The Metamorphosis.
Of late I saw thee gay,
Thine eyes with lustre shone,
Oh! gentle shepherd, say,
Thy mirth, where is it flown?

Of late I saw thee laughing,
Thy jovial friends among,
The brilliant goblet quaffing,
The wildest of the throng.

But now, alas! 'tis passing strange,
Thy mirth is fled away;
The reason of the mystic change,
Oh! prythee, prythee say.

Perhaps that I thine ills may cure,
Yet should my aid prove vain,
I'll teach thee patience to endure,
Of hopeless love the pain!