ARIA. 



Sweet April, come, I love thy show'is, 

 Scented with early bloom and flow'rs. 

 Alternate gloom, and sunshine bright, 

 Morning of hope, and life's delight ; 

 Joyous we tread tliy spangled lawn 

 When A{)ril days begin to dawn, 

 And grateful oft we praise tliat Pow'r 

 Who gave the sunshine and the show'r. 



Let those who joy not in our sport, 

 Go waste their time in Fashion's court. 

 Wed foul device, not Nature pure, — 

 For Fashion, Nature can't endure : 

 Long toilsome nights and dull spent days 

 Are hours tliat wait on courtiers' ways ; 

 We bask in joys not framed by art, 

 Own but one monarch — that's the heart. 



