Ye warblers, while Strephon I mourn

Ye warblers, while Strephon I mourn, To cheer me, your harmony bring; Unless since my shepherd is gone, You cease, like poor Phillis, to sing: Each flow'r declines its sweet head, Nor odours around me will throw, Whilst ev'ry soft lamb on the mead, Seems kindly to pity my woe.

Each rural amusement I try In vain to restore my past ease; What charm'd when my Strephon was by, Has now lost the power to please: Ye seasons that brighten the grove, Not long for your absence we mourn; But Strephon neglects me and love, He roves, and will never return.

As gay as the spring my dear, And sweeet as all flowers combin'd; His smiles like the summer can cheer, Ah! why then, like winter, unkind? Unkind he is not, I can prove, But tender to others can be; To Celia and Chloe makes love, And only is cruel to me.