for thy sake will bring her to these hills
And dales again. 
Mirtillo
                No, I will languish still ;
And all the while my part shall be to weep,
And with my sighs, call home my bleating sheep :
And in the rind of every comely tree
I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee.
Montano
Set with the sun thy woes.
Silvio
                          The day grows old,
And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold.
Chorus
The shades grow great, but greater grows our sorrow ;
  But let's go steep
  Our eyes in sleep,
  And meet to weep
  To-morrow.