Ye happy swains, whose nymphs are kind,
Teach me the art of love;
That I the like success may find,
My shepherdess to move.
Long have I strove to win her heart,
But yet, alas!, in vain;
For she still acts one cruel part
Of rigour and disdain.

Whilst in my breast a flame most pure
Consumes my life away;
Ten thousand tortures I endure
Languishing night and day.
Yet she, regardless of my grief,
Looks on her dying slave,
And unconcern'd, yields no relief,
To heal the wound she gave.

What is my crime, oh rigid Fate!
I'm punish'd so severe;
Tell me, that I may expiate
With a repenting tear;
But if you have resolved that I
No mercy shall obtain,
Let her persist in tyranny,
And cure by death my pain.