Exert thy Voice, sweet Harbinger of Spring!
 This Moment is thy Time to sing,
 This Moment I attend to Praise,
And set my Numbers to thy Layes.
 Free as thine shall be my Song;
 As thy Musick, short, or long. 

Poets, wild as thee, were born,
 Pleasing best when unconfin'd,
 When to Please is least design'd,
Soothing but their Cares to rest; 
 Cares do still their Thoughts molest,
 And still th' unhappy Poet's Breast,
Like thine, when best he sings, is plac'd against a Thorn.

She begins, Let all be still!
 Muse, thy Promise now fulfill!
Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet
Can thy Words such Accents fit,
Canst thou Syllables refine,
Melt a Sense that shall retain
Still some Spirit of the Brain, 
Till with Sounds like these it join.
 'Twill not be! then change thy Note;
 Let division shake thy Throat. 
Hark! Division now she tries;
Yet as far the Muse outflies. 

 Cease then, prithee, cease thy Tune;
 Trifler, wilt thou sing till June?
Till thy Bus'ness all lies waste,
And the Time of Building's past!
 Thus we Poets that have Speech, 
Unlike what thy Forests teach,
 If a fluent Vein be shown
 That's transcendant to our own,
Criticize, reform, or preach,
Or censure what we cannot reach.