BE not the muse asham'd, here to bemoan
Her brothers of the grove, by tyrant man
Inhuman caught, and in the narrow cage
From liberty confin'd, and boundless air.
Dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull,
Ragged, and all its brightning lustre lost;
Nor is that luscious wildness in their notes
That warbles from the beech. Oh then desist,
Ye friends of harmony! this barbarous art
Forbear, if innocence and musick can
Win on your hearts, or piety persuade.