Sweet Bird, That Shun The Noise Of

O Nightingale, That On Yon Bloomy Spray Warblest At Eve, When All The Woods Are Still; Thou With Fresh Hope The Lover's Heart Dost Fill While The Jolly Hours Lead On Propitious May.

Fate Shall Yield To Fickle Chance, And Chaos Judge The Strife.

And To Thy Husband's Will Thine Shall Submit; He Over Thee Shall Rule.

And, Re-assembling Our Afflicted Powers, Consult How We May Henceforth Most Offend.

The Earth, Though In Comparison Of Heaven So Small, Nor Glistering, May Of Solid Good Contain More Plenty Than The Sun, That Barren Shines.