Retir'd from any Mortal's sight  
	 the pensive Damon lay,
He blest the discontented Night
	 And Curst the Smiling Day.
The tender sharers of his Pain,
	 His Flocks no longer Graze,
But sadly fixt around the Swain,
	 Like silent Mourners gaze.

He heard the Musick of the Wood,
	 And with a sigh Reply'd,
He saw the Fish sport in the Flood,
	 And wept a deeper Tyde.
In vain the Summers Bloom came on,
	 For still the Drooping Swain,
Like Autumn Winds was heard to Groan,
	 Out-wept the Winters Rain.

Some Ease (said he) some Respite give!
	 Why, might Pow'rs, Ah why
Am I too much distrest to Live,
	 And yet forbid to Dye?
Such Accents from the Shepherd flew
	 Whilst on the Ground He lay;
At last so deep a Sigh he drew,
	 As bore his Life away.