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Colin. Ah LYCON! LYCON! what need skill to teach
A grievèd mind pour forth his plaints? How long
Hath the poor turtle gone to school, weenest thou,
To learn to mourn her lost make? No, no, each
Creature by nature can tell how to wail.
Seest not these flocks; how sad they wander now?
Seemeth their leader's bell, their bleating tunes
In doleful sound. Like him, not one doth fail,
With hanging head to show a heavy cheer.
What bird, I pray thee, hast thou seen that prunes
Himself of late? Did any cheerful note
Come to thine ears, or gladsome sight appear
Unto thine eyes, since that same fatal hour?
Hath not the air put on his mourning coat,
And testified his grief with flowing tears?
Sith then, it seemeth each thing to his power,
Doth us invite to make a sad consort:
Come let us join our mournful song with theirs!
Grief will indite, and sorrow will enforce
Thy voice; and ECHO will our words report.

  Lycon. Though my rude rhymes, ill with thy verses
That others far excel: yet will I force [frame,
Myself to answer thee the best I can;
And honour my base words with his high name.
But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit
In secret shade or cave; vouchsafe, O PAN!