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;