Spirits When They Please Can Either Sex

O Nightingale, That On Yon Bloomy Spray Warblest At Eve, When All The Woods Are Still; Thou With Fresh Hope The Lover's Heart Dost Fill While The Jolly Hours Lead On Propitious May.

O Fairest Flower! No Sooner Blown But Blasted, Soft Silken Primrose Fading Timelessly.

Man Hath His Daily Work Of Body Or Mind Appointed.

That Practis'd Falsehood Under Saintly Shew, Deep Malice To Conceal, Couch'd With Revenge.

The Love-lorn Nightingale Nightly To Thee Her Sad Song Mourneth Well.