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Anne Kingsmill Finch - To The Nightingale
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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 transcendant to our own,
Criticize, reform, or preach,
Or censure what we cannot reach.
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