The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons,
caught the cold which ended his days. He lies buried in Richmond Church. In the first Book of The Seasons, on "Spring," he thus alludes to the nightingales—
Lend me your song, ye nightingales! Oh pour
The mazy running soul of melody
Into my varied verse.
Again,
She sings
Her sorrows through the night; and, on the bough
Sole sitting, still at every dying fall
Takes up again her lamentable strain