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Truly this is a silent, lonely place for grieving, and the breath of
the West Wind owns the empty wood. Here I can speak my secret
sorrows freely, if only these solitary cliffs could be trusted.

What cause shall I attribute your disdain to,
my Cynthia? Cynthia, what reason for my grief did you give me?
I who but now was numbered among the joyous lovers, now am
forced to look for signs of your love. Why do I merit all this?
What spell turns you away from me? Is some new girl the root of
your anger? You can give yourself to me again, fickle girl, since
no other has ever set lovely foot on my threshold. Though my
sorrow is indebted to you for much grief, my anger will not be
so fierce with you that rage would ever be justified in you, or
your weeping eyes be disfigured with falling tears.

Is it because I show few signs of altered
complexion, and my faith does not shout aloud in my face? Beech
tree and pine, beloved of the Arcadian god, you will be witnesses,
if trees know these passions. O, how often my words echo under
gentle shadows, and Cynthia is carved in your bark.

O, how often has your injustice caused me pains
as only your silent threshold knows? I am used to suffering your
tyrannous orders with diffidence, without moaning about it in noisy
complaints. For this I receive sacred springs, cold rocks, and rough
sleep by a wilderness track. And whatever my complaining can tell of
must be uttered alone to melodious birds.

Yet whatever you are, let the woods echo ‘Cynthia’
to me, and let not the wild cliffs be free of your name.

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