Corydon's Complaint to Lucinda

Why Lucinda will you stray, From your ever constant swain, Who with anguish all the day, Sits repining on the plain.

Turn fair maid and view me here, Pensive sitting on the ground; Drooping, dying with despair, Gazing on the fields around.

When I view the pastur'd mead, There the pretty lambkins play; Shepherds tune their oaten reed, And each bird his plaintive lay.

But what to Coroydon are these, When Lucinda is not near; Nought my sight can ever please, Nor sweet sounds shall charm mine ear.

Then listen fair-one to my grief, Take compassion on your swain, View him pleading for relief, Cease for ever all his pain.