SONG
I.
I
Told
my
nymph
,
I
told
her
true
,
My
fields
were
small
,
my
flocks
were
few
;
While
faltering
accents
spoke
my
fear
,
That
Flavia
might
not
prove
sincere
.
Of
crops
destroy'd
by
vernal
cold
,
And
vagrant
sheep
that
left
my
fold
;
Of
these
she
heard
,
yet
bore
to
hear
;
And
is
not
Flavia
then
sincere
?
How
chang'd
by
Fortune's
fickle
wind
,
The
friends
I
lov'd
became
unkind
,
She
heard
,
and
shed
a
generous
tear
;
And
is
not
Flavia
then
sincere
?
How
,
if
she
deign'd
my
love
to
bless
,
My
Flavia
must
not
hope
for
dress
;
This
too
she
heard
,
and
smil'd
to
hear
;
And
Flavia
sure
must
be
sincere
.
Go
shear
your
flocks
,
ye
jovial
swains
,
Go
reap
the
plenty
of
your
plains
;
Despoil'd
of
all
which
you
revere
,
I
know
my
Flavia's
love
sincere
.