ARNO's
VALE
.
A
SONG
.
BY
THE
DUKE
OF
DORSET
.
WHEN
here
,
Lucinda
,
first
we
came
,
Where
Arno
rolls
his
silver
stream
,
How
brisk
the
nymphs
,
the
swains
how
gay
,
Content
inspir'd
each
rural
lay
;
The
birds
in
livelier
concert
sung
,
The
grapes
in
thicker
clusters
hung
;
All
look'd
as
joy
could
never
fail
,
Among
the
sweets
of
Arno's
vale
.
But
since
the
good
Palemon
died
,
The
chief
of
shepherds
,
and
the
pride
,
You
read
distress
in
every
face
,
And
joy
to
sorrow
now
gives
place
:
The
taste
of
pleasure
now
is
o'er
,
Thy
notes
,
Lucinda
,
please
no
more
,
The
Muses
droop
,
and
tears
prevail
,
Adieu
the
sweets
of
Arno's
vale
.