Lyric Poems Made in Imitation of the Italians. Of which, many are Translations From other Languages ... By Philip Ayres |
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To the NIGHTINGALE.
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 | Lyric Poems |  |
68
To the NIGHTINGALE.
Why, Little Charmer of the Air,
Dost thou in Musick spend the Morn?
Whilst I thus languish in Despair,
Opprest by Cynthia's Hate and Scorn:
Why dost thou sing, and hear me cry;
Tell, wanton Songster, tell me why?
Dost thou in Musick spend the Morn?
Whilst I thus languish in Despair,
Opprest by Cynthia's Hate and Scorn:
Why dost thou sing, and hear me cry;
Tell, wanton Songster, tell me why?
I
Wilt thou not cease at my Desire?Will those small Organs never tire?
Nature did these close Shades prepare,
Not for thy Musick, but my Care:
Then why wilt thou persist to sing,
Thou Beautiful Malitious Thing?
When Kind Aurora first appears,
She weeps, in pity to my Tears;
If thus thou think'st to give Relief,
Thou never knew'st a Lover's Grief.
Then, Little Charmer, &c.
That dost in Musick, &c.
That dost in Musick, &c.
II
Thou Feather'd Atome, where in thee,Can be compris'd such Harmony?
In whose small Fabrick must remain,
What Composition does contain.
69
When thy surprising Tunes command?
How can so small a Tongue and Throat
Express so loud, and sweet a Note?
Thou hast more various Points at VVill,
Than Orpheus had with all his Skill.
Then, Little Charmer, &c.
That dost in Musick, &c.
That dost in Musick, &c.
III
Great to the Ear, thô Small to Sight,The Happy Lovers dear Delight,
Fly to the Bow'r where such are lade,
And there bestow thy Serenade.
Haste from my Sorrow, haste away;
Alas, there's Danger in thy Stay,
Lest hearing me so oft complain,
Should make thee change thy cheerful Strain,
Thy Songs cannot my Grief remove,
Thou harmless Syren of the Grove.
Then cease, thou Charmer of the Air,
No more in Musick spend the Morn,
With me that languish in Despair,
Opprest by Cynthia's Hate and Scorn;
And do not this Poor Boon deny,
I ask but Silence whilst I dye.
No more in Musick spend the Morn,
With me that languish in Despair,
Opprest by Cynthia's Hate and Scorn;
And do not this Poor Boon deny,
I ask but Silence whilst I dye.
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