I told my nymph, I told her true, <br />My fields were small, my flocks were few, <br />While faltering accents spoke my fear, <br />That Flavia might not prove sincere. <br /> <br />Of crops destroyed by vernal cold, <br />And vagrant sheep that left my fold; <br />Of these she heard, yet bore to hear; <br />And is not Flavia then sincere? <br /> <br />How, chang'd by fortune's fickle wind, <br />The friends I loved became unkind; <br />She heard, and shed a generous tear; <br />And is not Flavia then sincere? <br /> <br />How, if she deign'd my love to bless, <br />My Flavia must not hope for fress; <br />This, too, she heard, and smiled to hear; <br />And Flavia, sure, must be sincere. <br /> <br />Go shear your flocks, ye jovial swains; <br />Go reap the plenty of your plains; <br />Despoiled of all which you revere, <br />I know my Flavia's love sincere.<br /><br />William Shenstone<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-126/
