Sylvia , I lately heard you say
Your truant Muse was gone astray,
And, like some transitory spright,
O'er hill and dale had took her flight:
And mine's of late so sullen grown,
I scarce can call the prude my own,
A rural jaunt inspires my mind,
Your vagrant fugitive to find:
Thus to divert my Muse's gloom,
Or meet a better in its Room.
O! wou'd some kind, some angel scout,
Direct me where to find her out;
Whether o'er boundless plains she roves,
Or haunts the music of the groves:
Or if the hills delight her more,
Where lofty larks, and lapwings soar,
Or when descending from the steep,
She seeks the cell where Sylvan's sleep;
Close to her steps I'd follow still,
And trace the nymph from hill to hill.

T ELL me, ye swains! O! tell me where,
To find the solitary fair.
Cou'd I but hear her distant song,
Chaunting far off the wood's among,
Invited by the rural lay,
I'd thro' the pathless desart stray,
Where roses wild adorn the green,
And wither in the shade unseen;
And many a pink and painted flower,
Sprinkle gay twilight thro' the bower,
While cooing turtles from on high,
Murmur soft love-plaints near the sky.
I'd ask each wood-nymph of the shade,
If they had seen the wand'ring maid,
And in what bosky grove, or cell,
The tuneful vagabond might dwell:
Or if the drowsy god of sleep,
Has clos'd her eyes in slumber deep,
And with enchantments magic tie,
Seal'd up those lips of harmony;
Diana 's horn shall break the spell,
And shake the dormitory cell.