Must I my Acis still bemoan,
Inglorious crush'd beneath that stone?

Cease, Galatea, cease to grieve!
Bewail not whom thou canst relieve.

Must the lovely charming youth
Die for his constancy and truth?

Cease, Galatea, cease to grieve!
Bewail not whom thou canst relieve
Call forth thy pow'r, employ thy art,
The goddess soon can heal thy smart.

Say what comfort can you find?
For dark despair o'erclouds my mind.

To kindred gods the youth return,
Through verdant plains to roll his urn.

'Tis done! Thus I exert my pow'r divine
Be thou immortal, though thou art not mine!