The Lark.
Swift through the yielding Air I glide
Swift through the yielding Air I glide, while nights shall be, shades abide:
Yet in my flight (though ne're so fast) I Tune and Time the wilde winds blast: And ere the Sun be
come about, teach the young Lark his Lesson out; who early as the Day is born sings his shrill
Anthem to the rising Morn: let never Mortal lose the pains to imitate my Aiery strains, whose pitch too
high for humane Ears, was set me by the tuneful Spheres. I carrol to the Faries King, wakes him a
mornings when I sing: And when the Sun stoops to the deep, Rock him again and his fair Queen asleep.
