Song A-la-mode

O'er the Desert, cross the Meadows,
Hunters blew the merry Horn ;
Phoebus chas'd the flying Shadows :
Eccho, she reply'd, in Scorn ;
Still adoring,
And deploring,
Why must Thirsis lose his Life ?

Rivers murmur'd from their Fountains,
Acorns dropping from the Oaks,
Fawns came tripping o'er the Mountains,
Fishes bit the naked Hooks ;
Still admiring,
And desiring :
When shall Phillis be a Wife.