Book I, Elegy 18

Here of a truth is a lonely and a silent place, where I may make my moan, and the breath of the West Wind only rules this deserted grove. Here may I freely utter my secret griefs, if only these lone crags can keep faith.

From what first beginning, Cynthia, shall I trace thy scorn? What was the first cause for tears thou gavest me? I that but a short while since was counted among happy lovers am now perforce an outcast from thy love. What woe such as this have I deserved? what spells alter thy love for me? Is jealousy of some new rival the cause of thine anger? So surely mayst thou return to my embrace, fickle maid, as no other woman has ever planted her fair feet within my threshold. Though my grief owes thee much bitterness, yet never shall my wrath fall so fierce upon thee, that I should always give thee just cause for fury and thine eyes be marred with streaming tears.

Or is it that I give scant proof of my passion by changing colour, and that no token of my faith cries aloud upon my countenance? Ye shall be my witnesses, if trees know aught of love, beech-tree and pine, beloved of Arcady's god. Ah! how oft do my passionate words echo beneath your delicate shades, how oft is Cynthia's name carved upon your bark!

Ah! how oft has thy injustice begotten troubles in my heart, that only thy silent portal knows! I have been wont to bear thy haughty commands with patience, nor ever to bemoan my grief in piercing accents of sorrow. Yet in return for this, ye founts divine, lo! this chill couch of rock is mine and broken slumbers on this rugged track: and all that my plaintive cries can tell must be uttered in this waste place to shrill-voiced birds.

But be what thou wilt, still let the woods re-echo "Cynthia," nor these lone crags have rest from the sound of thy name.