C HLORIS , now thou art fled away,
Amintor's sheep are gone astray,
And all the joy he took to see
His pretty lambs run after thee
Is gone, is gone, and he alway
Sings nothing now but well-a-day!

His oaten pipe, that in thy praise
Was wont to sing such roundelays,
Is thrown away, and not a swain
Dares pipe or sing within his plain,
'T is death for any now to say
One word to him but well-a-day!

The may-pole, where thy little feet
So roundly did in measure meet,
Is broken down, and no content
Comes near Ammtor since you went,
All that I ever heard him say
Was Chloris, Chloris, well-a-day!

Upon those banks you used to tread,
He ever since hath laid his head,
And whisper'd there such pining woe,
As not a blade of grass will grow,—
O Chloris, Chloris, come away,
And hear Amintor's well-a-day!