Poor Celadon, he sighs in vain;
The fair Euginia must not love,
Nor has a shepherd reason to complain
When tow'ring thoughts his ruin prove.

But Celadon his stars will often blame
With all the passion of the mind and tongue.
Complaining words and notes increase his flame;
Thy nymph won't see it, but commends the song.

Alas, 'tis plain what crosses still his fate;
What, can a verse or note avail?
Birth, fortune are as hills of greatest height;
They overlook a lowly dale.