How long in coming is my lovely Spring?
And when shall I, and when the Swallow sing?
Sweet  cease, — Or here I sit,
And silent lose my rapt'rous Hour of Wit:
'Tis gone, the Fit retires, the Flames decay,
My tuneful  flies averse away.
His own  thus, as Stories run,
But once was silent, and that once undone.

