The Happy Nightingale

MELodious Creature, happy in thy Choice!
That sitting on a Bough,
Dost sing, Dear Mate, my Dear, Come to me now;
And she obeys thy Voice.
Ah, could my Songs such Bliss procure!
For mine could Cynthia ne'er allure:

Nor have I Wings like thee to fly,
But must neglected lye;
I cannot her to Pity move,
She scorns my Songs, and me:
While thou rejoycest all the Grove,
(As well thou may'st) with Melody,
For thou art happy in thy Love.

No Creature e'er could boast a perfect State,
Unless to thee it may belong,
Since Nature lib'rally supplies,
All thy Infirmities,
To thy weak Organs gave a pow'rful Song;
Thô small in Size, thou art in Fortune great,
Compar'd to mine, thy Happiness is most compleat.