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Rh But thou a face indifferent,

Or pleased, dost give to view,

Whilst I have not ev'n breath content

To say to thee, Adieu.

A gentle river murmuring by,

In calmness bathes the plain,

And of its waters the supply

Sees beauteous flowers attain;

In silence thou, my lonely grief,

Dost bathe my wretched breast,

And Sylvia's pity in relief

For me canst not arrest.

But what, my Sylvia, dost thou say?

What means that tender sigh?

Why do I see, mid tears that stray,

Shine forth thy beaming eye?

As opens to the sun opposed

On some clear day the cloud,

And his rays make the drops disclosed

To sparkle as they flow’d.

On me dost thou those languid eyes

Turn with that tender gaze?

Loses thy cheek its rosy dyes,

Nor beauty less displays?