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Rh So now the poet's page am I, His courier through the pathless sky; And sometimes, as you see me now, The bearer of some tender vow. He thinks, perhaps, he pleases me, By saying I shall soon be free; But though I should the boon obtain, His willing slave I'll still remain. For, ah! I do not wish to roam, Or quit my sweet, my happy home, Far flying over hill and plain My wretched, rustic food to gain; Or shivering on some tree to stay, And coo the cheerless hours away: For now I feast on dainty bread, And by the hands I love am fed; And when the cup has pressed his lip, His sweet delicious wine I sip; And when my heart is light and gay, I sometimes little frolics play; Upon his shoulder take my place, And with my wings o'erspread his face. Or if to sleep my humour suit, I perch upon his warbling lute, And by his careful hand caress'd, By softest sounds am lull'd to rest. I've told you all—begone! adieu! And let me now my flight pursue. Nay, friend, no longer urge my stay, For I have prated like a jay."