Full Lyrics
Clear wells spring not
Sweet birds sing not
Loud bells ring not cheerfully,
Herds stand weeping
Flocks all sleeping
Nymphs back creeping fearfully.
All our pleasures known to us, poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sports from us are fled,
All our loves are lost, for love is dead.
Farewell, sweet lass!
the like ne'er was,
For a sweet content, the cause of all my woe;
Poor Coridon must live alone,
Other help for him I know, there's none.
