Philip Ayres - On Cynthia Sick lyrics

Help! Help! Ye Nymphs, whilst on the neighb'ring plain Your flocks do feed, come and a**istance bring; Alas! Fair Cynthia's sick and languishing, For whom my heart endures a greater pain. Ye Syrens of the Thames, let all your train Tune their shrill Instruments, and to them sing, And let its flow'ry banks with echoes ring, This may her wonted cheerful looks regain. Ye herbs, that richest med'cines can produce, Come quickly and afford such sov'reign juice, As from her heart may all the pains remove: But in her face if d**h would paleness give, And Fate ordain that she in torment live, Then let her suffer in the flames of Love.