Whilst Cynthia sung, all angry winds lay still,
And Zephyrs with a gentle gale
Did softly swell the trembling sail,
Cynthia! whose voice as well as eyes can kill.
Charm'd with the magic of her tongue,
The wanton waters danc'd along,
Each little billow strove to stay,
Though nature forced it away;
And all together blame the tide.

From rosy mouth she breath'd the perfum'd sound;
The mournful Attic Philomel
Ne'er did warble half so well,
Whilst mocking echoes babble it around.
Ne'er in so sweet a tune as this,
Upon the banks of Thamesis,
Did silver swans, about to die,
Dear Cynthia, they're excelled by you,
In sweetness, and in fairness too.