And love, and death, and birth,—
And then I changed my pipings.
Singing how down the vale of Menalus,
I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed;
Gods and men were all deluded thus,
It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed:
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings."