Nor ever prostitute my lays,

But grateful sing my Maker’s praise;

Whilst echoing o’er the hills and plains,

I cheer the nymphs and lab’ring swains;

Whether the rising notes I swell,

Or lightly load the passing gale;

With bolder music fill the grove,

Or gently call my mate to love:

Whether the joys of summer sing,

Or chant the beauties of the spring;