THE SKY LARK, &c, Song

My banks are furnish'd with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep: I seldom have met with a loss, Such health to my fountains bestow; My fountains all border'd with moss, Where the hare bells and violets grow, Where the hare bells and violets grow.

I have found out a gist for my fair, I have found where the wood pigeous breed, But let me that plunder forbear, She'll say 'twas a barbarous deed: For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, Who could rob a poor bird of its young: I lov'd her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue, Such tenderness, &c.

But where does my Phillida stray? And where are her grots and her bow'rs? Are the groves and the vallies as gay, And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the vallies as fine; The swains may in manners conpare, But their love is not equal to mine, But their love is not equal to mine.