Celadon on Delia singing.
O Delia! for I know 'tis she,
It must be she, for nothing less could move
My tuneless heart, than something from above.
I hate all earthly harmony:
Hark, hark, ye Nymphs, and Satyrs all around!
Hark, how the baffled Echo faints; see how she dies,
Look how the wingèd choir all gasping lies