As Sylvia in a forest lay, 
To vent her woe alone,
Her swain, Sylvander, came that way, 
And heard her dying moan, 
Ah! is my love, she said, to you 
So worthless and so vain? 
Why is your wonted fondness now 
Converted to disdain?

This said -- all breathless, sick and pale, 
Her head upon her hand -- 
She found her vital spirits fail,
And senses at a stand. 
Sylvander then began to melt,
But ere the word was given, 
The heavy hand of death she felt, 
And sigh'd her soul to Heaven.