My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went;
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast:
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she has gone, and has left me behind,
What  ...  marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.

 ... 

Rose, what has become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Oh roses, I know what it was that you dressed,
And made yourselves fine for -- a place on her breast:
 ... 

 ... 

 ... 
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye love one so fair.