Farewell ye green fields and sweet groves,
Where Phyllis engag'd my fond heart;
Where nightingales warble their loves,
And nature is dress'd without art.
No pleasure they now can afford,
Nor music can lull me to rest,
For Phyllis proves false to her word,
And Strephon can never be blest.
Oft times by the side of a spring,
Where roses and lillies appear,
Gay Phyllis of Strephon would sing--
For Strephon was all she held dear.
So soon as she found by my eyes,
The passion that glow'd in my breast
She then, to my grief and surprise
Prov'd all she said was a jest.
Too soon to my sorrow I find,
The beauties alone that will last
Are those that are found in the mind,
Which envy or time cannot blast.
Beware, then, beware how we trust
Coquets who to love make pretense;
For Phyllis to me had been just,
If nature had blest her with sense.