The
SHEPHERD'S
FAREWEL
to
his
LOVE
.
Being
the
same
ODE
.
Translated
by
Mr.
RODERICK
.
PHoebe
,
thank
thy
false
heart
,
it
has
fix'd
my
repose
,
The
gods
have
had
pity
at
length
on
my
woes
;
I
feel
it
,
I
feel
my
soul
loose
from
its
chain
,
And
at
last
freedom
comes
,
often
dream'd
of
in
vain
.
The
flame
is
burn'd
out
,
and
each
passion
at
rest
.
Under
which
love
disguis'd
still
might
lurk
in
my
breast
;
No
more
,
when
thou'rt
nam'd
,
the
warm
blushes
arise
,
No
more
slutters
my
heart
,
when
I
meet
with
your
eyes
.
In
my
sleep
now
no
longer
thy
image
I
see
,
Nor
the
first
of
my
thoughts
,
when
I
wake
,
is
of
thee
,
When
from
thee
,
no
more
of
thy
absence
I
plain
,
When
with
thee
,
I
feel
neither
pleasure
nor
pain
.
My
heart
without
fondness
can
muse
on
thy
charms
,
My
past
pains
I
recount
,
yet
no
passion
alarms
;
Discompos'd
I'm
no
longer
,
when
tow'rd
me
you
move
,
And
at
ease
with
my
rival
I
talk
of
my
love
.
Whether
haughty
thy
frown
,
whether
gentle
thy
strain
,
In
vain
thy
proud
looks
,
thy
fond
speeches
in
vain
;
Thy
false
tongue
to
beguile
me
no
more
has
the
art
,
No
more
thy
keen
eye
knows
the
way
to
my
heart
.
Whether
pensive
or
cheerful
,
no
longer
to
you
For
this
are
my
thanks
,
or
for
that
my
blame
due
:
The
gay
prospect
now
pleases
,
though
you
are
away
,
And
your
presence
no
more
can
make
dreariness
gay
.
Believe
me
,
I
still
can
allow
that
thou'rt
fair
,
But
not
that
no
fair-one
can
with
thee
compare
;
And
though
beauteous
I
own
thee
,
yet
still
in
thy
face
I
can
now
spy
a
fault
,
which
I
once
thought
a
grace
.
When
first
the
fix'd
arrow
I
pluck'd
from
my
heart
,
Oh
,
methought
I
shou'd
die
!
so
severe
was
the
smart
:
But
from
pow'r
so
oppressive
to
set
myself
clear
,
Torments
greater
than
dying
with
patience
I'd
bear
.
When
lim'd
the
poor
bird
thus
with
eagerness
strains
,
Nor
regrets
the
lost
plume
,
so
his
freedom
he
gains
;
The
loss
of
his
plumage
small
time
will
restore
,
And
once
try'd
the
false
twig
,
it
can
cheat
him
no
more
.
The
old
flame
,
never
flatter
yourself
to
believe
,
While
it
dwells
on
my
tongue
,
in
my
heart
still
must
live
;
Our
dangers
,
when
past
,
with
delight
we
repeat
,
What
in
suffering
was
pain
,
to
remembrance
is
sweet
.
'Tis
thus
when
the
soldier
returns
from
the
wars
,
He
fights
o'er
his
old
battles
,
and
vaunts
of
his
scars
:
With
pleasure
the
captive
his
liberty
gain'd
The
fetters
thus
shows
,
which
once
held
him
enchain'd
.
Thus
I
talk
,
and
I
still
will
talk
on
while
I
may
,
Nor
heed
I
,
though
you
disbelieve
what
I
say
:
I
ask
not
that
Phoebe
my
talk
should
approve
,
Let
her
too
,
if
she
can
,
talk
at
ease
of
my
love
.
An
inconstant
I
leave
,
a
true
lover
you
lose
;
Which
first
of
us
two
will
have
comfort
,
who
knows
?
This
I
know
—
Phoebe
ne'er
such
a
true
love
will
find
;
I
can
easily
meet
with
a
fair
as
unkind
.