Classic Poem

Come , my Sylvia, let us rove
To that secret silent grove,
Where the painted birds agree
To tune their throats for you and me.

We will foot it in the shade
Of ev'ry dappled, dancing glade,
Till Ob'ron and his fairy train
Shall shout for joy and swear amain:
Such form as thine was never seen
Sporting o'er the velvet green.