Works

Some Verses are come in my Head I will write them down

In the Season of sweet-smiling Spring
When impress’d by th’all powerful hand,
Earth relaxes, and each living Thing
Looks happy by Nature’s Command:
When the Butterflies frisk in the Field
That as Worms were by Winter subdued,
And the Bees which our Cruelty killed
Are perhaps in some Rose-bush renew’d.

In that Season when Singing-Birds pair
From his Mate was a Nightingale torne;
His Complaints how they pierce thro’ the Air !
Her Sorrows how hard to be borne !
Deserted, distress’d, and alone,
To a Soil less severe see him fly;
What Tenderness swells in each Tone,
What Melody softens each Sigh !

While his Partner sharp Wires inclose,
Condemn’d as her Sorrows still flow,
From the hand that destroy’d her Repose
To receive what but lengthens her Woe:
Will Hymen that Hand ever bless
Which parted a Couple so pure ?
Will Language pretend to express
That Grief which admits of no Cure ?

What Voice but his own can explain
The Torture he suffers who loves?
With what Taste he extends the sweet Strain,
Inspiring the passion he proves !
What tho’ Absence all Converse deny,
And Space intercept the Soft Lay;
Distress but endears the loved Tye
Nor shall Time such Attachment decay.