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You fawns and silvans, when my Chloris brings
Her flocks to water in your pleasant plains,
Solicit her to pity Corin's strings,
The smart whereof for her he still sustains.
For she is ruthless of my woeful song;
My oaten reed she not delights to hear.
O Chloris, Chloris! Corin thou dost wrong,
Who loves thee better than his own heart dear.
The flames of Aetna are not half so hot
As is the fire which thy disdain hath bread.
Ah cruel fates, why do you then besot
Poor Corin's soul with love, when love is fled?
Either cause cruel Chloris to relent,
Or let me die upon the wound she sent!
