Cease, cease, Aminta, to complain

Cease, cease, Aminta, to complain,
Thy languishment give o'er,
Why shoud'st thou sigh because the swain
Another does adore?
Those charms, fond maid, that vanquished thee,
Have many a conquest won,
And sure he could not cruel be,
And leave 'em all undone.

The youth a noble temper bears,
Soft and compassionate,
And thou canst only blame thy stars,
That made thee love too late;
Yet had their influence all been kind
They had not crossed my fate,
The tend'rest hours must have an end,
And passion has its date.

The softest love grows cold and shy,
The face so late adored,
Now unregarded passes by,
Or grows at last abhorred;
All things in nature fickle prove,
See how they glide away;
Think so in time thy hopeless love
Will die, as flowers decay.