The flocks were pent within their fold:
When from the silence of the grove,
Poor Damon thus despair'd of love.
Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose
From the bare rock, or oozy beach,
Who from each barren weed that grows,
Expects the grape, or blushing peach.
With equal faith may hope to find
The truth of love in woman-kind.
I have no herds, no fleecy care,