Come, blessed bird, and with thy sugared relish
Help our declining choir now to embellish,
For Bonny-boots, that so aloft would fetch it,
O he is dead, and none of us can reach it.
Then tune to us, sweet bird, thy shrill recorder.
Elpin and I and Dorus, for fault of better,
Will serve in the .
Begin, and we will follow thee in order.
Then sang the wood-born minstrel
Of Dian: Long live fair Oriana.

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