I ASK not, why sorrow shades my brow; Nor why my sprightly looks decay. Alas! what need I beauty now, Since he, that lov'd it, died to-day. II Can ye have ears, and yet not know, Mirtillo, brave Mirtillo's slain? Can ye have eyes, and they not flow, Or hearts that do not share my pain? III He's gone! he's gone! and I will go; For in my breast, such wars I have, And thoughts of him perplex me so That the whole world appears my grave. IV But I'll go to him, though he lie Wrapped in the cold, cold arms of Death: And under yon sad cypress tree, I'll mourn, I'll mourn away my breath. |