Upon a flow'ry Bed
Beneath a Willow's pleasant shade,
Beside a crystal Flood his Love--sick Head
The melancholy Baker laid:
Three Times he sigh'd with such a violent Force,
As mov'd the very Willows with remorse;
The Nymphs together flock'd to hear his Moans,
And Eccho from the neighb'ring Hills answer'd his Groans.

Tell me, ye Nymphs, (said he)
So may you once so happy be
A Nymph much brighter than your selves to see,
Sit talking here with me,
If e'er this rev'rend Stream from you should slide,
Or underneath the Ground his Current hide,
Would you not solitary sit on Shore,
And sadly wail the Pleasures ye enjoy'd before?

Tell me, thou pleasant Shade,
So may your Greenness never fade,
But be for her fair Head an Arbour made,
Beneath you in my Bosom laid,
When e'er from you the Sun doth backward haste,
And on your Heads his Beams but faintly cast,
Do ye not quickly lose your thick, green Hair,
And stand expos'd to Winds, all wither'd and all bare?

Tell me, thou crystal Wave,
So may thy Stream her Body lave,
And from her Limbs a richer Tincture have,
Than e'er the golden River gave,
If e'er thy fruitful Fountain should decay,
Or in bad humour turn another way,
Would not thy Channel grow all chapt and drie,
And all thy nimble, scaly People gasp and die?

Tell me, ye Flowers gay,
So may your Sweetness with you stay,
'Till her fair Hand shall pluck you hence away,
And in her sweeter Bosom lay,
If e'er the sullen Heav'ns should refuse
To shed on you their soft refreshing Dews,
Wovld not your Scent and Colour soon decay,
And you that are so fresh and young, grow old and gray?

Tell me thou hollow Sound,
So may each Plain and Hill around
With Repetitions of her Name resound,
'Till all Voices else be drown'd,
Should no sad Lover to these Banks resort,
And with his tuneful Musick make thee Sport,
Would'st thou not melancholy sit alone,
And with dumb Wailings thy sad Solitude bemoan?

Then marvel not that I
Decline all tedious Company,
And to these solitary Places flie,
And sit and sigh, and weep, and die;
Since I have lost what was to me more dear
Than to you, All that I have mention'd here,
My Spring, my Shade, my Musick, and my Sun,
The Pleasure of my Heart, and my Life's Soul is gone.