"Despairing beside a clear stream"
di Nicholas Rowe (1674-1718)

Despairing beside a clear stream,
A shepherd forsaken was laid,
And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the Plain,
With a sigh to his sigh did reply,
And the brook in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Alas! Now severe is my case,
Thus sadly complaining he cried;
When first I beheld her fair face,
'Twere better by far I had died,
She talk'd and I bless'd the dear tongue!
When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great;
I listen'd and cried, when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet.
But you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd;
What ever I suffer forbear,
Forbear to accuse the false maid:
If thro' the wide World I should range,
'Tis in vain from my Fortune to fly;
'Twas hers to be false and to change
'Tis mine to be constant and die.
What tho' I have skill to complain,
Tho' the Muses my temples have crown'd?
What tho' when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around.
Ah Colin thy hopes are in vain;
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;
Thy fair one inclines to a swain,
Whose music is sweeter than this.
Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array,
Be finest at ev'ry fine show,
And frolick it all the long day:
While Colin forgotten and gone,
No more shall be heard of or seen,
Unless, when beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.