Or go clad like our maidens in grey,
Or live in a cottage on love?
What though I have skill to complain,
Tho’ the muses my temples have crown’d;
What tho’ when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around?
Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign,
Thy false one inclines to a swain,
Whose music is sweeter than thine.