O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
  Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,
  Thou with fresh hopes the lover’s heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day,
  First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,
  Portend success in love. Oh, if Jove’s will
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