Heav'nly Love Shall Outdoo Hellish Hate

The Love-lorn Nightingale Nightly To Thee Her Sad Song Mourneth Well.

Yet Some There Be That By Due Steps Aspire To Lay Their Just Hands On That Golden Key That Opes The Palace Of Eternity.

Unless An Age Too Late, Or Cold Climate, Or Years, Damp My Intended Wing.

Such As The Meeting Soul May Pierce, In Notes With Many A Winding Bout Of Linked Sweetness Long Drawn Out.

Beauty Is Nature's Brag, And Must Be Shown In Courts, At Feasts, And High Solemnities, Where Most May Wonder At The Workmanship.