III.  The Fountain that wont to run sweetly along,
          And dance to soft Murmurs the Pebbles among,
          Thou know’st, little Cupid, if_ Phebe was there,
          ’Twas Pleasure to look at, ’twas Musick to hear: 
          But now she is absent, I walk by its Side,
          And still as it murmurs do nothing but chide,
          Must you be so chearful, while I go in Pain? 
          Peace there with your Bubbling, and hear me complain.

  IV.  When my Lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
          And when_ Phebe and I were as joyful as they,
          How pleasant their Sporting, how happy the Time,
          When Spring, Love and Beauty were all in their Prime? 
          But now in their Frolicks when by me they pass,
          I fling at their Fleeces an handful of Grass;
          Be still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
          To see you so merry, while I am so sad.

  V. My Dog I was ever well pleased to see
          Come wagging his Tail to my Fair one and me;
          And_ Phebe was pleas’d too, and to my Dog said,
          Come hither, poor Fellow; and patted his Head. 
          But now, when he’s fawning, I with a sour Look
          Cry, Sirrah; and give him a Blow with my Crook: 
          And I’ll give him another; for why should not Tray
          Be as dull as his Master, when Phebe’s away?

  VI.  When walking with_ Phebe, what Sights have I seen? 
          How fair was the Flower, how fresh was the Green? 
          What a lovely appearance the Trees and the Shade,
          The Corn-fields and Hedges, and ev’ry thing made? 
          But now she has left me, tho’ all are still there,
          They none of ’em now so delightful appear: 
          ’Twas nought but the Magick, I find, of her Eyes,
          Made so many beautiful Prospects arise.

  VII.  Sweet Musick went with us both all the Wood thro’,
          The Lark, Linnet, Throstle, and Nightingale too;
          Winds over us whisper’d, Flocks by us did bleat,
          And chirp went the Grasshopper under our Feet. 
          But now she is absent, tho’ still they sing on,
          The Woods are but lonely, the Melody’s gone: 
          Her Voice in the Consort, as now I have found,
          Gave ev’ry thing else its agreeable Sound.

  VIII.  Rose, what is become of thy delicate Hue? 
          And where is the Violet’s beautiful Blue? 
          Does ought of its Sweetness the Blossom beguile,
          That Meadow, those Dasies, why do they not smile? 
          Ah!  Rivals, I see what it was that you drest
          And made your selves fine for; a Place in her Breast: 
          You put on your Colours to pleasure her Eye,
          To be pluckt by her Hand, on her Bosom to die.