OF PARNELL.
43
It melts, it warbles, in her liquid throat:
Of barbarous Tereus she complains no more,
But sings for pleasure, as for grief before;
And still her graces rise, her airs extend,
And all is silence till the Siren end.
Of barbarous Tereus she complains no more,
But sings for pleasure, as for grief before;
And still her graces rise, her airs extend,
And all is silence till the Siren end.
How long in coming is my lovely spring?
And when shall I, and when the swallow sing?
Sweet Philomela, cease; or here I sit,
And silent lose my rapturous hour of wit:
'Tis gone, the fit retires, the flames decay,
My tuneful Phœbus flies averse away.
His own Amycle thus, as stories run,
But once was silent, and that once undone.
Let those love now, who never lov'd before;
Let those who always lov'd, now love the more.[1]
And when shall I, and when the swallow sing?
Sweet Philomela, cease; or here I sit,
And silent lose my rapturous hour of wit:
'Tis gone, the fit retires, the flames decay,
My tuneful Phœbus flies averse away.
His own Amycle thus, as stories run,
But once was silent, and that once undone.
Let those love now, who never lov'd before;
Let those who always lov'd, now love the more.[1]
- ↑ Ilia cantat: nos tacemus. Quando ver venit meum?
Quando faciam ut celidon, ut tacere desinam?
Perdidi musam tacendo, nec me Phœbus respicit.
Sic Amyclas, cum tacerent, perdidit silentium.
Cras amet, qui numquam amavit; quique
amavit, cras amet.
