I <br /> <br />O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray <br />Warbl'st at eeve, when all the Woods are still, <br />Thou with fresh hope the Lovers heart dost fill, <br />While the jolly hours lead on propitious May, <br />Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day, <br />First heard before the shallow Cuccoo's bill <br />Portend success in love; O if Jove's will <br />Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay, <br />Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate <br />Foretell my hopeles doom in som Grove ny: <br />As thou from yeer to yeer hast sung too late <br />For my relief; yet hadst no reason why, <br />Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate, <br />Both them I serve, and of their train am I.<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-01/
