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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: 57 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE COME UP FROM THE FIELDS FATHER by WALT WHITMAN SOLOMON SCHECHTER by ALTER ABELSON EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 29. ALL NOT WORTH A REWARD by PHILIP AYRES A PITIFUL CASE by WILLIAM BLAKE HARVEST by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN SONG: BUTTERFLIES by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |