Phillida:
Ah, Coridon, contentedly we tend 
Our bleating flocks, but think not of our end

Coridon:
Faire Phillida, our life that's innocent, 
Cannot be guilty of an ill event:

Phillida:
'Tis true, but yet me thinks diseas'd old age, 
Should make us weary of our pilgrimage:

Coridon:
Our age points to our end; in this we're blest, 
That after all our pains, w'are neer our rest.

Chorus:
In this w'are blest, that after all our pains, 
W'are neere our rest. 

Phillida:
But wher's our rest? must we not fight with death, 
And gainst him lose our life for neere our rest. want of breath;

Coridon:
Death hasts us to our graves, if well we die, 
We shall have heav'n in change for misery.

Chorus:
Then welcome death, obey our destiny, 
And change our frailty for eternity.