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  soft, ye pretty birds, while Cælia sleeps,

And gentle gales play gently with the leaves;

Learn of the neighbour brooks, whose silent deeps

Would teach him fear, that her soft sleep bereaves

Mine oaten reed, devoted to her praise,

(A theme that would befit the Delphian lyre)

Give way, that I in silence may admire.

Is not her sleep like that of innocents,

Sweet as herself; and is she not more fair,

Almost in death, than are the ornaments

Of fruitful trees, which newly budding are?

She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lie

And sleep for ever, for she cannot die.

a silver swan swim down the Lea,

Singing a sad farewell unto the vale,

While fishes leapt to hear her melody,

And on each thorn a gentle nightingale

And many other birds forbore their notes,

Leaping from tree to tree, as she along

The panting bosom of the current floats,

Rapt with the music of her dying song:

When from a thick and all-entangled spring

A neatherd rude came with no small ado,

Dreading an ill presage to hear her sing,

And quickly struck her tender neck in two;

Whereat the birds, methought, flew thence with speed,

And inly griev'd for such a cruel deed.

, as fair as ever saw the North,

Grew in a little garden all alone;

A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,

Nor fairer garden yet was never known: