Go chaunt, ye sweet warblers, along,
Thro' the valley, the wood, and the grove;
While zephyrs re-echo your song,
Be the strains of your melody, love.

How sweet is the passion when true,
Proclaim as you wing thro' the air;
The charge is entrusted to you,
But say not Miranda is fair.

For oft you have heard her complain,
How Edwin she lov'd—but 'twas art;
She smiles at my grief, and my pain,
And bids me her presence depart.

Adieu thou false fair, I'll obey,
To some distant region I'll fly,
When Edwin's perhaps far away,
Your pity will grant him a sigh.