SHALL my Eliza to the woods and trees
Alone communicate her tuneful lays?
Or breathe her rhyme to the unmindful breeze
And be content with Echo’s idle praise?
Oh! let your Sylvio share, my gentlest love.
Let Sylvio share each line that you rehearse.
Or will he hate flowers, elms, sweet bird and grove
Which shall inspire the too unsocial verse.