Sing, ye forsaken shepherds, sing His praise
In careless melancholy lays,
Lend Him a little doleful breath:
Poor Amintas! cruel Death!
10'Twas Thou couldst make dead words to live,
Thou that dull numbers couldst inspire
With charming voice and tuneful lyre,
That life to all, but to Thyself, couldst give;
Why couldst Thou not Thy wondrous art bequeath?
Poor Amintas! cruel Death!