From my fickle shepherd
I hear the flageolet.
Of this new tribute
I am no longer the object;
I hear it humming
For someone other than me.
Alas! how good I was
To give him my faith!

In the past the unfaithful one
Made to echo [out]
That I was the most beautiful
Of the girls in the hamlet; 
That I was his shepherdess,
That he was my shepherd;
That I could be fickle
Without him becoming fickle.

One day it was my birthday,
He came early in the morning;
Flowers adorned my head,
He bemoaned his fate.
He said: “Would you like, cruel one,
To enjoy my torments?”
I said: “Be faithful to me,
And leave it to time!”

The spring that was born
Of fiery flights
Saw them disappear
As soon as the flowers;
But, if he gives back to Flore
The inconstant zephyrs,
Could he not still
Bring back his desires?