O nightingale, best poet of the grove, br That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, br Blessed in the full possession of thy love: br O lend that strain, sweet Nighingale, to me! br br 'Tis mine, alas! to mourn a wretched fate: br I love a maid who all my bosom charms, br Yet lose my days without this lovely mate; br Inhuman fortune keeps her from my arms. br br You happy birds! by nature's simple laws br Lead your soft lives, sustained by nature's fare; br You dwell wherever roving fancy draws, br And love and song is all your pleasing care: br br But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride, br Dare not be blessed, lest envious tongues should blame; br And hence, in vain I languish for my bride! br O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame.