Sweet Philomel, in mournful strains,
To you appeals, to you complains.
The tow’ring lark, on rising wing,
Warbles to you, your praise does sing;
He cuts the yielding air, and flies
To heav’n, to type your future joys.
III.
The purple violet, damask rose,
Each, to delight your senses, blows.
The lilies ope’, as you appear;