To please my Lord, and soothe his cares,
I warble soft Italian airs;
Which he in gratitude repays
With costly food, and gen’rous praise:
Whilst thou, condemn’d through air to rove,
Or hide thee in the gloomy grove,
To feebly suck thy beverage scant,
And pine in endless care and want;
To rocks and woods thy tale belongs,
Fit audience for thy stupid songs!