Stay, gentle Echo, dear Nymph, stay,
 With love's sad language thou can'st play;
 The last of my discourse retort,
 Love, once thy grief, is now thy sport.
     Echo: Thy sport.
 My sport, fair nymph? No, 'tis my pain
 To love, and not find love again.
     Echo: Again!
 Cruel, thus to increase my care,
 Is love a cordial for despair?
     Echo: Or despair.

 Love or despair! what dost thou mean,
 Would'st have me suffer both again?
     Echo: Both again.
 And what reward shall I e're find?
 Will fair Clarissa be still unkind?
     Echo: Still unkind.
 When Passion strains his voice most high,
 Will she, like thee, farther fly?
     Echo: Farther fly.
 Shall I in vain my sighs repeat,
 Since Cupid's grown so great a cheat?

 Tell me, dear Echo, how I may
 Chase this intruding guest away,
 And break that bow, whose pow'r most strange,
 Thy substance to a voice did change?
     Echo: Change.
 Ah no, my fate I cannot fly!
 'Tis harder far to change than die.
     Echo: Than die.
 Ah! what, does this Echo say die?
     Echo: Ah! die!
 Is this the counsel I implore?

 Hence, hence, bubbling air, I will no more.
     Echo: I'll no more.
 Be ill no more? That I believe,
 He can't be ill that does not live.
 When Titan's weary car once more
 Has trac'd the spacious heav'ns o're,
 Near to this happy fountain set,
 I'll call thee with my flagelet:
 Fail not to hast and know my will.
     Echo: I will.