But I am Corydon, I am not he,
Though I no more that Corydon shall be
To make a sugared comfit of my song. 
So now I go, go back to Thestylis—­
How her poor eyes will laugh again for this! 
Go back to Thestylis, and no more roam
In melancholy meadows mad to sing,
But teach our little home itself to sing. 
Yea, Corydon, now cast thy pipe away—–­
See, how it floats upon the stream, and see
There it has gone, and now—­away! away! 
But O! my pipe, how sweet thou wert to me!