John Milton (1608–1674)

O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy Spray

Warbl’st at eeve, when all the Woods are still,

Thou with fresh hope the Lovers heart dost fill,

While the jolly hours lead on proptious May,

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,

First heard before the shallow Cuccoo’s bill

Portend success in love; O if Jove’s will

Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay,

Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate

Foretell my hopeles doom in som Grove ny:

As thou from yeer to yeer hast sung too late

For my relief; yet hadst no reason why,

Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate,

Both them I serve, and of their train am I.