Chloris now thou art fled away,
Amintor's sheep are gone astray;
And all the joy he took to see,
His pretty lambs run after thee,
  Is gone, is gone, and he alone,
  Sings nothing now but welladay.

His oaten pipe that in thy praise
Was wont to play such roundelays,
Is thrown away, and not a swain
Dares pipe or sing, within his plain:
  'Tis death for any now to say
  One word to him but welladay.

The maypole where thy little feet
So roundly did in measures meet,
Is broken down, and no content
Comes near Amintor since you went.
  All that I ever heard him say
  Was Chloris, Chloris, welladay.

Upon those banks you us'd to tread
He ever since hath laid his head,
And whisper'd there such pining woe,
As not a blade of grass will grow;
  O Chloris! Chloris! come away,
  Until Amintor's welladay.