SONG. (As he lay in the plain, his…)

As he lay in the plain, his arm under his head, And his flocks feeding by, the fond Celadon said, If Love's a sweet passion, why does it torment? If a bitter (said he), whence are Lovers content? Since I suffer with pleasure, why should I complain? Or grieve at my fate, when I know 'tis in vain? Yet so pleasing the pain is, so soft is the dart, That at once it both wounds me, and tickles my heart: To myself I sigh often without knowing why; And, when absent from Phyllis, methinks I could die. But oh! what a pleasure still follows my pain; When kind Fortune does help me to see her again! In her eyes, the bright stars that foretell what's to come, By soft stealth now and then I examine my doom. I press her hand gently, look languishing down, And by passionate silence I make my love known. But oh! how I'm blest when so kind she does prove, By some willing mistake to discover her love; When, in striving to hide, she reveals all her flame, And our eyes tell each other what neither dare name.