Lycidas. Thyrsis.

Lyc. Thyrsis! the music of that murm'ring spring
Is not so mournful as the strains you sing;
Nor rivers winding thro' the vales below
So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.
Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,
The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky;
While silent birds forget their tuneful lays,
O sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise!

Thyr. Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,

Lyc. So may kind rains their vital moisture yield,
And swell the future harvest of the field.
Begin: this charge the dying Daphne gave,
And said, 'Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!'
Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn,

Thyr. Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring,
Let Nymphs and Sylvans cypress garlands bring:
Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide,
And break your bows, as when Adonis died!
And with your golden darts, now useless grown,
Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone:
'Let Nature change, let Heav'n and Earth deplore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and Love is now no more!'
'Tis done; and Nature's various charms decay,

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