each sense was gratified; our viands were seasoned with mirth, appetite and good-humour; around was the fresh air breathing of herbs and flowers; above, the blue canopy of a summer sky, and the overarching trees screening us from the otherwise too hot sun, the boughs of which were inhabited by innumerable birds, who, rejoicing in the pleasant season and luxuriantly reposing from toil during the meridian, sent forth their liquid and prolonged strains of gladness and content. One of these feathered musicians, more emulous of notice than the rest, perched at the extremity of a bough and sung a shrill glad strain. Florio immediately taking up a lute, presented it to his wife, and begged she would enter into contest with this saucy Ariel, who, like Ford's nightingale, dared to challenge mortal skill. She took the instrument, and, smiling, said she would the rather comply as she feared no such fatal ending to their rivalry.

The ballad she sang, from its tender feeling, I conjecture to have been written by one of our divine elder poets, and the air seemed so pretty and appropriate, that I noted it down as an acceptable offering to my fair readers, who might like to sing it upon a similar occasion.