No more ye swains, no more upbraid

No more ye swains, no more upbraid A youth, by love unhappy made; Your rural sports are all in vain, To sooth my care, or ease my pain. Nor shade of trees, nor sweets of flow'rs, Can e'er redeem my happy hours; When ease forsakes the tortur'd mind, What pleasure can a lover find?

Yet, if again you wish to see Your Damon still restor'd and free, Go try to move the cruel fair, And gain the scornful Celia's ear. But, oh! forbear with too much art To touch that dear relentless heart, Lest rivals to my fears ye prove, And jealousy succeed to love.