Tell me, ye brooks, where can my darling hide?
O! lead me to him, as ye gently glide.
In yon dark bower does he soft-slumb'ring lay,
And there the tribute to your murmurs pay?

In vain, to find him I implore your aid,
And tell my longings to your bending shade;
His deep-hid covert you must ne'er disclose,
Whence now he spies me, and derides my woes.

When night draws off, from me the charmer flies;
In vain I call him, still he mocks my sighs;
He flies! At random I these words employ:
My soul's delight may be a [wingless]1 boy.

Fruitless for him your mossy banks I trace,
And sweetly tortured, rove from place to place.
In grotts alone, he's kind as Love can be.
Thus, what I [doat]2 on, I must never see.