Song

I TOLD my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were small, my flocks were few,
While falt'ring 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 gen'rous 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.