Salicio

All hope of cure is vain, Till less he dreads the pain Of the physician's probe;—here then alone, Indulging his caprice, I'll leave him, till disease Has passed its raging crisis, and is grown More tractable, until The storm of a self-will So passing strong, has raved itself to rest: And to yon bower of birch I'll meanwhile pass, in search Of the sweet nightingale's secreted nest; And, beautiful Gravina, it shall be Thine for one rosy kiss: I know the ivied tree.