When late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
Sings out her woes, a Thorn her song-book making,
And mournfully bewailing,
Her throat in tunes expresseth,
While grief her heart oppresseth,
For Tereus o’er her chaste will prevailing.”
Shakspeare notices the story in the following quaint lines—
“Everything did banish moan,
Save the Nightingale alone;
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,