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 And perching deftly on a quaking spray,

Nigh tir'd herself to make her hearer stay.

.....

Shrill as a thrush upon a morn of May.

I have seen when on the breast of Thames

A heavenly bevy of sweet English dames,

In some calm ev'ning of delightful May,

With music give a farewell to the day,

Or as they would, with an admired tone,

Greet Night's ascension to her ebon throne,

Rapt with their melody a thousand more

Run to be wafted from the bounding shore.

mounting lark (day's herald) got on wing,

Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing.

The lofty treble sung the little wren;

Robin the mean, that best of all loves men;

The nightingale the tenor, and the thrush

The counter-tenor sweetly in a bush.

And that the music might be full in parts,

Birds from the groves flew with right willing hearts;

But (as it seem'd) they thought (as do the swains,

Which tune their pipes on sack'd Hibernia's plains)

There should some droning part be, therefore will'd

Some bird to fly into a neighb'ring field.

In embassy unto the King of Bees,

To aid his partners on the flowers and trees

Who, condescending, gladly flew along

To bear the bass to his well-tuned song.