To the NIGHTINGALE. 

EXert thy Voice, sweet Harbinger of Spring! 
This Moment is thy Time to Sing,
 This Moment I attend to Praise,
 And set my Numbers to thy Layes. 
Free as thine shall be my Song;
 As thy Musick, short, or long. 
Poets, wild as thee, were born,
 Pleasing best when unconfin'd,
 When to Please is least design'd,
 Soothing but their Cares to rest;
 Cares do still their Thoughts molest,
 And still th' unhappy Poet's Breast,
 Like thine, when best he sings, is plac'd against a Thorn. 
She begins, Let all be still! 
Muse, thy Promise now fulfill! 
Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet
 Can thy Words such Accents fit,
 Canst thou Syllables refine,
 Melt a Sense that shall retain
 Still some Spirit of the Brain,
 Till with Sounds like these it join. 
'Twill not be! then change thy Note;
 Let Division shake thy Throat. 
Hark! Division now she tries;
 Yet as far the Muse outflies. 
Cease then, prithee, cease thy Tune;
 Trifler, wilt thou sing till June? 
Till thy Bus'ness all lies waste,
 And the Time of Building's past! 
Thus we Poets that have Speech,
 Unlike what thy Forests teach,
 If a fluent Vein be shown
 That's transcendent to our own,
 Criticize, reform, or preach,
 Or censure what we cannot reach.