O Nightingale! that on yon bloomy spray br Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, br Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, br While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. br Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, br First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, br Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will br Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, br Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate br Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; br As thou from year to year hast sung too late br For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: br Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate, br Both them I serve, and of their train am I.