And while a false nymph was his theme.
A willow supported his head:
The wind that blew over the plain,
To his sighs with a sigh did reply,
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Alas! silly swain that I was,
Thus sadly complaining, he cried;
When first I beheld that fair face,
’Twere better by far I had died: