To show where windèn roads do leäd,
An' prickly thorns do ward the meäd.
While sheädes o' boughs do flutter dark
Upon the woak-trees' moon-bright bark.
There in the lewth, below the hill,
The nightèngeäle, wi' ringèn bill,
Do zing among the soft-aïr'd groves,
While up below the house's oves
The maïd, a-lookèn vrom her room
Drough window, in her youthvul bloom,