Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heav'nly voice,
For her despising, when she deign'd to sing,
The sweetest songsters of the spring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;
The nightingale was mute,
And ev'ry shepherd's flute
Was cast in silent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay.
Ye larks and linnets now resume your song,
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell.
For death has stopt that tuneful tongue,
Whose musick could alone your warbling notes excel.