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First Line: I told my nymph, I told her true
Last Line: I know my flavia's love sincere.
Variant Title(s): Flavia
Subject(s): Love


I told my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were small, my flocks were few;
While faltering accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove sincere.

Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold:
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?

How, chang'd by Fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I loved became unkind;
She heard and shed a generous tear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?

How, if she deign my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for dress:
This, too, she heard, and smiled to hear;
And Flavia, sure, must be sincere.

Go, shear your flocks, ye jovial swains!
Go reap the plenty of your plains;
Despoil'd of all which you revere,
I know my Flavia's love sincere.





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