Till, at last, poor Sir Argus began to complain,
Of the sad inconvenience he felt from his train,
And propos’d, as the sky seem’d to threaten a shower,
To rest till the morning, at Nightingale Bower;
The obsequious Parrot replied by a bow,
And they went on as fast as their strength would allow.
Philomela, to whom her retirement was dear,
Felt vex’d at beholding the flutterers near;
[p12] For living in harmony, softness, and quiet,
She hated all bustle, intrusion, and riot;