The Metamorphosis.
Of late I saw thee gay,
Thine eyes with lustre shone,
Oh! gentle shepherd, say,
Thy mirth, where is it flown?
Of late I saw thee laughing,
Thy jovial friends among,
The brilliant goblet quaffing,
The wildest of the throng.
But now, alas! 'tis passing strange,
Thy mirth is fled away;
The reason of the mystic change,
Oh! prythee, prythee say.
Perhaps that I thine ills may cure,
Yet should my aid prove vain,
I'll teach thee patience to endure,
Of hopeless love the pain!
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