To the Nightingale

Exert thy Voice, sweet Harbinger of Spring!
This Moment is thy Time to Sing,
This Moment I attend to Praise,
And set my Numbers to thy Layes.
As thy Musick, short, or long.
Poets, wild as thee, were born,
Cares do still their Thoughts molest,
She begins, Let all be still!
Muse, thy Promise now fulfill!
Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet
Can thy Words such Accents fit,
Canst thou Syllables refine,
Melt a Sense that shall retain
Still some Spirit of the Brain,
Till with Sounds like these it join.
Let Division shake thy Throat.
Yet as far the Muse outſlies.
Thus we Poets that have Speech,
Unlike what thy Forests teach,
If a fluent Vein be shown
Criticize, reform, or preach,
Or censure what we cannot reach.