Nature is rising from the dead,
Frost and Scythian snows are fled;
Boreas to his cavern creeps,
And, tired with winter-blust'ring, sleeps.
Soft zephyrs from the ocean move,
The birthplace of the Queen of Love,
And o'er the meadows, hills and dales
Play with their sweet reviving gales;
Chasing all discontent and care,
And ev'ry sadness, but despair.
Ah! Chloe, when, my charming fair?