Thirsis, O let some pity move thee;
Thou know'st, O alas, thy Cloris too well doth love thee;
Yet thou, unkind, dost fly me.
Then why, O dost thou fly me?
I faint, alas, here must I lie me.
Cry, alas, now for grief since he is bereft thee.

Up the hills, down the dales, 
Thou seest, dear, I have not left thee.
Ah, can these trickling tears of mine not procure love?
What shepherd ever kill'd a nymph for pure love!
See, cruel, see the beasts, 
See their tears, they do reward me.