Chapter 75 No.75

Our Bag-pipes now away are flung,

Our Flocks a Wandering go;

Garlands neglected on the Boughs are hung,

That us'd to adorn each Chearful Brow,

Forsaken looks the enameld May:

And all its wealth Uncourted dies;

Each little Bird forgets its wonted Lay,

That Sung Good Morrow to the welcome Day.

Or rather to thy Lovely Eies.