Menalcas.
What voice from yonder lawn tends hither? Hark!
'Tis Thyrsis calls! I hear Lycanthe bark!
His flocks left out so late, and weary grown,
Are to the thickets gone, and there laid down.
Damon.
Menalcas, haste to look them out! poor sheep,
When day is done, go willingly to sleep:
And could bad man his time spend as they do,
He might go sleep, or die, as willing too.
Menalcas.
Farewell! kind Damon! now the shepherd's star
With beauteous looks smiles on us, though from far.
All creatures that were favourites of day
Are with the sun retir'd and gone away.
While feral birds send forth unpleasant notes,
And night—the nurse of thoughts—sad thoughts promotes:
But joy will yet come with the morning light,
Though sadly now we bid good night!
Damon.
Good night!