Sweet Bird, That Shun The Noise Of

O'er Many A Frozen, Many A Fiery Alp, Rocks, Caves, Lakes, Fens, Bogs, Dens, And Shades Of Death.

Zeal And Duty Are Not Slow But On Occasion's Forelock Watchful Wait.

As In An Organ From One Blast Of Wind To Many A Row Of Pipes The Soundboard Breathes.

Praise From An Enemy Smells Of Craft.

Of Man's First Disobedience, And The Fruit/of That Forbidden Tree, Whose Mortal Taste/brought Death Into The World, And All Our Woe,/with Loss Of Eden, Till One Greater Man/restore Us, And Regain The Blissful Seat,/sing Heavenly Muse