If whilst my hard Fate I sustain,
In her Breast any Pity is found;
Let her come with the Nymphs of the Plain,
And see me laid low in the Ground;
The last humble Boon that I crave,
Is to shade me with Cypress and Yew;
And when she looks down on my Grave,
Let her own that her Shepherd was true.
Then to her new Love let her go,
And deck her in Golden Array;