Hark how the Nightingale displayes
the latest pleasures of her throat,
And dies content, if her poor Note
micht serve but as one step to raise
a Trophie to your Beautie's praise.

The Rose, in whose rich Odours lie
the perfum'd Treasures of the year,
Doth blush to death when you appear,
And martyr-like towards you doth fly,
To wear your Cheeks' fresh Livery.

Aurora weeps to see a light
outvie her splendour in your Eyes,
The Sun's asham'd to walk the Skies;
And th'Envious Moon, grown pale for spight,
Vows ne'er to Revel but with Night.

The saucy Wind with senseless care 
(seeming to feel soft sense of bliss)
Steals through your hair, 
your lips to kiss, 
So Rivals me, who now despair
To touch your Lip, Cheek, Eyes or Hair.