Song. Rosina

When William, at eve, meets me down at the stile How sweet is the nightingale's song! Of the day I forget all the labour and toil, While the moon plays yon branches among.

By her beams, without blushing, I hear him complain, And believe ev'ry word of his song; You know not how sweet 'tis to love the dear swain, Whilest the moon plays you branches among.