When forc'd from dear Hebe to go,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
And I thought (but it might not be so)
She was sorry to see me depart.
She cast such a languishing view,
My path I could scarcely discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return,
I thought that she bade me return.

Methinks she might like to retire
To the grove I had labor'd to rear;
For whatever I heard her admire,
I hasted and planted it there.
Her voice such a pleasure conveys,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak and whatever she says,
I am sure still to love her the more.

To see when my charmer goes by,
Some hermit peep out of his cell;
How he thinks of his youth with a sigh!
How fondly he wishes her well!
On him she may smile if she please,
T'will warm the cold bosom of age;
But cease, gentle Hebe, O cease!
Such softness ruin the sage!

And now, e'er I haste to the plain,
Come, shepherds, and talk of her ways;
I could lay down my life for the swain,
That would sing me a song in her praise,
While he sings, may the maids of the town,
Come flocking and listen awhile,
Nor on him let Hebe once frown,
But I cannot allow her to smile.

I've stole from no flow'rets that grow,
To paint the dear charms I approve
For what can a blossom bestow,
So sweet, so delightful as love,
I sing in a rustical way,
A shepherd and one of the throng,
Yet Hebe approves of my lay,
Go poets and envy my song.