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
Have linked...
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From “Music’s Duel”
NOW westward Sol had spent the richest beams
Of noon’s high glory, when, hard by the streams
Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,
Under protection of an oak, there sat
A sweet lute’s-master, in whose gentle airs
He lost the day’s heat and his own hot cares.
Close in the covert of the leaves there stood
A...