The Skylark

Go, tuneful bird! that gladd'st the skies.
To Daphne's window speed thy way,
And there on quivering pinions rise,
And there thy vocal art display.

And if she deign thy notes to hear,
And if she praise thy matin song,
Tell her the sounds that soothe her ear
To Damon's native plains belong.

Tell her in livelier plumes array'd,
The bird from Indian groves may shine;
But ask the lovely partial maid
What are his notes compared to thine!

Then bid her treat yon witless beau,
And all his flaunting race with scorn,
And lend an ear to Damon's woe,
Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.