Song. the Unhappy Maid

Farewell, ye green fields and sweet groves, Where Strephon engag'd my poor heart; Where nightingales warble their throats, And nature is dress'd without art; No pleasure they now can afford, Nor music can lull me to rest; For Strephon proves false to his word, Aud Phyllis can never be blest.

Oft times, by the side of a spring, Where roses and lillies appear, Gay Strephon of Phyllis would sing; For Phyllis was all he held dear; So soon as he found by my eyes The passion that glow'd in my breast; He then to my grief and surprise, Prov'd all he had said was a jest.

Too soon, to my sorrow I find, The beauties alone that will last Are those that are fix'd in the mind, Which envy, nor time, cannot blast; Beware then, ye fair, how ye trust The fool, who to love makes pretence; For Strephon to me had been just, If nature had blest him with sense.