How delightful's the life of an innocent swain,
How free from the troubles of state;
Whilst in mountains and meads and each cool shady grove,
We freely enjoy the soft pleasures of love.

Like the birds on each tree so merry are we,
In the now budding branches they wantonly play.
At approach of the Spring they cheerfully sing,
And why should not we be as pleasant as they?

We aspire not to honours nor court renown,
'Tis a bubble, a dazzling snare,
Retir'd from the Court to the happiest plain,
We fear not the malice of Fate.
We envy no monarch his glittering crown,
But think ourselves happier far.
There's no place so pleasant as nature's green bow'rs,
And a crown's not as sweet as a garland of flowers.

Like the birds on each tree so merry are we,
In the now budding branches they wantonly play,
At approach of the Spring they cheerfully sing,
And why should we not be as pleasant as they?