To the Nightingale Coming in the Spring; to Invite Chlos from the Tumults of the Town to the Innocent Retreat…

Little songster, who dost bring Joy and music to the Spring, Welcome to our grateful swains, And the nymphs that grace the plains. How the youths thy absence mourn! What their joy at thy return! For their mirth and sports are done All the year that thou are gone: But at thy approach their joys Take new date from they dear voice. Every shepherd chooses then Some fair nymph for Valentine, While the maid with equal love Does the happy choice approve: Underneath some shade he sits, Where soft silence Love begets; And in artless fighs he bears Untaught passion to her ears. No deceit is in his tongue, Nor she fears, nor suffers wrong; But each other's faith believe, And each hour their loves revive.

Often have I wish'd to be, Happy Damon, blest as thee; Not that I for Sylvia pine, Sylvia, who is only thine; But that Chloe cannot be Kind, as Sylvia is to thee.

Thou, dear bird, whose voice may find Charms perhaps to make her kind, Bear a message to her breast, And make me happy as the rest, In the place where tumult dwells, Treasons lurk, ambition swells, Pride erects her monstrous head, And Perjury swears the guiltless dead, Power oppresses, Envy pines, Friends betray, and Fraud designs, Fears and Jealousy surprize Rest and slumber from our eyes, And where Vice all ill contains, And in gloomy glory reigns; Where the loyal, brave and just, Are victims to fanatic lust, Where the noble Stafford's blood Calls from Heaven revenge aloud, In this place there lives a maid, Bright as Nature ever made, Fair beyond dull beauty's name Can express her lovely frame. In her charming eyes reside Love, Disdain, Desire, and Pride. Such, we know not which to call, But has the excellence of all. The first blushes of the day Or the new-blown rose in May, Or the aich Sidonian dye Wrought for Eastern majesty, Is not gayer than the red Nature on her cheeks has spread. Her soft lips still feed new wishes Of a thousand fancy'd kisses. Gently swelling, plump and round, With young Smiles and Graces crown'd; Her round breasts are whiter far Than the backs of ermins are, Or the wanton breast of Jove, When a swan for Leda's love. Eyes that charm whene'er they dart, And never miss the destin'd heart. Would'st thou have me tell thee more, And describe her beauties o'er; I perhaps might make a rape On my Idea's naked shape: Therefore fly, you'll quickly see By this picture which is she. Tell her, the loud winds are dumb, Winter's past, and Spring is come, The delightful Spring! that rains Sweets and plenty o'er the plains, And with shady garlands crown'd All the woods and groves around.

If she see the winged quire Chuse this season to retire To the shelter of the grove, 'Tis by instinct (say) of Love.

If she see the herds and flocks Wanton round the meads and rocks, Thus their wishing males to move, 'Tis the instinct (say) of Love.

If she see the bull among Crowds of females sleek and young, Fight his rival of the drove, 'Tis by instinct (say) of Love.

If she see the blooming vines, In their season, fold their twines Round the oak that near her grows, Say, 'tis Nature mix'd their boughs: Then, if instinct these do move, We by reason ought to love.

Tell the fair-one, every day Youth and beauty steal away, And within a little space Will destroy her charming face. Every grace and smile, that lies Languishing in lips and eyes, First he'll make his prey, and then Leave to Death what does remain: Who old Time does only send To begin what he must end, If she ask what hour and place, Where and when, Time wounds the face; Say, it is not in the night, Nor when day renews her light, In the morning, or at noon, Or at evening when alone, Or when entertain'd at home, Or abroad this hour will come; But swift Time is always by, First to perfect, then destroy: And in vain you seek a cure Since his wounds are every hour. Bid her view Aurelia's brow, Naked of her glories now, Yet she once could charm the throng, Conquering with her eyes and tongue. Now, only 's left this weak relief, (To support her years and grief): When she could she us'd her prime, And enjoy'd the fruits of time: And where-ever she profest Love or hate, she kill'd or blest: While the neighbouring plains were fill'd With their names she lov'd and kill'd.

Oh, when youth and beauty's past, That poor pleasure that does last Is to think they were admir'd, And by every youth desir'd, While the dotage of each swain She return'd with scorn again.

Oh, then let my Chloe know, When her youth is faded so, And a race of nymphs appears, Gay and sprightly in their years, Proud and wanton in their loves, While the shepherds of the groves Strive with presents who shall share Most the favours of the fair; And herself she does behold Like Aurelia now grown old, Sighing to herself she'll say, I was once ador'd, as they! Yet with pleasure think, that she Lov'd and was belov'd by me.

Therefore bid her haste and prove, While she may, the joys of Love. I will lead her to a soil Where perpetual Summers smile, Without Autumn, which bereaves Fairest cedars of their leaves; Where she shall behold the meads Ever green, the groves with shades: Lasting flowers the banks shall wear, And birds shall warble all the year. Where the rustic swain does owe Nothing to the spade and plow; For their harvest, Nature's care, Without toil relieves them there, And no differing seasons bring Changes to the constant Spring. In the morn she shall awake With the noise the shepherds make, Chearing, with the echoing sounds Of their horns, the eager hounds. Nymphs, as well as shepherds too, In these groves the chace pursue. While at their backs their flowing hair Loosely wantons in the air; Gilded quivers on their thighs, With darts less fatal than their eyes. Each the other's sloth does blame, While they seek the hart for game; Who, poor fool, his feet employs, And through woods and dales he flies, Over plains and rivers bounds, And out-flies the winds and hounds. When perhaps some nymph, whose eyes Makes both men and beast her prize, Swifter than Camilla's pace Soon o'er-takes the winged race, And with one bright glance she wounds, And his fancy'd hope confounds; Who, reflecting his faint eyes On her face, with pleasure dies.

When the sports are done, they rest Underneath some shade, and feast On sweet beds of violets, crown'd With sweet roses on the ground. Where they garlands weave, and poses Of green myrtle, pinks, and roses: For which grace the ravish'd swains Pay soft kisses for their pains. Thus they dally till the light Falls behind the scene of night.