The lovely nymph is deaf to my lament, Nor heeds the music of this rustic reed; Wherefore my flocks and herds are ill content, Nor bathe their hoof where grows the water weed, Nor touch the tender herbage on the mead; So sad, because their shepherd grieves, are they. Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray. The herds are sorry for their master's moan; The nymph heeds not her lover though he die, The lovely nymph, whose heart is made of stone-- Nay steel, nay adamant! She still doth fly Far, far before me, when she sees me nigh, Even as a lamb flies fern the wolf away. Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray. Nay, tell her, pipe of mine, how swift doth flee Beauty together with our years amain; Tell her how time destroys all rarity, Nor youth once lost can be renewed again; Tell her to use the gifts that yet remain: Roses and violets blossom not alway. Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray. Carry, ye winds, these sweet words to her ears, Unto the ears of my loved nymph, and tell How many tears I shed, what bitter tears! Beg her to pity one who loves so well: Say that my life is frail and mutable, And melts like rime before the rising day. Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray. MOPSUS. Less sweet, methinks the voice of waters falling From cliffs that echo back their murmurous song; Less sweet the summer sound of breezes calling Through pine-tree tops sonorous all day long; Than are thy rhymes, the soul of grief enthralling, Thy rhymes o'er field and forest borne along: If she but hear them, at thy feet she'll fawn.-- Lo, Thyrsis, hurrying homeward from the lawn! [_Re-enters_ THYRSIS. ARISTAEUS. What of the calf? Say, hast thou seen her now? THYRSIS, _the cowherd_. I have, and I'd as lief her throat were cut! She almost ripped my bowels up, I vow, Running amuck with horns well set to butt: Nathless I've locked her in the stall below: She's blown with grass, I tell you, saucy slut! ARISTAEUS. Now, prithee, let me hear what made you stay So long upon the upland lawns away? THYRSIS. Walking, I spied a gentle maiden there, Who plucked wild flowers upon the mountain side: I scarcely think that Venus is more fair, Of sweeter grace, most modest in her pride: She speaks, she sings, with voice so soft and rare, That listening streams would backward roll their tide: Her face is snow and roses; gold her head; All, all alone she goes, white-raimented, ARISTAEUS. Stay, Mopsus! I must follow: for 'tis she Of whom I lately spoke. So, friend, farewell! MOPSUS. Hold, Aristaeus, lest for her or thee Thy boldness be the cause of mischief fell!