Thyrsis, the music of that murm'ring spring
Is not so mournful as the strains you sing;[3]
Nor rivers winding through the vales below,[4]
So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.[5]
Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie, 5
The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky,
While silent birds forget their tuneful lays,
Oh sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise![6]