Damon

Did not thine age yield warrantise, old man, Impatience would enforce me to offend thee; Me list not now thy forward skill to scan, Yet will I pray that love may mend or end thee. Spring flowers, sea-tides, earth, grass, sky, stars shall banish, Before the thoughts of love or Phillis vanish.

So get thee gone, and fold thy tender sheep, For lo, the great automaton of day In Isis stream his golden locks doth steep; Sad even her dusky mantle doth display; Light-flying fowls, the posts of night, disport them, And cheerful-looking vesper doth consort them.

Come you, my careful flock, forego you master, I'll fold you up and after fall a-sighing; Words have no worth my secret wounds to plaster; Naught may refresh my joys but Phillis nighing. Farewell, old Demades.