Pastoral~ The Passionate Nymph to her Lover. Come live with me, and make me thine wife. I will give thou all my love for the rest of my life. Let's sit and watch the meadow,grove, and stream. Like the glory of being in a dream.
Like a king I will treat thee, I will grow any fruit or tree. And I will provide for thee, I will make sure thy life is full of glee.
I will make thee a smock, From the finest wool in the flock. While ye watch from upon the rocks, By the fast flowing river and under the cloudless skies.
No upon thee any sorrow, For my love thee can borrow. And we will enjoy the summer breeze and lay under the warn sun. Or swim in the glistening river while it run.
I will give thee anything desired, And anything thee heart admired. From golden slippers to luscious fruits, From vast gardens of flowers to a field of ripe grapefruits.
And each morning we shall awake, We shall eat breakfast by the lake. And as each spring day comes by, I shall sing thee with the birds a lullaby.
If thy heart desires this, Thee will be in bliss. I will offer a breath of life, So live with me , and make me thine wife.
Anti-pastoral~ The Shepherd's Reply to the Nymph. Love does not exist , This is the truth I insist . The meadow will go barren,the grove will be logged, and thy stream will be an arroyo; And glory of thy dream is hollow.
With thy powers thee will inflict harm. Fruits will harden,trees will leaf out, and all will lose its charm. Life is not perfect thou see, Life has a minimum amount of glee.
The flocks will be in the fold, And thy wool will get old. And cold the rocks will turn, When the sky is cloudy there is no return.
And upon thee demise will fall, For winter will be to all. The scorching sun and nonexistent breeze, How do thee expect me to breath!
Open promises and lies, Oh! How much of this I despise. Grapefruits are sour and there isn't a garden of flowers. For fall and winter are approaching fast and the nights last for many hours.
Birds will migrate, For winter is at the gate. And the nights are longer than the mornings, Oh! Will thy heart be mourning?
Bliss is not real, It's just something thy heart feel. So again I repeat and I insist, Love does not exist.