Damon come drive thy flocks this way.
No: 'tis too late they went astray.
I have a grassy Scutcheon spy'd,
Where Flora blazons all her pride.
The grass I aim to feast thy Sheep:
The Flow'rs I for thy Temples keep.
Grass withers; and the Flow'rs too fade.
Seize the short Joyes then, ere they vade.
Seest thou that unfrequented Cave ?
In whose cool bosome we may lye
Safe from the Sun.
Near this, a Fountaines liquid Bell
Tinkles within the concave Shell.
Might a Soul bath there and be clean,
Or slake its Drought?
These once had been enticing things,
Clorinda, Pastures, Caves, and Springs.
Words that transcend poor Shepherds skill,
But he ere since my Songs does fill:
And his Name swells my slender Oate.
Sweet must Pan sound in Damons Note.
Clorinda's voice might make it sweet.
Who would not in Pan's Praises meet ?
Of Pan the flowry pastures sing,
Caves eccho and the Fountains ring.
Sing then while he doth us inspire;
For all the world is our Pan's Quire.