_To the Nightingale_. C.T. TURNER.
Lend me your song, ye Nightingales! O, pour
The mazy-running soul of melody
Into my varied verse.
_The Seasons: Spring_. J. THOMSON.
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection.
_Merchant of Venice, Act v. Sc. 1_. SHAKESPEARE.
A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.
_Macbeth, Act_ ii. _Sc_. 4. SHAKESPEARE.
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
_The White Devil, Act_ v. _Sc. 2_. J. WEBSTER.
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
_Poor Robin_. W. WORDSWORTH.
The swallow twitters about the eaves;
Blithely she sings, and sweet and clear;
Around her climb the woodbine leaves
In a golden atmosphere.
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