The Love-lorn Nightingale Nightly To Thee Her

Hope Elevates, And Joy Brightens His Crest.

Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye, While The Bee With Honied Thigh, That At Her Flowery Work Doth Sing, And The Waters Murmuring With Such Consort As They Keep, Entice The Dewy-feathered Sleep.

Th'invention All Admir'd, And Each, How He To Be Th'inventor Miss'd; So Easy It Seem'd Once Found, Which Yet Unfound Most Would Have Thought Impossible.

Few Sometimes May Know, When Thousands Err.

Our Torments Also May In Length Of Time Become Our Elements.