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 While thus she sung, upon a tree

within th’ adjacent wood,

To hear her mournful melody

a Stork attentive stood.

From whence thus to the Swan she spoke:

what means this song of joy?

Is it, fond fool, so kind a stroke

that does thy life destroy?

Turn back, deluding bird, and try

to keep thy fleeting breath:

It is a dismal thing to die,

and pleasure ends in death.

Base Stork, the Swan reply’d, give o’er,

thy arguments are vain;

If after death we are no more,

yet we are free from pain.

But there are soft Elysian shades,

and bow’rs of kind repose,

Where never any storm invades,

nor tempests ever blows

There in cool streams, and shady woods,

I’ll sport the time away;

Or, swimming down the chrystal floods,

among young Halcons play.

Then pr’ythee cease, or tell me why

I have such cause to grieve.

Since ’tis a happiness to die,

and ’tis a pain to live.