Song I.

SONG I.

I Told my nymph, I told her true, My fields were small, my flocks were few; While faltering accents spoke my fear, That Flavia might not prove sincere.

Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold, And vagrant sheep that left my fold; Of these she heard, yet bore to hear; And is not Flavia then sincere?

How chang'd by Fortune's fickle wind, The friends I lov'd became unkind, She heard, and shed a generous tear; And is not Flavia then sincere?

How, if she deign'd my love to bless, My Flavia must not hope for dress; This too she heard, and smil'd to hear; And Flavia sure must be sincere.

Go shear your flocks, ye jovial swains, Go reap the plenty of your plains; Despoil'd of all which you revere, I know my Flavia's love sincere.