Classic Poem

Satyrs sing, let sorrow keep her cell,
Let warbling echoes ring,
And sounding music yell
Through hills, through dales, sad grief and care to kill
In him long since, alas, hath grieved his fill.

Sleep no more, but wake and live content,
Thy grief the nymphs deplore,
The sylvan gods lament
To hear, to see thy moan, thy loss thy love:
Thy plaints to tears the flinty rocks do move.

Grieve not then, the Queen of Love is mild,
She sweetly smiles on men,
When reason's most beguiled:
Her looks, her smiles, are kind, are sweet, are fair,
Awake therefore and sleep not still in care.

Love intends to free thee from annoy,
His nymphs Sylvanus sends
To bid thee live in joy,
In hope, in joy, sweet love delights embrace,
Fair love herself will yield thee so much grace.