A grove I reach'd, where tuneful throstles sung,
The linnet here did ope his little throat,
His twitting jests around the cuckoo flung,
And the proud goldsinch show'd his painted coat,
And hail'd us with no inharmonious note:
The robin eke here tun'd his sonnet shrill,
And told the soothing ditty all by rote,
How he with leaves his pious beak did fill,
To shroud those pretty babes, whom Sib unkind would kill.